Of course he's a wretch, dear; but oh!--with an ecstatic expression--"what a nice wretch!"
I see; you marry the adjective.
The man, Beatrice, the man. Give me a real man and I ask for nothing better. But the genuine male is so difficult to find nowadays.
Really! Then you have been more successful than the majority.
How sarcastic, how unfriendly! I did look for sympathy.
Beatrice embraced her companion affectionately. "You have it, Dinah. I give all sympathy and all good wishes to yourself and Jerry. May you be very happy as Mr. and Mrs. Snow!"
Oh, we shall, we shall! Jerry would make an undertaker happy!
Undertakers generally are--when business is good.
Oh! you are quite too up-to-date in your talk, Beatrice Hedge.
That is strange, seeing how I live in a dull country garden like a snail, or a cabbage.
Like a wild rose, dear. At least Vivian would say so.
Mr. Paslow says more than he means, responded Beatrice, blushing redder than the flower mentioned, "and I dare say Jerry does also."
No, dear. Jerry hasn't sufficient imagination.
He ought to have, being a journalist.
Those are the very people who never imagine anything. They find their facts on every hedge.
Is that an unworthy pun on my name?
Certainly not, Miss Hedge, said the other with dignity; "Jerry shan't find anything on you, or in you, save a friend, else I shall be horribly jealous. As to Vivian, he would murder his future brother-in-law if he caught him admiring you; and I don't want to begin my married life with a corpse."
Naturally. You wisely prefer the marriage service to the burial ditto, my clever Dinah.
I'm not clever, and I really don't know how to answer your sharp speeches, seeing that I am a plain country girl.
Not plain--oh! not plain. Jerry doesn't think so, I'm sure.
It's very sweet and flattering of Jerry, but he's mercifully colour-blind and short-sighted. I am plain, with a pug nose, drab hair, freckles, and teeny-weeny eyes. You are the reverse, Beatrice, being all that is lovely--quite a gem.
Don't tell my father that I am any sort of jewel, remarked Beatrice dryly, "else he will want to sell me at an impossible price."
Dinah laughed, but did not reply. Her somewhat flighty brain could not concentrate itself sufficiently to grasp the subtle conversation of Miss Hedge, so she threw herself back on the mossy stone seat and stared between half-closed eyelids at the garden. This was necessary, for the July sunshine blazed down on a mass of colour such as is rarely seen in sober-hued England. The garden might have been that of Eden, as delineated by Martin or Doré, from the tropical exuberance of flower and leaf. But the buildings scattered about this pleasance were scarcely of the primitive type which Adam and his spouse would have inhabited: rather were they expressions of a late and luxurious civilisation.
And again, they could scarcely be called buildings in the accepted sense of the word, as they had been constructed to run on iron rails, at the tail of a locomotive. To be plain, seven railway carriages, with their wheels removed, did duty for dwellings, and very odd they looked amidst surroundings alien to their original purpose. A Brixton villa would scarcely have seemed more out of place in the Desert of Sahara.
Placed in an irregular circle, like Druidical stones, the white-painted woodwork of these derelicts was streaked fantastically with creepers, which, spreading even over the arched roofs, seemed to bind them to the soil. Titania and her fastidious elves might have danced on the smooth central sward, in the middle of which appeared a chipped sundial, upheld by three stone ladies, unclothed, battered, and unashamed. At the back of these ingeniously contrived huts bloomed flowers in profusion: tall and gaudy hollyhocks, vividly scarlet geraniums, lilies of holy whiteness, and thousands--as it truly seemed--of many-hued poppies. The wide beds, whence these blossoms sprang, stretched back to a girdle of lofty trees, and were aglow with the brilliant flowers of the nasturtium. The trees which shut in this sylvan paradise from the crooked lane rose from a tangled jungle of coarse grasses, nettles, darnels, and oozy weedy plants, whose succulence betrayed the presence of a small pond gorgeous with water-lilies. Paths led through the miniature forest, winding in and out and round about, so as to make the most of the small space; and the whole was bounded by a high brick wall, mellow and crumbling, but secure for all that, seeing it was topped with iron spikes and bits of broken bottles. One heavy wooden gate, at present bolted and barred, admitted the outside world from the lane into this Garden of Alcinous.
Almost the entire population of the Weald knew of this Eden--that is, by hearsay--for no one entered the jealous gate, unless he or she came to do business with the eccentric character who had created the domain. Jarvis Alpenny was a miser, hence the presence of disused rail carriages, which saved him the trouble and cost of building a house. In The Camp--so the place was called--he had dwelt for fifty years, and he was as much a recluse as a man well could be, who made his income by usury. It seemed odd, and was odd, that a money-lender should not only dwell in, but carry on his peculiarly urban profession in, so rural a locality as the Weald of Sussex. Nevertheless, Alpenny did as large a business as though he had occupied some grimy office in the heart of London. Indeed, he really made more money, as the very seclusion of the place attracted many needy people who wished to borrow money secretly. As the local railway station was but three miles distant, these secretive clients came very easily to this rustic Temple of Mammon. Any one could stay in Brighton without arousing the curiosity of friends; and it was surely natural to make excursions into the bowels of the land! Jarvis Alpenny showed a considerable knowledge of human nature in thus isolating his habitation; for the more difficult people find it to obtain what they want, the more do they value that which they obtain.
