This statement was made in such a calm, reasonable tone that Marianne stared, hardly able to believe her ears were not deceiving her. Lady Violet nodded at her.

"I wish you well, Miss Ransom. You have been kind to Henry. But you cannot combat the curse of the Devenbrooks."

Well, Marianne thought dismally, as she made her way to her room, that is a sad end to what began so well! She could not blame poor Lady Violet for adding to her worry instead of relieving it; but she wished the lady had stopped after her thanks and not mentioned curses.

The last candidate for the tutor's post never came. Marianne was not surprised; as the day went on, the storm mounted in fury. By three o'clock it was as dark as night and the lamps were lighted. Soon thereafter Marianne was summoned to the Duchess. She obeyed, trembling with apprehension.

Seated before her dressing table, the Duchess greeted her warmly. Flaring candles on either side of the tall mirror illuminated her face. Marianne was reminded, not pleasantly, of her brief theatrical career. So must she have looked on those evenings when she performed, with a mixture of excitement and stage fright alternately flushing and whitening her cheeks.

"I have sent Rose away, she was of no use whatever," the Duchess said. "It is your company I want, in any case. Will you stay with me and help me dress? I want to look my best."

Marianne assumed the Duchess was primping in order to leave her friends with a lasting and beautiful memory. It was a morbid-enough idea, but when the girl turned, to see the dress that was laid out across the bed, she knew that until that moment she had never fully understood the truth.

The gown was one she had never seen the Duchess wear. But it was not new; the style was years out of date and the white fabric had begun to yellow. There were even a few faint cracks along the stiff folds. The bodice was trimmed with the softest, most exquisite of handmade lace, like a drift of snowflakes. There was no other ornament. On the table beside the bed stood a vase of waxy white gardenias, the prized products of MacDonald's conservatory. A draft rattled the windows and carried the flowers' sweet, overpowering scent to Marianne's nostrils.

For an instant she thought she was going to be sick. Then – from what cause she never really knew – the last of the many changes of mood she had undergone took place; it was to stay with her until the end. It was plainly and simply pity.

"How perfectly beautiful," she said in a steady voice. "I must do my best to do justice to that gown."

She brushed the Duchess's hair till her arms ached and shaped it into a masterpiece of soft waves and curls, crowning it with the waxy flowers. She took her time; there was no hurry. At the Duchess's suggestion she brought her dress from her own room and they primped and laughed and admired one another like two young girls preparing for a ball. When all else was ready she slipped the white satin gown over the old lady's head and fastened the long row of tiny buttons. Then she stood back and clasped her hands.

"You are lovely," she said.

"One more thing." Around her neck the Duchess hung the gold locket that contained David Holmes's picture.

Then they went down together.

Marianne's new calm was sorely tested when she saw Roger Carlton's face change, at the sight of the satin wedding dress. But the doctor was magnificent. He behaved as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, or was expected to happen. He talked, he told bad jokes, he flirted with the Duchess. Somehow he got them through the first bad minutes until Carlton revived and made spasmodic attempts to join in. Lady Annabelle did not make her appearance until they were ready to go in to dinner. She looked almost undressed without a cat in her arms; the orange hairs clinging to the front of her green velvet gown suggested that she had held Horace until the last possible minute, and Marianne had a sudden insane vision of a maid wrestling the animal away before allowing her mistress to leave the room. Perhaps it was the absence of her favorite companion that made her so ill at ease; she sat in silence, moving her hands restlessly and blinking her eyes until Marianne yearned to shake her.

She was unable to eat. The time had come upon her so quickly that she felt cheated; she wanted more time to think, to plan. But perhaps it was just as well. How could one plan for the unimaginable?

When the port was brought in, the Duchess rose. "Tonight we will go out together," she said in a calm, clear voice. "Horace, give me your arm, please."

Speechless, the doctor complied. The two went out, arm in arm.

Marianne turned to Carlton. "What are we going to do? We must do something."

"Do nothing." His eyes held hers. "Say nothing, do nothing. Whatever impulse may strike you, whatever force may compel you – resist it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, but -"

"Always 'but.' " He smiled at her. He seemed in the grip of some strange excitement, but his smile was free of malice, the smile of a friend.

"Roger," Lady Annabelle said plaintively, "I don't feel well. Something is going to happen. Something bad. I don't know how I know that, but I do. Must I come with you?"

"I would like you to. Do you mind? You never have before."

"But this is different. At least let me bring Horace."

"Now, Lady Annabelle…" Carlton let out a brief, unamused laugh. "After all, what does it matter? They say cats are in tune with occult forces; why not?"

"Thank you, thank you." Lady Annabelle trotted out.

Carlton offered Marianne his arm. "Cheer up," he said. "The worst is yet to come."

"You have some scheme in mind," she said, as they walked along together. "Tell me what it is. I am half insane with worry."

"You have some distance to go before you break," was the seemingly callous reply; but Marianne sensed that it was not meant in a derogatory sense, and she was pleased. "I can't tell you," he went on rapidly – for they were approaching the White Room. "I do have an idea – but it is so wild, so unlikely that I can scarcely believe it myself; and even if it is true, it gives me no real guidelines by which to act… Trust me."

She had no opportunity to reply. They were at the door.

The room felt cold, despite a blazing fire and the illusory warmth of lamps and candles. The doctor pushed aside one of the draperies and looked out.

"It is a wild night," he said gravely. "God help any poor soul abroad in this winter darkness. Honoria, in the presence of your friends, I make one last plea. Do not do this."

"I will and I shall," was the calm reply. "Horace, dim the lights."

Lady Annabelle's breathless arrival added a touch of comedy to the otherwise macabre scene. She came in sideways, her shoulders hunched, though Horace's huge orange tail hanging down over her arm made futile any attempt to hide his presence. The Duchess did not comment, however, and Lady Anna-belle sidled crab-fashion into a chair.

No one suggested forming a circle or holding hands or any of the other controls usual to such meetings. As the light gradually dimmed, Marianne watched Carlton. His face grave, his eyes abstracted, he seemed deep in thought. She had not often seen him in a serious mood, and she thought it became him.

The doctor put out the last light and shifted the heavy screen before the fire. Marianne heard the creak of leather and deduced that he had taken a chair next to the screen rather than stumble across the room in the dark.

In the silence she heard the wind crying like a lost child. Remembering Carlton's warning, she clenched her hands and determined to follow his advice.

The doctor's voice suddenly exclaimed, "Nothing is going to happen. Honoria, I beg -"

A long, drawn-out sigh broke into this speech. It was followed by a loud intake of breath that went on and on until Marianne thought it would never end. When at last the expiration followed, it too was abnormally extended. The deep, slow breathing continued for several seconds before Marianne realized that it issued from Roger Carlton. His head had fallen forward onto his breast.