he, being a coward at heart, as are all villains, turned white and slunk from the room with a muttered oath, nor was he stayed.
My uncle turned to Alicia, and very calmly and terribly he said, “From this hour you are no longer wife of mine!”
And there was that in his tone which told that his forgiveness and love should be hers nevermore.
Then he motioned her out and she went, like a proud queen, with her glorious head erect and no shame on her brow.
As for me, when they were gone I crept away, dazed and bewildered enough, and went back to my bed, having seen and heard more than I had a mind for, as disobedient people and eavesdroppers ever do.
But my Uncle Hugh kept his word, and Alicia was no more wife to him, save only in name. Yet of gossip or scandal there was none, for the pride of his race kept secret his dishonour, nor did he ever seem other than a courteous and respectful husband.
Nor did Mrs. Montressor and my aunts, though they wondered much among themselves, learn aught, for they dared question neither their brother nor Alicia, who carried herself as loftily as ever, and seemed to pine for neither lover nor husband. As for me, no one dreamed I knew aught of it, and I kept my own counsel as to what I had seen in the blue parlour on the night of the Christmas ball.
After the New Year I went home, but ere long Mrs. Montressor sent for me again, saying that the house was lonely without little Beatrice. So I went again and found all unchanged, though the Place was very quiet, and Alicia went out but little from the Red Room.
Of my Uncle Hugh I saw little, save when he went and came on the business of his estate, somewhat more gravely and silently than of yore, or brought to me books and sweetmeats from town.
But every day I was with Alicia in the Red Room, where she would talk to me, oftentimes wildly and strangely, but always kindly. And though I think Mrs. Montressor liked our intimacy none too well, she said no word, and I came and went as I listed with Alicia, though never quite liking her strange ways and the restless fire in her eyes.
Nor would I ever kiss her, after I had seen her lips pressed by the snake’s, though she sometimes coaxed me, and grew pettish and vexed when I would not; but she guessed not my reason.
March came in that year like a lion, exceedingly hungry and fierce, and my Uncle Hugh had ridden away through the storm nor thought to be back for some days.
In the afternoon I was sitting in the wing hall, dreaming wondrous daydreams, when Alicia called me to the Red Room. And as I went, I marvelled anew at her loveliness, for the blood was leaping in her face and her jewels were dim before the lustre of her eyes. Her hand, when she took mine, was burning hot, and her voice had a strange ring.
“Come, little Beatrice,” she said, “come talk to me, for I know not what to do with my lone self today. Time hangs heavily in this gloomy house. I do verily think this Red Room has an evil influence over me. See if your childish prattle can drive away the ghosts that riot in these dark old corners — ghosts of a ruined and shamed life! Nay, shrink not — do I talk wildly? I mean not all I say — my brain seems on fire, little Beatrice. Come; it may be you know some grim old legend of this room — it must surely have one. Never was place fitter for a dark deed! Tush! never be so frightened, child — forget my vagaries. Tell me now and I will listen.”
Whereat she cast herself lithely on the satin couch and turned her lovely face on me. So I gathered up my small wits and told her what I was not supposed to know — how that, generations agone, a Montressor had disgraced himself and his name, and that, when he came home to his mother, she had met him in that same Red Room and flung at him taunts and reproaches, forgetting whose breast had nourished him; and that he, frantic with shame and despair, turned his sword against his own heart and so died. But his mother went mad with her remorse, and was kept a prisoner in the Red Room until her death.
So lamely told I the tale, as I had heard my Aunt Elizabeth tell it, when she knew not I listened or understood. Alicia heard me through and said nothing, save that it was a tale worthy of the Montressors. Whereat I bridled, for I too was a Montressor, and proud of it.
But she took my hand soothingly in hers and said, “Little Beatrice, if tomorrow or the next day they should tell you, those cold, proud women, that Alicia was unworthy of your love, tell me, would you believe them?”
And I, remembering what I had seen in the blue parlour, was silent — for I could not lie. So she flung my hand away with a bitter laugh, and picked lightly from the table anear a small dagger with a jewelled handle.
It seemed to me a cruel-looking toy and I said so — whereat she smiled and drew her white fingers down the thin, shining blade in a fashion that made me cold.
“Such a little blow with this,” she said, “such a little blow — and the heart beats no longer, the weary brain rests, the lips and eyes smile never again! ‘Twere a short path out of all difficulties, my Beatrice.”
And I, understanding her not, yet shivering, begged her to cast it aside, which she did carelessly and, putting a hand under my chin, she turned up my face to hers.
“Little, grave-eyed Beatrice, tell me truly, would it grieve you much if you were never again to sit here with Alicia in this same Red Room?”
And I made answer earnestly that it would, glad that I could say so much truly. Then her face grew tender and she sighed deeply.
Presently she opened a quaint, inlaid box and took from it a shining gold chain of rare workmanship and exquisite design, and this she hung around my neck, nor would suffer me to thank her but laid her hand gently on my lips.
“Now go,” she said. “But ere you leave me, little Beatrice, grant me but the one favour — it may be that I shall never ask another of you. Your people, I know — those cold Montressors — care little for me, but with all my faults, I have ever been kind to you. So, when the morrow’s come, and they tell you that Alicia is as one worse than dead, think not of me with scorn only but grant me a little pity — for I was not always what I am now, and might never have become so had a little child like you been always anear me, to keep me pure and innocent. And I would have you but the once lay your arms about my neck and kiss me.”
And I did so, wondering much at her manner — for it had in it a strange tenderness and some sort of hopeless longing. Then she gently put me from the room, and I sat musing by the hall window until night fell darkly — and a fearsome night it was, of storm and blackness. And I thought how well it was that my Uncle Hugh had not to return in such a tempest. Yet, ere the thought had grown cold, the door opened and he strode down the hall, his cloak drenched and wind-twisted, in one hand a whip, as though he had but then sprung from his horse, in the other what seemed like a crumpled letter.
Nor was the night blacker than his face, and he took no heed of me as I ran after him, thinking selfishly of the sweetmeats he had promised to bring me — but I thought no more of them when I got to the door of the Red Room.
Alicia stood by the table, hooded and cloaked as for a journey, but her hood had slipped back, and her face rose from it marble-white, save where her wrathful eyes burned out, with dread and guilt and hatred in their depths, while she had one arm raised as if to thrust him back.
As for my uncle, he stood before her and I saw not his face, but his voice was low and terrible, speaking words I understood not then, though long afterwards I came to know their meaning.
And he cast foul scorn at her that she should have thought to fly with her lover, and swore that naught should again