Alpenny called Beatrice his daughter. He would have spoken more correctly had he called her his stepdaughter, for that she was. And apart from the difference in the name, no one would have believed that the wizen, yellow-faced, sharp-featured miser was the father of so beautiful a girl. She dwelt in The Camp like an imprisoned princess, and no dragon could have guarded her more fiercely than did Durban, the sole servant and factotum of the settlement, as it might truly be called. Alpenny himself might have passed for the wicked magician who held the aforesaid princess spell-bound in his enchanted domain. But as the Fairy Prince always discovers Beauty, however closely confined, so had Beatrice Hedge been discovered by Vivian Paslow. He was a poor country gentleman who dwelt in a two-miles distant grange; and his only sister, confessing to the biblical name of Dinah, was the decidedly plain girl who had just whispered to Beatrice how she had become engaged, on the previous day, to Gerald Snow. That Gerald was the son of a somewhat needy vicar, and possessed an objectionable mother, made no difference to Dinah, who was very much in love and very voluble on the subject.
Of course, resumed Miss Paslow, after a pause in the conversation, "I and Jerry will be horribly poor. Vivian has no money and I have less. Mr. Snow the vicar has only a fifth-rate living, and Mrs. Snow is a screw like your father."
Dinah! Beatrice winced and coloured at these plain words.
Well, Mr. Alpenny is a screw, and only your stepfather after all. As to Mrs. Snow--oh, my gracious--with expressive pantomime--"I'm glad Jerry and I won't have to depend upon her for food. Whenever the poor famished darling comes to Convent Grange, I simply rush to make him a glass of egg and milk in case he tumbles off his chair."
That may be emotion, caused by the sight of you Dinah.
How nasty, how untrue! No! I did the tumbling when he proposed yesterday. He proposed so beautifully that I think he must have been reading up. I was in the parlour and Jerry came in. He looked at me like that, and I looked at him in this way, and afterwards---- Here Dinah, who was at the silly boring stage of love, told the wonderful story for the fifth time, ending with the original remark that for quite three hours after Jerry left her, Jerry's kisses were warm on her maiden lips.
Why didn't you bring Mr. Snow in, Dinah? asked Beatrice, who had listened most patiently to these rhapsodies.
Oh, my dear! fanning a red and freckled face with a flimsy handkerchief, "he's much better in the lane, minding the horses. You see he will make me blush with his looks and smiles and hand-squeezings, when he thinks that no one is looking--which they usually are," finished Miss Paslow ungrammatically.
And you came over to tell me. That is sweet of you.
Well, I did and I didn't, dear, to be perfectly candid. You see, Jerry and I were going for a ride this morning, just to see if we entirely understood how serious marriage is; but Vivian is such a prig----
He isn't! contradicted Beatrice indignantly.
Oh yes, he is, insisted Dinah obstinately; "he doesn't think it quite the thing that I and Jerry should be too much alone--as though we could make love in company! He wouldn't like it himself, though he did insist on my coming here with him, and rode in the middle, so as to part Jerry and me. So poor, dear, darling Jerry is holding the horses in the lane, while Vivian is doing business with your father in there," and Miss Paslow pointed a gloved finger at a distant railway carriage, which was so bolted and barred and locked and clamped that it looked like a small dungeon.
A grave expression appeared on the face of Beatrice. "Do you know what kind of business Mr. Paslow is seeing my father about?"
Oh, my dear, as though your father--which he isn't--ever did any sort of business save lend money to people who haven't got any, as I'm sure we Paslows haven't. We've got birth and blood and a genuine Grange with a ghost, and Vivian has good looks even if I haven't, in spite of Jerry's nonsense; but there isn't a sixpence between us. How Mrs. Lilly manages to feed us, I really don't know, unless she steals the food. Our ancestors had the Paslow money and spent it, the mean pigs!--just as though our days weren't more expensive than their days, with their feathers and lace and port wine.
Then Mr. Paslow is borrowing money? remarked Beatrice, when she could get in a word, which was not easy.
Mr. Paslow!--how cold you are, Beatrice, when you know Vivian worships the ground you tread on, though he doesn't say much. Borrowing money, do you say? I expect he is, although he never tells me his business. So different to Jerry, who lets me know every time he has a rise in his salary on the Morning Planet, which isn't often. I think the editor must be a kind of Mrs. Snow, and she--well---- Dinah again expressed herself in pantomime.
It was quite useless speaking to Miss Paslow, who was only nineteen and a feather-head. Besides, she was too deeply in love to bother about commonplace things. Beatrice felt nervous to hear that Vivian contemplated borrowing money, as she knew how dangerous it was for anyone to become entangled in the nets of her stepfather. She would have liked to question Dinah still further, but thinking she would get little information from so lovelorn a damsel, it occurred to her that Jerry Snow should be brought on the scene. Then the lovers could chatter nonsense, and Beatrice could think her own thoughts, which were greatly concerned with Mr. Alpenny's client. The means of obliging Dinah and gaining time for reflection suggested themselves, when a bulky man showed himself at the door of the carriage which served as a kitchen. He wore, as he invariably did, summer and winter, a suit of white linen, and on this occasion an apron, to keep the steaming saucepan he held from soiling his clothes.
There's Durban, said Beatrice, rising and crossing over; "he can hold the horses and Mr. Snow can come in."
Dinah gave a faint squeal of delight, and shook the dust from her shabby riding-habit while Beatrice explained what she wanted.
Durban was of no great height, and so extremely stout that he looked even less than he really was. His lips were somewhat thick, his nose was a trifle flat, and his hair had that frizzy kink which betrays black blood. Even a casual observer could have told that Durban had a considerable touch of the tar-brush--was a mulatto, or perhaps one remove from a mulatto. Apparently he possessed the inherent good-humour of the negro, for while listening to his young mistress he smiled expansively, and displayed a set of very strong white teeth. Nor was he young, for his hair was touched at the temples with grey, and his body was stout with that stoutness which comes late in life from a good digestion and an easy conscience. He aped youth, however, for he carried himself very erect, and walked--as he now did to the gate--in an alert and springy manner surprising in one who could not be less than fifty years of age. It seemed remarkable that so kindly a creature as the half-caste should serve a sour-faced old usurer; but, in truth, Beatrice was his goddess, and her presence alone reconciled him to an ill-paid post where he was overworked, and received more kicks than halfpence. He would have died willingly for the girl, and showed his devotion even in trifles.
