Terrible Secret

Agnes Fleming May

Description

Canadian writer May Agnes Fleming skillfully combines elements of romance and mystery in her novel A Terrible Secret. This engrossing tale weaves together the fates of two beautiful women, Inez Catheron and Edith Darrell, and the dark mystery that binds them together.

Sujets

• Romance

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 mai 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781776590537
• Langue: English

Extrait

A TERRIBLE SECRET
* * *
MAY AGNES FLEMING
 
*
A Terrible Secret First published in 1874 Epub ISBN 978-1-77659-053-7 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77659-054-4 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
*
PART I Chapter I - Bride and Bridegroom Elect Chapter II - Wife and Heir Chapter III - How Lady Catheron Came Home Chapter IV - "I'll Not Believe but Desdemona's Honest" Chapter V - In the Twilight Chapter VI - In the Moonlight Chapter VII - In the Nursery Chapter VIII - In the Darkness Chapter IX - From the "Chesholm Courier" Chapter X - From the "Chesholm Courier"—Continued Chapter XI - "Ring Out Your Bells! Let Mourning Shows Be Spread!" Chapter XII - The First Ending of the Tragedy PART II Chapter I - Miss Darrell Chapter II - A Night in the Snow Chapter III - Trixy's Party Chapter IV - "Under the Gaslight" Chapter V - Old Copies of the "Courier" Chapter VI - One Moonlight Night Chapter VII - Short and Sentimental Chapter VIII - In Two Boats Chapter IX - Alas for Trix! Chapter X - How Trix Took It Chapter XI - How Lady Helena Took It Chapter XII - On St. Partridge Day Chapter XIII - How Charley Took It Chapter XIV - To-Morrow Chapter XV - Lady Helena's Ball Chapter XVI - "O My Cousin Shallow-Hearted!" Chapter XVII - "Forever and Ever" Chapter XVIII - The Summons Chapter XIX - At Poplar Lodge Chapter XX - How the Wedding-Day Began Chapter XXI - How the Wedding-Day Ended Chapter XXII - The Day After Chapter XXIII - The Second Ending of the Tragedy PART III Chapter I - At Madame Mirebeau's, Oxford Street Chapter II - Edith Chapter III - How They Met Chapter IV - How They Parted Chapter V - The Telling of the Secret Chapter VI - The Last Ending of the Tragedy Chapter VII - Two Years After Chapter VIII - Forgiven or—Forgotten? Chapter IX - Saying Good-By Chapter X - The Second Bridal Chapter XI - The Night Chapter XII - The Morning
*
TO
CHRISTIAN REID,
AUTHOR OF "VALERIE AYLMER," ETC., AS A TOKEN OF ADMIRATION AND ESTEEM, THIS STORY IS DEDICATED.
MAY AGNES FLEMING.
BROOKLYN, September , 1874.
PART I
*
Chapter I - Bride and Bridegroom Elect
*
Firelight falling on soft velvet carpet, where white lily buds trailalong azure ground, on chairs of white-polished wood that glitterslike ivory, with puffy of seats of blue satin; on blue and giltpanelled walls; on a wonderfully carved oaken ceiling; on sweepingdraperies of blue satin and white lace; on half a dozen lovelypictures; on an open piano; and last of all, on the handsome, angryface of a girl who stands before it—Inez Catheron.
The month is August—the day the 29th—Miss Catheron has good reasonto remember it to the last day of her life. But, whether the Augustsun blazes, or the January winds howl, the great rooms of CatheronRoyals are ever chilly. So on the white-tiled hearth of the bluedrawing-room this summer evening a coal fire flickers and falls, andthe mistress of Catheron Royals stands before it, an angry flushburning deep red on either dusk cheek, an angry frown contracting herstraight black brows.
The mistress of Catheron Royals,—the biggest, oldest, queerest,grandest place in all sunny Cheshire,—this slim, dark girl ofnineteen, for three years past the bride-elect of Sir Victor Catheron,baronet, the last of his Saxon race and name, the lord of all thesesunny acres, this noble Norman pile, the smiling village of Catheronbelow. The master of a stately park in Devon, a moor and "bothy" inthe highlands, a villa on the Arno, a gem of a cottage in the Isle ofWight. "A darling of the gods," young, handsome, healthy; and best ofall, with twenty thousand a year.
She is his bride-elect. In her dark way she is very handsome. She isto be married to Sir Victor early in the next month, and she is asmuch in love with him as it is at all possible to be. A fair fatesurely. And yet while the August night shuts down, while the windwhistles in the trees, while the long fingers of the elm, just outsidethe window, tap in a ghostly way on the pane, she stands here, flushed,angry, impatient, and sullen, her handsome lips set in a tight, rigidline.
She is very dark at all times. Her cousin Victor tells her, laughingly,she is an absolute nigger when in one of her silent rages. She hasjet-black hair, and big, brilliant, Spanish eyes. She is Spanish.Her dead mother was a Castilian, and that mother has left her herSpanish name, her beautiful, passionate Spanish eyes, her hot,passionate Spanish heart. In Old Castile Inez was born; and whenin her tenth year her English father followed his wife to the grave,Inez came home to Catheron Royals, to reign there, a little,imperious, hot-tempered Morisco princess ever since.
