Back Aa

Dark House ,The

Close

<h3>Chapter Twenty Nine.</h3> <h4>The Party breaks up.</h4> “Dinner over, of course, Preenham?” “Oh, dear, yes, sir,” said that worthy, taking Artis’s hat and cane. “Carriage was ordered for half-past seven, and they’ve gone to the theatre, sir.” “Gone where?” “Theatre, sir—Haymarket, sir.” “Why, Preenham—” “It was Mr Girtle, sir, proposed it. Said it would be a pleasant change for everybody. The carriage was ordered, and dinner an hour sooner.” “The sky will fall next,” said Artis, with a sneering laugh. “Bring me some coffee in the library, and—no, some brandy and soda and the cigars.” “Yes, sir. Miss D’Enghien’s in the drawing-room, sir. Had a bad headache, and didn’t go.” “Why didn’t you say that at first?” cried Artis; and he went up two stairs at a time, to find Katrine in the act of throwing herself into a chair, and looking flushed and hot. “You here?” she said, wearily. “My darling!” he cried. “If I had only known. At last!” He threw himself at her feet, clasped her waist, and drew her half resisting towards him, while before a minute had elapsed, her arms were resting upon his shoulders, and her eyes were half closed in a dreamy ecstasy, as she yielded to the kisses that covered her face. Suddenly, with a quick motion, she threw him off. “Quick—some one,” she whispered. Her ears were sharper than his, and she had heard the dull rattle of the door handle. “I don’t know what to take,” she said, in a weary voice; “I suppose it will not be better before morning.” “I have taken the brandy and soda into the library, sir,” said Preenham. “Would you like it brought up here?” “To be sure,” he cried. “The very thing for your headache. Bring it up, Preenham.” “You madman!” cried Katrine, angrily. “You take advantage of my weakness for you. Another moment, and we should have been discovered. No, no; keep away.” “Miss is as good as a mile.” “You grow more reckless, every day. We must be careful.” “Careful! I’m sick of being careful.” “Hush!” The butler entered with a tray and the brandy and soda. “Open it, sir?” “Yes. Two. Now try that. Best thing in the world for a bad head.” The old butler withdrew as softly as he had come in, and Katrine took two or three sips from her glass, while Artis tossed his off, and then, setting it down, walked quickly to the door. Katrine’s eyes dilated, and, bending forward, she listened, and then sprang up and glided quickly across from the inner room to meet Artis half-way, and be clasped in his arms. “What have you done?” she cried. “Nothing.” “You have fastened the door.” “Nonsense.” “I say you have!” “Well, suppose I have. What then?” “You madman! Unfasten the door.” “Not I.” “I tell you that you are mad,” she cried, trying to free herself. “Gerard, dear Gerard, be reasonable.” She writhed herself free and ran and turned the bolt back. He followed to refasten it, but she held him. “Think of the consequences of our being found locked in here.” “Bah! no one will come now till after eleven, and if they did I don’t care. Look here,” he cried, clasping her to his breast again, “suppose this Arabian Night sort of fortune were found, do you think I am blind? You would marry this Capel.” “Well?” “I won’t have it,” he cried. “Why not?” she whispered, and her creamy arms clasped about his neck. “We are so poor, Gerard, and we must have money to live.” “Yes, but at that cost,” he cried, passionately. “Well, what then? Think! Over a million, which you should share. Gerard—dearest—you will not be so foolish, when I am so near this gigantic prize. He is my complete slave. I can do with him just what I will.” “But—Kate—I believe you would—” He did not achieve his sentence, but responded passionately to her caresses till he felt her suddenly grow rigid in his arms, and then one arm was snatched from his neck, and, with her hand, she struck him sharply across the face. “How dare you!” she cried. Gerard Artis let his hands fall to his side, and Katrine darted to a tall figure in evening dress standing just inside the door, and flung herself at his knees. “Save me!” she half shrieked, “from the insults of this man.” Paul Capel drew himself aside, and Katrine fell prostrate on the thick carpet, as he gravely opened the door. The girl sprang to her feet and darted out of the room, while Capel, after watching her for a moment or two, closed the door, turned the bolt, and then threw his crush hat upon a table, his black wrapper over a chair, and tore off his white gloves, changing the ivory-handled malacca cane from hand to hand as he did so. “Home soon,” said Artis, with a sneer, as he slowly walked to the little table, poured out some more brandy, and gulped it down. “Yes,” replied Capel, gravely. “Thank Heaven I did come home soon. I came to spend an hour alone with the woman I loved.” “And you were forestalled,” cried Artis. “Here, what are you going to do?” “Thrash a contemptible scoundrel within an inch of his life,” cried Capel; and he made a grasp at Artis’s arm. But the latter eluded him, bounded to the fire-place, and picked up the bright poker. “Keep off,” he cried, “or I’ll murder you.” Cling! Jingle! He had struck the glass lustres of the great chandelier, and the fragments fell tinkling down. Crack! A yell of pain! A dull thud! With a dexterous blow, Capel caught Artis’s right hand with the stout cane, numbing his nerves, so that the poker fell. With a second blow, he seemed to hamstring his adversary, who staggered, and would have fallen, but for Capel’s hand grasping him by the collar; and then, for two or three minutes, there was a hail of blows falling, and a terrible struggle going on. The light chairs were kicked aside, a table overturned, a vase and several ornaments swept from a cheffonier, and suppressed cries, panting noises and blows, filled the gloomy room, till, after one final stroke with the cane, Capel dashed the helpless, quivering man to the floor, and placed his foot upon his breast. An hour later, when Preenham went up from a confidential talk with his fellow-servants to admit Mr Girtle and Lydia—back from the theatre—he found the front door open. Had he been half an hour sooner, he would have seen Katrine, fully dressed, supporting Artis down the dark stairs, and out into the darkness of the great square, where they were seen by the light of one of the street lamps to enter a cab, and then they passed out of sight. Preenham saw nothing, and Mr Girtle and Lydia ascended to the drawing-room, the latter feeling light-hearted and happy, in spite of the evening’s disappointment. The old lawyer uttered a cry of dismay, as he saw the wreck, and that Capel was seated in a low chair, bent down, with his face buried in his hands. “My dear boy! What is it?” he cried, as Lydia ran to his side, and her soft hand was laid or his. “Don’t touch me, woman,” he almost yelled, as he sprang from his chair. “Oh,” he said, softly, “it is you?” He took and kissed her hand, and then left the room. “Preenham, what does this mean?” cried Mr Girtle, as the butler brought in lights; and they learned the truth. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2