Before returning to Dinah, whose eyes were fixed in an hypnotic way on the gate through which her beloved would shortly pass, Beatrice cast an anxious glance at the dungeon which did duty as Mr. Alpenny's counting-house. The girl had never been within, as Jarvis was not agreeable that she should enter his Bluebeard chamber. For the rest he allowed her considerable freedom, and she could indulge in any fancy so long as the fancy was cheap. But she was forbidden to set foot in Mammon's shrine, and whether the priest was without, or within, the door was kept locked. It was locked now, and Vivian Paslow was closeted with the usurer, doubtless handing over to Alpenny the few acres that remained to him for a sum of money at exorbitant interest. That the man she loved should be a fly in the parlour of the money-lending spider annoyed Beatrice not a little. Her attention was distracted by another squeal from Dinah, whose emotions were apt to be noisy.
Jerry! oh Jerry! sighed the damsel, clasping her hands, and in came Mr. Snow, walking swiftly across the grass, apparently as frantic for Dinah as Dinah was for him. At the moment neither lunatic took notice of the amused hostess.
My Dinah! my own! gasped Jerry, devouring his Dulcinea with two ardent eyes, the light of which was hidden by pince-nez.
Jerry assuredly was no beauty, save that his proportions were good, and he dressed very smartly. He possessed a brown skin which matched well with brown hair and moustache, and had about him the freshness of twenty-two years, which is so charming and lasts so short a time. Dinah with her freckles, her drab hair, and nose "tip-tilted like the petal of a flower"--to mercifully quote Tennyson--suited him very well in looks. And then love made both of them look quite interesting, although not even the all-transforming passion could render them anything but homely. Beside the engaged damsel, Beatrice, tall, slender, dark-locked and dark-eyed, looked like a goddess, but Jerry the devoted had no eye for her while Dinah was present. Had he been Paris, Miss Paslow decidedly would have been awarded the apple. Not having one, he stared at Dinah and she at him as though they were meeting for the first time. Beatrice, impatient of this oblivion to her presence, brought them from Heaven to earth.
I have to congratulate you, Mr. Snow, she remarked.
Mr. Snow! echoed Dinah, jumping up as though a wasp had stung her; "you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Beatrice! Haven't you known Jerry for--oh! for ever so long?
For quite three years, dear; but, you see, I don't visit at the Vicarage, and Beatrice spoke with some bitterness, as Jerry's mother had always been unkind to the lonely girl, for reasons connected with what Mrs. Snow regarded as her anomalous position.
Jerry coloured and blinked behind his glasses. "I know what you mean, Miss Hedge," he said regretfully, "but don't worry. Call me Jerry as usual; what does it matter what mother thinks?"
Ah, said Dinah, quivering with alarm, "what does she think of us?"
Well, she--Jerry hesitated, and finally answered the question with a solemn warning--"I don't think I'd call at the Vicarage for a few days, Dinah sweetest. She--she--well, you know mother."
Why does Mrs. Snow object? asked Beatrice very directly.
I know oh, none better! almost shouted Dinah; "no money!"
Jerry nodded, with an admiring glance at her cleverness. "No money."
I thought so; and Mrs. Snow wants you to marry a millionairess?
Jerry nodded again. "As though a millionairess would look at the likes of me!" said he, with the chuckle of a nestling.
I wouldn't give even the plainest of them a chance! cried Dinah jealously; "you could marry anyone with the way you have, Jerry dear."
Miss Hedge laughed gaily. "Show me the way you have, Jerry dear!" she mimicked, whereat the young lover blushed redder than the poppies.
Oh, what rot! See here, girls both, we're all pals.
Dinah is something more than a pal since yesterday, observed Beatrice pointedly.
Oh, you know what I mean. Well, then father is pleased and would marry us himself, to save fees; but mother--oh, Lord!
Will she part us, Jerry? demanded Dinah in a small voice.
Bashful as he was, Mr. Snow rose to the occasion, and taking her in his strong arms kissed her twice.
That's what I think! said he, with the air of Ajax defying the lightning. "We'll be cut off with a shilling by mother; but we shall marry all the same, and live on the bread and cheese and kisses provided by the Morning Planet."
Thank you, said Miss Paslow tartly, "I provide my own kisses."
No, darling heart! gurgled the ardent Jerry, "I do that!" and was about to repeat his conduct when the ceremony was interrupted.
From the dungeon came the sound of a shrill voice indulging in abusive language. A few moments later and the narrow door was flung violently open. Vivian Paslow came out quietly enough, and was followed by a bent, dried-up ape of a man who was purple with fury. The contrast between the money-lender and his client was most marked. Alpenny was the missing link itself, and Vivian appeared beside him like one of a higher and more human race. Without taking any notice of the furious old creature, he walked towards the startled Beatrice and shook her by the hand.
Good-bye, Miss Hedge, he said loudly; then suddenly sank his voice to a hurried whisper. "Meet me to-night at seven, under the Witches' Oak."
Leave my place! cried Alpenny, hobbling up, to interrupt this leave-taking; "you shall not speak to her."
Paslow took his amazed sister on his arm and crossed to the gate, while Jerry, blinking and puzzled, followed after. Beatrice, as startled by Paslow's request as she was by the scene, remained where she was, and her stepfather chased his three visitors into the lane with opprobrious names. But before he could close the gate, Vivian turned suddenly on the abusive old wretch.
I came to do you a service, said he, "but you would not listen."
You came to levy blackmail. You asked----
Silence! cried Paslow, with a gesture which reduced Alpenny to a stuttering, incoherent condition. "I never threatened you."