She did not come alone. A big boy of twelve, with a shock head ofblue-black hair, two wild, glittering black eyes, and a diabolicallyhandsome face, came with her. It was her only brother Juan, an impincarnate from his cradle. He did not remain long. To theunspeakable relief of the neighborhood for miles around, he hadvanished as suddenly as he had come, and for years was seen no more.
A Moorish Princess! It is her cousin and lover's favorite name for her,and it fits well. There is a certain barbaric splendor about her asshe stands here in the firelight, in her trailing purple silk, in thecross of rubies and fine gold that burns on her bosom, in the yellow,perfumy rose in her hair, looking stately, and beautiful, anddreadfully out of temper.
The big, lonesome house is as still as a tomb. Outside the wind isrising, and the heavy patter, patter, of the rain-beats on the glass.That, and the light fall of the cinders in the polished grate, are theonly sounds to be heard.
A clock on the mantel strikes seven. She has not stirred for nearly anhour, but she looks up now, her black eyes full of passionate anger,passionate impatience.
"Seven!" she says, in a suppressed sort of voice; "and he should havebeen here at six. What if he should defy me?—what if he does not comeafter all?"
She can remain still no longer. She walks across the room, and shewalks as only Spanish women do. She draws back one of thewindow-curtains, and leans out into the night. The crushed sweetnessof the rain-beaten roses floats up to her in the wet darkness. Nothingto be seen but the vague tossing of the trees, nothing to be heard butthe soughing of the wind, nothing to be felt but the fast and stillfaster falling of the rain.
She lets the curtain fall, and returns to the fire.
"Will he dare defy me?" she whispers to herself. "Will he dare stayaway?"
There are two pictures hanging over the mantel—she looks up at themas she asks the question. One is the sweet, patient face of a woman ofthirty; the other, the smiling face of a fair-haired, blue-eyed,good-looking lad. It is a very pleasant face; the blue eyes lookat you so brightly, so frankly; the boyish mouth is so sweet-temperedand laughing that you smile back and fall in love with him at sight.It is Sir Victor Catheron and his late mother.
Miss Inez Catheron is in many respects an extraordinary younglady—Cheshire society has long ago decided that. They would have beenmore convinced of it than ever, could they have seen her turn now toLady Catheron's portrait and appeal to it aloud in impassioned words:
"On his knees, by your dying bed, by your dying command, he vowed tolove and cherish me always—as he did then. Let him take care how hetrifles with that vow—let him take care!"
She lifts one hand (on which rubies and diamonds flash) menacingly,then stops. Over the sweep of the storm, the rush of the rain, comesanother sound—a sound she has been listening for, longing for,praying for—the rapid roll of carriage wheels up the drive. There canbe but one visitor to Catheron Royals to-night, at this hour and inthis storm—its master.
She stands still as a stone, white as a statue, waiting. She loves him;she has hungered and thirsted for the sound of his voice, the sight ofhis face, the clasp of his hand, all these weary, lonely months. Insome way it is her life or death she is to take from his handsto-night. And now he is here.
She hears the great hall-door open and close with a clang; she hearsthe step of the master in the hall—a quick, assured tread she wouldknow among a thousand; she hears a voice—a hearty, pleasant, manly,English voice; a cheery laugh she remembers well.
"The Chief of Lara has returned again."
The quick, excitable blood leaps up from her heart to her face in arosy rush that makes her lovely. The eyes light, the lips part—shetakes a step forward, all anger, all fear, all neglect forgotten—agirl in love going to meet her lover. The door is flung wide by animpetuous hand, and wet and splashed, and tall and smiling, Sir VictorCatheron stands before her.
"My dearest Inez!"
He comes forward, puts his arm around her, and touches his blondemustache to her flushed cheek.
"My dearest coz, I'm awfully glad to see you again, and looking souncommonly well too." He puts up his eye-glass to make sure of thisfact, then drops it "Uncommonly well," he repeats; "give you my wordI never saw you looking half a quarter so handsome before in my life.Ah! why can't we all be Moorish princesses, and wear purple silks andyellow roses?"
He flings himself into an easy-chair before the fire, throws back hisblonde head, and stretches forth his boots to the blaze.
"An hour after time, am I not? But blame the railway people—don'tblame me . Beastly sort of weather for the last week of A