When Aymer’s first and longest letter reached The Towers, together with the copy of his book, Violet could hardly contain herself with pleasure. His triumph was her triumph—his fame her fame—and in the excitement of the moment she but barely skimmed the remainder of his letter, and did not realise the fact that she was the heiress to the most valuable property in England. Her faith in Aymer had proved to be well-founded; he had justified her confidence; his genius had conquered every obstacle. As she had read Marese’s letters to Agnes, so it was only natural that she should proudly show this letter to her.
Agnes fully sympathised with her, and declared that the sketches (she had already looked cursorily through the copy of his book which Aymer had sent her) were wonderfully good. But it was natural for her to be less excited than Violet, and therefore it was that the second part of the letter made a greater impression upon her. Violet the heiress of the Stirmingham estate? It was impossible—a marvel undreamt of. Marese was the heir—there could not be two—and in Marese she was personally interested. Together they reread that portion of Aymer’s letter, and wondered and wondered still more. His line of argument seemed laid down with remarkable precision, and there was no escape from his conclusions—but were his premises correct; was he not mistaken in the identity?
The whole thing appeared so strange and bizarre, that Agnes said she really thought he must be romancing—drawing on his imagination, as he had in the book she held in her hand.
Violet knew not what to think. She could not doubt Aymer. She warmly defended him, and declared that he was incapable of playing such practical jokes. She had a faint recollection of poor old Jason once telling her that her great-grandfather’s name was Sibbold, or something like that—she could not quite be sure of the name. She remembered it, because Jason had instanced it as an example of the long periods of time, that may be bridged by three or four persons’ successive memories. He said that his father had conversed with this Sibbold, or Sibald, and he again had met in his youth an old man, who had fought at Culloden in ’45. If it had not been for that circumstance, the name would have escaped her altogether.
The more Agnes thought of it, the more she inclined to the view that Aymer, overworked and poorly-fed, had become the subject of an hallucination. It was impossible that Marese could lay open claim to be the heir if this were the case—perfectly impossible. A gentleman of the highest and most sensitive honour like Marese, would at once have renounced all thought of the inheritance; he would have been only eager to make compensation. Why, even Aymer said that the matter had never been mentioned at the family council—surely that was in itself sufficient proof. It was an insult to Marese—to herself—to credit such nonsense. Aymer must be ill—overexcited.
Violet kept silence, with difficulty, from deference to her generous friend; but she read the letter the third time, and it seemed to her that, whether mistaken or not, Aymer had given good grounds for his statement. She was silent, and this irritated Agnes, who had of late been less considerate than was her wont. It seemed as if some inward struggle had warped her nature—as if in vigorously, aggressively defending Marese, she was defending herself.
The incident caused a coolness between them—the first that had sprung up since Violet had been at The Towers. Violet was certainly as free from false pride as Lady Lechester was eaten up with it; but even she could not help dreaming over the fascinating idea that she was the heiress of that vast estate, or at least a part of it. How happy they would be! What books Aymer could write; what countries they could visit together; what pleasures one hundredth part of that wealth would enable them to enjoy! Thinking like this, her mind also became thoroughly saturated with the idea of the Stirmingham estate. Like a vast whirlpool, that estate seemed to have the power of gradually attracting to itself atoms floating at an apparently safe distance, and of engulfing them in the seething waters of contention.
In the morning came Aymer’s second letter, imputing the worst of all crimes to Marese Baskette, or to his instigation.
Violet turned pale as she read it. Her lips quivered. All the whole scene passed again before her eyes—the terrible scene in the dining-room, where the wedding breakfast was laid out—the pool of blood upon the carpet—Jason’s head lying helplessly against the back of the armchair—the ghastly wound, upon the brow. Poor girl! Swift events and the change of life, and her interest in Agnes, had in a manner chased away the memory of that gloomy hour. Now it came back to her with full force, and she reproached herself with a too ready forgetfulness—reproached herself with neglecting the sacred duty of endeavouring to discover the murderer. To her, the facts given by Aymer—the interest, the motive—seemed irresistible. Not for a moment did she question his conclusion. She thought of Marese as she had seen him for a few hours: she remembered his start as he heard her name—it was the start of conscious guilt, there was no doubt.
A great horror fell upon her—a horror only less great than had fallen that miserable wedding-day. She had been in the presence of her father’s murderer—she had eaten at the same table—she had shaken hands with him. Above the loathing and detestation, the hatred and abhorrence, there rose a horror—almost a fear. Next to being in the presence of the corpse, being in the presence of the murderer was most awful. She could not stay at The Towers—she could not remain, when at any hour he might come, with blood upon his conscience if not upon his actual hands—the blood of her beloved and kindly father. A bitter dislike