You did--you do! You want your property back, and----
Vivian, with a swift glance at Beatrice, silenced the man again. "If I lose my property, I lose it," said he sternly; "but the other thing I refuse to lose. And, remember, your life is in danger."
Alpenny spluttered. "My life, you--you scoundrel!"
Father! Father! pleaded Beatrice, approaching anxiously.
Paslow took no notice, but still looked at the angry old man with a firm and significant expression. "Remember the Black Patch," said he in a clear, loud voice. The effect was instantaneous. Alpenny, from purple, turned perfectly white; from swearing volubility, he was reduced to a frightened silence.
Beatrice looked at him in amazement, and so--strange to say--did Vivian, who had spoken the mysterious words. For a moment he stared at the shaking, pale-faced miser, who was casting terrified looks over his shoulder, and then went out of the gate. Alpenny stood as though turned into stone until he heard the clatter of the retreating horses. Then he raised his head and looked wildly round.
The third time! he muttered; and Beatrice was sufficiently near to notice his abject fear. "The third time!"
Beatrice meditated in the parlour-carriage on the scene which had taken place at noon between her stepfather and Paslow. Without vouchsafing the least explanation, Alpenny had crept back to his den and was there still, with the door locked as usual. Twice and thrice did Durban call him to the midday meal, but he declined to come out. Beatrice had therefore eaten alone, and was now enjoying a cup of fragrant coffee which Durban had lately brought in. At the moment, he was washing up dishes in the kitchen, to the agreeable accompaniment of a negro song, which he was whistling vigorously. The girl, as she wished to be, was entirely alone. Durban could not explain the reason for the quarrel, and Alpenny would not; so Beatrice was forced to search her own thoughts for a possible explanation. So far she had been unsuccessful.
The tiny parlour was entirely white in its decorations, and looked extremely cool on this hot, close day. The walls were hung with snowy linen, the furniture was upholstered with the same, and the carpet, the curtains, the ornaments, even the cushions were all pearly white. Everything, when examined, was cheap in quality and price, but the spotlessly clean look of the room--if it could be called so--made up for the marked want of luxury. Beatrice herself wore a white muslin, with cream-hued ribbons, therefore no discordant colour broke the Arctic tone of the parlour. Only through the open door could be seen the brilliant tints of the flowers, blazing against a background of emerald foliage. The Snow Parlour was the name of this fantastic retreat, and the vicar's wife took the appellation as a personal insult. Rather should she have regarded it a compliment of the highest, as this maiden's bower was infinitely prettier than she was or ever could be.
Since it was impossible to learn anything definite from Durban or his master, Beatrice was striving to possess her soul in peace until seven o'clock: at that hour she intended to meet Vivian by the Witches' Oak, and there ask him bluntly what he had said or done to make stepfather so furious. Having settled this in her own mind, she lay back in the deep chair, sipping her coffee, and allowing her thoughts to wander; they took her back over some five-and-twenty years, and into a life barren and uneventful enough. Beatrice should have been happy, for, like the oft-quoted nation, she had no history.
All her life Beatrice had never known a mother's love. According to Alpenny, who supplied the information grudgingly enough, Mrs. Hedge with her one-year-old baby had married him, only to die within three months after the ceremony. Then Durban had taken charge of the child; since the miser, for monetary and other reasons, would not engage a nurse. For two years the old servant had tenderly cared for the orphan, and it was a great pain to him when Alpenny placed the little Beatrice in charge of a Brighton lady, called Miss Shallow. The spinster was in reduced circumstances, and apparently under Alpenny's thumb as regards money matters. She received the child unwillingly enough, although she feared to disobey a tyrant who could make things disagreeable for her; but later, she grew to love her charge, and behaved towards the orphan with a devotion scarcely to be expected from a nature soured by misfortune.
For twenty years Beatrice had lived with the old gentlewoman in the poky little Hove house, and from her had received the education and upbringing of a lady. Every week Durban came over to see his darling, and Beatrice grew attached to the kind, good-natured old servant, who lavished all his affection on her. Alpenny, not anxious to be bothered, and having little love for his stepdaughter, whom he regarded as an encumbrance, visited Miss Shallow more rarely, and even when he did, took scant notice of the tall and beautiful girl, who had been instructed to call him "father." This she did unwillingly enough, as there was always an antagonism between the cold nature of the one and the warm humanity of the other. When Miss Shallow died, the girl was ill-pleased to take up her abode at The Camp, in close association with a man she mistrusted and disliked, although she could assign no tangible reason for the feeling of abhorrence which possessed her.
How well Beatrice remembered her first sight of the place. It was then but a neglected wilderness, and she recoiled at the sight of such uncivilised surroundings. Alpenny slept in one carriage, and Durban in another; two other carriages were used as counting-house and kitchen; while the remaining three were in a rusty, ruinous state, almost buried in rank grass and coarse vegetation. And it was a wet day, too, when the girl, grieving for her dear friend, came to view her future home, so that everything was dripping with moisture, and the outlook was infinitely dreary. She could have cried at the idea of living amidst such desolation; but her courage was too high, and her pride too great, to admit of her indulging in such futile lamentation before the cold-eyed usurer.
Durban, always sympathetic and watchful, was quick to see her grief, although she tried to conceal it, and at once began to suggest interesting work, so that she should have the less time to eat her heart out in the wilderness. He deftly pointed out how she and he could make the place a paradise, and how Nature could solace the sorrow of the girl for the loss of her guardian. Having obtained unwilling consent from Alpenny, the kind-hearted servant painted and repaired the ruined carriages, and turning one into a dainty bedroom, made the remaining two into a parlour and dining-room. In some way sufficient money was extorted from Alpenny to admit of cheap furnishing, and Beatrice, more contented, came to take up her abode in the strange locality. She was now twenty-five, and for three years had dwelt in this hermitage.
