“The ‘Dragon,’ sir.”
“Help to lift her in.”
Fifteen minutes afterwards they were at the “Dragon.” Fortunate, indeed; for all the city—the great city—was pouring in vast crowds to that horrible doorway; and those who were extricated found it difficult to get away.
Fulk and Violet were well cared for at the “Dragon,” as, indeed, they would be after so terrible a catastrophe had brought out all the sympathy there was latent in that city. Besides, they were well-dressed, and Fulk was found to have money in his pocket—money, to do them justice, not one farthing of which was touched while he and Violet lay in adjoining rooms helpless—for they were helpless, utterly exhausted for six whole days. When Fulk, conscious that he must be stirring, did pull himself together and got out of bed, and into the sitting apartment, the first thing he saw was a newspaper on the table, the Stirmingham Daily News, which had come out with a deep line of black round every page, and in which was a list of the dead and wounded; the killed were very few in proportion to the injured. Fulk looked for Theodore Marese; he found his name among the dead. Theodore was gone to his account; he had been found on the floor of the vault face downwards, quite dead. There was a deep wound in his forehead, and it was thought that, in falling, his head had struck the iron-bound edge of one of the supposed whisky casks.
Violet, when she heard that Fulk was up, came out of her room and held out her hand. She was still dreadfully pale; but Fulk thought he had never seen a more beautiful face. She thanked him with tears in her eyes; and Fulk in vain tried to make her think that he had done nothing. “I was up yesterday,” she said, “but I could not go till you were better. Now, will you please take me back to the asylum?”
“The asylum?” said Fulk, in amazement.
“Yes; Mr. Theodore will be anxious about me. I sent a message yesterday to him, but I have had no reply.”
“Theodore Marese is dead,” said Fulk, quietly. “I trust you have had nothing to do with him?”
“Dead!” Violet shuddered. “But I must go to the asylum; perhaps Aymer has returned.”
“Aymer—what Aymer?”
An explanation followed, which will be readily understood. It was long before Violet could believe him; till at last his reiterated statements, and the little incidents he related, shook her incredulity. Even then she was partially doubtful, till Fulk chanced to look at the paper on the table. There was an advertisement in large type—“Escaped from the Asylum, Fulk Lechester and Aymer Malet.” She could no longer doubt.
“How miserably I have been deceived,” she said, and burst into tears.
Fulk was greatly shocked.
“You see now that I must hasten away,” he said. “Doubtless this great catastrophe has occupied men’s minds, and interfered to prevent a strict search; but now I have found you it is a folly to remain here. My rendezvous with Aymer is at The Place, World’s End. We will go to World’s End at once.”
“Aymer will be there?” said Violet, brightening a little.
“Yes, Aymer will be there,” said Fulk.
That evening they paid the bill—to the honour of the “Dragon,” it was a very small one—and reached the station in a fly. The same train that had taken Aymer to London took them also. They stayed that night at an hotel, and next afternoon travelled down to the little station nearest to World’s End. Another fly took them to the outskirts of Bury Wick village; and from thence they walked to The Place. Violet’s heart sank; it was dark, not a light in the window, not a sign of life; the doors were fast. They broke a pane of glass, and Fulk opened the window, got in, and unbolted one of the back doors. Fulk had taken the precaution to bring with him a few provisions, and had also bought the local paper—The Barnham Chronicle—and stuffed it in with the ham in the basket, for he was anxious to read about his cousin Lady Agnes’ marriage. Violet made a fire, and got some tea: she had provided that. Where was Aymer?
A strange night that at The Place. Fulk felt safer now he was out of the city: but Violet had too vivid a memory of the past. In the very house where so many happy hours had been passed she was alone with a perfect stranger, or one who was a stranger but a little while before. And Aymer?
“Where could Aymer be?” was the question she constantly asked.
Fulk said, “Aymer was doubtless at Belthrop, trying to find her.”
“But Hannah Bond knows I started for Stirmingham,” objected Violet. “If Aymer should see her, and go back to Stirmingham. I must write to her—or will you?”
“I will go and see her,” said Fulk; “certainly I will. But remember that I am in hiding; it must be at night. Wait till tomorrow night. Give Aymer that little time to come, then I will go.”
“Hannah must come and live here with me,” said Violet, musingly. “I think I shall stay at The Place till—till—where is your newspaper?”
“I—I—burnt it,” said Fulk. “I burnt it helping you to light the fire.”
It was the truth, yet it was a lie. He had burnt it, that Violet might not see something in it. Aymer was not at Belthrop. Aymer’s name was in the paper.
“How shall I amuse you?” said Violet. “This is my home; I must amuse you. I will play to you one of the airs that Aymer likes. Poor Aymer!” she added, half to herself.
The gentle, melancholy music of Mendelssohn filled the room from the long unused piano.
“Poor Aymer!” repeated Fulk to himself. Poor Aymer, indeed!
XIII
At twelve o’clock of the night before his wedding-day, Marese Baskette was galloping, fast as his best thoroughbred could carry him, from Barnham town to The Towers. Barely had he