The garden afforded her endless delight and occupation: Durban was the fairy who procured the seeds, and who turned up the coarse, weedy ground for the planting of the same; Durban had dug the pond, and had conducted the water thereto through cunningly contrived pipes; and Durban had planned the paradise with her aid. The smooth lawn, the beds of brilliant blossoms, the pond with its magnificent water-lilies, the many winding paths, and the mossy nooks which afforded cool retreats on hot days, were all the work of herself and Durban. No millionaire could have created a more delightful spot than had these two by their indefatigable industry and eye for the picturesque. A portion of the wood Beatrice left to Nature, so that its uncultured look might enhance the civilised appearance of the blossoms; and the contrast was really charming. But that Jarvis Alpenny jealously kept the gates closed, The Camp would have become a show place, as everyone in the neighbourhood had heard of its rare floral beauties; and not a few young men had heard of another beauty still more rare and desirable.
It was at this point that Beatrice began to think of Vivian and his sister, who were the only friends she possessed. Jerry certainly might be included, seeing that he was a constant visitor at Convent Grange, and the future husband of Dinah Paslow; but there was no one else in the parish of Hurstable with whom she cared to exchange a friendly word. She had met Mr. and Mrs. Snow once or twice; but although the vicar was willing enough to speak with so pretty a girl, the vicar's wife objected. She was the tyrant of the place, and ruled her husband, her son, "her" parish---as she called it--and her friends with a rod of iron. But for this aggressive despotism, Mr. Snow might have called at The Camp; but the vicaress ordered her vicar not to waste his time in visiting a girl who rarely came to church, and who occupied what the lady described as "a degraded position." On the several occasions upon which Mrs. Snow had met the usurer's daughter, she had behaved disagreeably, and had never said a kind word. Yet Mrs. Snow called herself a religious woman; but like many a self-styled Christian, she read her own meaning into the Gospel commandments, and declined to obey them when they clashed with her own snobbish, sordid nature. Beatrice Hedge, according to Mrs. Snow, was beyond the social pale, seeing that her father was a money-lender; so she paid no attention to her, and many of "her" parishioners followed her example. It is to be feared that the lady and her followers quite forgot that one of the apostles was a tax-gatherer and a publican.
Beatrice cared very little for this boycotting; she was accustomed to a lonely life, and, indeed, preferred it, for she found the conversation of Mrs. Snow and her friends extremely wearisome--as it was bound to be, from its aggressive egotism and self-laudation. She had books to read, the garden to tend, Vivian to think of, and sometimes could indulge in a visit to Convent Grange, the home of the Paslows. Dinah she liked; Vivian she loved, and she was certain in her own mind that Vivian loved her; but of this, strange to say, she could not be sure, by reason of his attitude. It was a dubious attitude: at times he would pay her marked attentions, and frequently seemed to be on the verge of a proposal; then he would draw back, shun her society, and turn as chilly as an Arctic winter, for no known reason. Beatrice fancied that it might be her relationship to Alpenny that caused this young gentleman of old descent to draw back; and then, again, she felt sure that he was above such a mean spirit. Moreover--and this might be his excuse--Vivian was but an impoverished country squire, and might hesitate to conduct a wife to the half-ruinous Grange. Had he only known how gladly Beatrice would have shared his bread and cheese when sweetened by kisses, surely, as she often thought, he would have proposed. But something kept him silent, and seeing how he changed from hot to cold in his wooing--if it could be called so--she had too much pride to inveigle him into making a plain statement, such as her heart and her ears longed to hear. The position was odd and uncomfortable. Both the man and the woman could not mistake each other's feelings, yet the man, who could have arranged matters on a reasonable basis, refused to open his mouth; and it was not the woman's right to usurp the privilege of the stronger sex, by breaking the ice.
The appointed meeting for this night puzzled her more than ever. Never before had she met him save at the Grange or at The Camp, and more often than not in the presence of Dinah. Now he asked her to talk with him in a lonely spot, and under an ill-omened tree, where, it was locally reported, the witches of old days had held their Satanic revels. In answer to his request she had nodded, being taken by surprise; but now she began to question the propriety of her proposed action. She was a modest girl, and occupied a difficult position, so it was scarcely the thing to meet a young gentleman on a romantic summer night, and under a romantic tree. But her curiosity was extremely strong. She wished to know why Alpenny had grown so white and had appeared so terrified when Paslow pronounced four mysterious words. What was the "Black Patch"? and why did it produce such an effect on the usurer, who, as a rule, feared nothing but the loss of money? Vivian could explain, since he had brought about the miser's terror, therefore did Beatrice make up her mind to keep the appointment; but she smiled to think what Mrs. Snow would say did that severe lady know of the bold step she was taking.
Some more coffee? said a voice at the door, and she looked up to see the smiling servant.
No thank you, Durban, she replied absently, and setting down the empty cup; then, seeing that he was about to withdraw, she recalled her scattered thoughts and made him pause, with a question. "What is the Black Patch?" asked Beatrice, facing round to observe the man's dark face.
Durban spread out his hands in quite a foreign way, and banished all emotion from his dark features. "I do not know."
My father appeared to be startled by the words.
He did, missy, he did!
Do you know the reason?
I am not in your father's confidence, missy.
That is strange, seeing that you have been with him for over twenty years, Durban.
For twenty-four years, missy.
You never told me the exact time before, Durban.
The man shrugged his shoulders. "You never asked me, missy."
That is true. Beatrice leaned back again in her chair, and remembered that she and Durban had talked but little about the past. "I should like to know about my mother," she said after a pause.
There is nothing to know, missy. She married master--and died.
I was then about a year old?
Yes, missy.
I am twenty-five now, and you have been with Mr. Alpenny for four-and-twenty years; so it seems, Durban, that you first came here with my mother, and remained in Mr. Alpenny's service.
It is so, missy; I remained for your sake.
Then you were my mother's servant?
Durban's face might have been that of a wax doll for all the expression it showed. "I was, missy."
And you know all about my parents?
What there is to know, missy, which is very little. You have never asked about them before; why do you question me now?
Beatrice mused. "I hardly know," she confessed. "I suppose Mr. Paslow's remark about the Black Patch, whatever that may be, made me ask now. Mr. Alpenny was afraid when Mr. Paslow spoke."
So you said before, missy; and, as I replied, I do not know the reason at all. I am simply a servant.
And my friend, said Beatrice, extending her hand.
Durban's face lighted up with passionate devotion, and his dark eyes blazed with light. Falling on one knee he imprinted a reverential kiss on the small white hand: "I love you with all my heart, missy. I love you as a father--as a mother; as the Great God Himself, do I love you, my dear mistress."
Then you will help me?
You have but to ask, and I obey, said Durban simply, and rose to his feet with a light bound, strangely out of keeping with his stout person. "What would you have?"
The key of the little gate.
Durban stared, for Beatrice was making a very serious request. There were two gates to The Camp, a large one opening on to the lane, and a smaller one hidden in a corner of the wall, through which admittance could be gained to a narrow woodland path, which arrived, after devious windings, at the cross-roads. Alpenny's clients usually entered from the lane, but were always dismissed through the--so to speak--secret path. The miser kept the key of this small gate, and, indeed, of the larger one also, so that if any one had to go out, or come in, Alpenny had to be applied to. It was therefore no easy matter for Durban to oblige his young mistress.
Why do you want the key, missy?
Beatrice did not answer at once. It suddenly crossed her mind that if she acknowledged bow she intended to question Vivian about the Black Patch, that Durban would make some difficulty over obtaining the key. After his admission that he knew nothing, she had no reason to think that he would raise any objections; but the thought came uninvited, and she obeyed it. Wishing to tell the truth, and yet keep Durban in the dark as to her real errand, she determined to go to the Grange and see Dinah; then she could meet Vivian there, and could question him at her leisure. "Miss Paslow is engaged," she said suddenly.
Durban nodded and grinned. "To young Mr. Snow," he replied. "I saw."
Well, I want to go to Convent Grange this evening at six, to see Miss Paslow, and talk over the matter.
Durban shook his head. "Master is angry with Mr. Paslow for some reason, and will not let you go. Besides, at night----" Durban shook his head again very sagely.
That's just it, said Beatrice, rising; "I know that my father would object, therefore I wish to slip out of the small gate secretly, and return about nine; he will never know."
He will never know, certainly, missy; but the way to Convent Grange is dark and lonely.
Not on a summer night; the moon is out, and there will be plenty of people on the road.
Would you like me to come, missy?
If you will, assented Beatrice carelessly. She would rather have gone alone, but since the Grange was now her goal, and not the Witch Oak, Durban's presence did not matter. "But there is no need."
Oh, I think so; there will be a storm to-night, and then it will grow dark. Besides, people may not be about, and the path to Convent Grange is lonely. I shall come also.
"Very good; and the key---- I can get it. Master keeps it hanging up in the counting-house, but I can get it."" Durban grinned and nodded, and then was about to go away, when he suddenly stopped, and his dark face grew serious. ""One thing tell me, missy, and do not be angry.""
"I could never be angry with you, Durban. What is it?
Do you love Mr. Paslow, missy?
Yes, replied Beatrice without hesitation. She knew that whatever she said to her faithful servant would never be repeated by him.
And does he love you?
This time she coloured. "I think so--I am not sure," was her faint reply, as she cast down her eyes.
Durban came a step nearer. "Does he love any one else?" he asked.
Beatrice raised her head sharply, and sent a flaming glance towards the questioner. "What do you mean?"
If he doesn't love you, does he love any one else? persisted Durban.
Beatrice twisted her hands. "I am sure he loves me, and no one else!" she cried passionately. "I can see it in his eyes--I can read it in his face. Yet he--yet he--oh!" she broke off, unwilling to remark upon Paslow's strange, wavering wooing, to a servant, even though that servant was one who would readily have died to save her a moment's pain. "Do you think he loves any one else?" she asked evasively.
No. Durban's eyes were fixed on her face. "I have no reason to think so. If he loves my missy, he can never be fond of other women; but if he plays you false, missy "--Durban's face grew grim and darker than ever--"you have a dog who can bite."
No! no! said Beatrice, alarmed--since Durban could make himself unpleasant on occasions, and, from the look on his face, she feared for Vivian--"he loves me, and me only; I am sure of that!"
The man's face cleared. "Then we will go to the Grange this evening, and you can see him."
But if my stepfather hates him, Durban, he will place some obstacle in the way, should Mr. Paslow ask me to marry him.
If he asks you to be his wife, you shall marry him, missy.
But my father----
He will say nothing.
Are you sure? When Mr. Alpenny takes an idea into his head----
He will take no idea of stopping your marriage, missy. You shall be happy. I promised him that.
Promised who?
Your real father, said Durban, and departed without another word. It would seem as though he were unwilling to be questioned. Beatrice began to think that there was some mystery connected with her parents, which Durban knew, but which Durban would not reveal.
Shortly after Durban resumed work, Beatrice received a surprise which rather pleased her. This was none other than an invitation to enter the counting-house. She had always desired to do so, being filled with that curiosity which led her grandmother Eve to eat apples, but hitherto Alpenny had declined to admit her. Now the door of the dungeon was open, and Alpenny, standing before it, beckoned that she should come in. In the bright sunshine he looked more decrepit and wicked than usual. He could not have been less than eighty years of age, and his spare figure was bowed with Time. That same Time had also robbed him of every hair on his head, and had even taken away eyebrows and eyelashes. As the old man was clean shaven, his gleaming head and hairless yellow wrinkled face looked rather repulsive. Nor did his dress tend to improve his appearance, for it was a shepherd's-plaid suit cut in the style of the early fifties, when he had been young, and presumably something of a dandy. In spite of the antiquity of the clothes, there was a suggestion of juvenility about them which matched badly with his Methuselah looks. Like an aged ghost he beckoned in the sunshine, and the white-painted erection behind him assumed, in the eyes of Beatrice, the look of a tomb.
Wondering that she should be invited into Mammon's Shrine, the girl walked across the lawn. In her white dress, with her beautiful face shaded by a coarse straw hat, she appeared the embodiment of youth and grace, contrasting markedly with the senile old villain, who croaked out his orders.
Come in, said Alpenny testily, and with the screech of a peacock, as he pointed to the open door. "I wish to speak to you seriously."
Beatrice, ever sparing of words with crabbed age, nodded and entered the counting-house, glancing comprehensively around to take in her surroundings--as a woman always does--with a single look. The space naturally was limited. All the windows had been boarded up save one, which opened immediately over a rather large desk of mahogany which was piled with papers. The walls were hung with faded red rep. In one corner stood a large green-painted safe; in another stood a pile of tin boxes which reached quite to the roof. A paraffin lamp dangled by brass chains from a somewhat smoky ceiling; and at the far end of the carriage, in front of a dilapidated bookcase, was an oil stove, crudely set on a sheet of galvanised tin. A ragged carpet, disorderly in colour and much faded, covered the floor; and there were only two chairs, one before the desk, and another beside it, probably for the use of clients. The one window was barred, but not covered with any curtain; the others were sheathed in iron and barred strongly outside. From without, as has been said, the carriage looked like a dungeon: within, its appearance suggested the home of a recluse, who cared very little for the pomps and vanities of civilisation. This barren room represented very fairly the bare mind of the miser, who cared more for money itself, than for what money could do.
Motioning Beatrice to the client's chair, Alpenny seated himself before his desk, and from habit presumably, began to fiddle with some legal looking documents. Apparently he had got over the shock caused by Vivian's strange speech, and looked much the same as he always did--cold, unsympathetic, and cunning as an old monkey. In the dungeon Beatrice bloomed like a rose, while Alpenny resembled a cold, clammy toad, uncanny and repulsive. He began to speak almost immediately, and his first words amazed the girl. They were the last she expected to hear from the lips of one who had always treated her with indifference, and almost with hostility.
Have you ever thought of marriage? asked the usurer, examining his visitor's face with two small sharp eyes, chilly and grey.
Marriage! she gasped, doubting if she had heard aright.
Yes, marriage. Young girls think of such things, do they not?
Wishing to find out what he meant, Beatrice fenced. "I have no chance of marrying, father," she observed, regaining her composure.
I grant that, unless you have fallen in love with Jerry Snow; and I credit you with too much sense, to think you could love a fool.
Mr. Snow is to marry Miss Paslow, announced Beatrice coldly, and kept her eyes on the wizen face before her.
Oh, sneered Alpenny, "Hunger wedding Thirst. And how do they intend to live, may I ask?"
That is their business, and not ours.
Paslow hasn't a penny to give to his giggling sister, and very soon he won't have a roof over his head.
What do you mean by that, father?
Mean! The usurer stretched out a skinny hand, which resembled the claw of a bird of preys as he looked like. "Why, I mean, my girl, that I hold Vivian Paslow there," and he tapped his palm.
Still I don't understand, said Beatrice, her blood running cold at the malignant look on his face.
There is no need you should, rejoined her stepfather coolly. "He is not for you, and you are not for him. Do you understand that?"
It was unwise for Alpenny to meddle with a maiden's fancies, for the girl's outraged womanhood revolted. "I understand that you mean to be impertinent, Mr. Alpenny," she said, with a flaming colour.
'Mr. Alpenny'? Why not 'father,' as usual?
Because you are no father of mine, and I thank God for it.
He gave her a vindictive look, and rubbed his hands together, with the croak of a hungry raven. "I brought you up, I educated you, I fed you, I housed you, I----"
Beatrice waved her hand impatiently. "I know well what you have done," said she; "as little as you could."
Here's gratitude!
And common sense, Mr. Alpenny. I know nothing, save that you married my mother and promised to look after me when she died.
I promised nothing, snapped Alpenny.
Durban says that you did.
Durban is, what he always was, a fool. I promised nothing to your mother--at all events, concerning you. Why should I? You are not my own flesh and blood.
Anyone can tell that, said Beatrice disdainfully.
No impertinence, miss. I have fed and clothed you, and educated you, and housed you----
You said that before.
All at my own expense, went on the miser imperturbably, "and out of the kindness of my heart. This is the return you make, by giving me sauce! But you had better take care," he went on menacingly, and shaking a lean yellow finger, "I am not to be trifled with."
Neither am I, retorted Beatrice, who felt in a fighting humour. "I am sorry to have been a burden to you, and for what you have done I thank you; but I am weary of stopping here. Give me a small sum of money and let me go."
Money! screeched the miser, touched on his tenderest point. "Money to waste?"
Money to keep me in London until I can obtain a situation as a governess or as a companion. Come, father, she went on coaxingly, "you must be sick of seeing me about here. And I am so tired of this life!"
It's the wickedness in your blood, Beatrice. Just like your mother--oh, dear me, how very like your mother!
Leave my mother's character alone! said Beatrice impatiently, "she is dead and buried."
She is--in Hurstable churchyard, under a beautiful tomb I got second-hand at a bargain. See how I loved her.
You never loved anyone in your life, Mr. Alpenny, said the girl, freezing again.
Alpenny's brow grew black, and he looked at her with glittering eyes. "You are mistaken, child," he said, quietly. "I have loved and lost."
My mother----?
Perhaps, said he enigmatically, and passed his hand over his bald head in a weary manner. Then he burst out unexpectedly: "I wish I had never set eyes on your mother. I wish she had been dead and buried before she crossed my path!"
She is dead, so----
Yes, she is dead, stone dead, he snarled, rising, much agitated, "and don't think you'll ever see her again. If I----" He was about to speak further; then seeing from the wondering look on the girl's face that he was saying more than was wise, he halted, stuttered, and sat down again abruptly, moving the papers with trembling hands. "Leave the past alone," he said hoarsely. "I can't speak of it calmly. It is the past that makes the future," he continued, drumming feverishly on the table with his fingers, "the past that makes the future."
Beatrice wondered what he meant, and noticed how weary and worn and nervous he seemed. The man did not love her; he had not treated her as he should have done; and between them there was no feeling in common. Yet he was old, and, after all, had sheltered her in his own grudging way, so Beatrice laid a light hand on his arm. "Mr. Alpenny, you are not young----"
Eighty and more, my dear.
The term startled her, and she began to think he must indeed be near the borders of the next world when he spoke so gently.
Well, then, why don't you go to church, and feed the hungry, and clothe the naked? Remember, you have to answer for what you have done, some day soon.
Alpenny rose vehemently and flung off her arm. "I don't ask you to teach me my duty, girl," he said savagely. "What I have done is done, and was rightly done. Everyone betrayed me, and money is the only thing that did not. Money is power, money is love, money is joy and life and hope and comfort to me. No! I keep my money until I die, and then----" He cast a nervous look round, only to burst out again with greater vehemence. "Why do you talk of death? I am strong; I eat heartily. I drink little. I sleep well. I shall live for many a long day yet. And even if I die," he snapped, "don't expect to benefit by my death. You don't get that!" and he snapped his fingers within an inch of her nose.
I don't want your money, said Beatrice quietly; "Durban will look after me. Still, you might let me have enough to keep me while I try to find work."
I won't!
But if you die, I'll be a pauper.
Without a sixpence! said Alpenny exultingly.
Have I no relatives who will help me?
No. Your mother came from I know not where, and where she has gone I don't exactly know. She married me and then died. I have kept you----
Yes--yes. But if my mother was poor and came from where you knew not, why did you marry her?
My kind heart----
You haven't got one; it's in your money-chest
It might be in a woman's keeping, which is a much worse place.
Beatrice grew weary of this futile conversation, and rose. "You asked me to see you," she said, with a fatigued air; "what is it you have to say?"
Oh yes. He seemed to arouse himself from a fit of musing. "Yes! I have found a husband for you."
Beatrice started. He announced this startling fact as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "You--have--found--a--husband--for--me?" she drawled slowly.
Yes. You won't have my money, and I may die. He cast a look over his shoulder nervously. "I don't want to, but I may: one never knows, do they? You will be poor, so I think it best to get you married and settled in life."
Thank you, she returned icily. "It is very good of you to take so much trouble. And my future husband?"
Ruck! Major Ruck--Major Simon Ruck, a retired army officer, and a handsome man of fifty, very well preserved, and with a fine fortune.
How alluring! And suppose I refuse?
You can't--you daren't! He grasped her arm entreatingly. "Don't be a fool, my dear. Ruck is handsome and well off. He is coming down on Saturday to see you. This is Wednesday, so you will have time to think over the matter. You must marry him--you must, I tell you!" and he shook her arm in his agitation.
Beatrice removed her arm in a flaming temper. "Must I indeed?" said she, flashing up into righteous anger. "Then I won't!"
Beatrice!
I won't. I have never seen the man, and I don't wish to see him. You have no right to make any arrangements about my marriage without consulting me. You are neither kith nor kin of mine, and I am of age. I deny your right to arrange my future.
Do you wish to be left to starve?
I shall not starve; but I would rather do so, than marry a man of fifty, whom I have never set eyes on.
If you don't marry Ruck, you'll be a pauper sooner than you expect, my girl. Marry him for my sake?
No! You have done as little as you could for me: you have always hated me. I decline.
Alpenny rose in his turn--Beatrice had already risen to her feet--and faced her in a black fury, the more venomous for being quiet. "You shall marry him!"
I shall not.
They faced one another, both angry, both determined, both bent upon gaining the victory. But if Alpenny had an iron will, Beatrice had youth and outraged womanhood on her side, and in the end his small cruel eyes fell before her flashing orbs.
I want you to marry Ruck--really I do, he whimpered piteously.
Why?
Because---- he swallowed something, and told what was evidently a lie, so glibly did it slip out. "Because I should be sorry to leave you to starve."
I shall not starve. I am well educated, and can teach. At the worst I can become a nursery governess, or be a companion.
Better marry Major Ruck.
No. It is foolish of you to ask me.
If you don't marry him I shall be ruined. I shall be killed. No--he broke off suddenly--"I don't mean that. Who would kill a poor old man such as I am? But"--his voice leaped an octave--"you must marry the husband I chose for you."
I chose for myself.
Ah!--the miser was shaking with rage--"it's Vivian Paslow: no denial--I can see he is the man; a penniless scoundrel, who is at my mercy!"
Don't dare to speak of him like that, flamed out Beatrice. "As to marrying him--he has not asked me yet."
And never will, if I can stop him. I know how to do so--oh yes, I do. He will not dare to go against me. I can ruin him. He---- At this moment there came a sharp rap at the door, which made Alpenny's face turn white and his lips turn blue.
Who is there?
A telegram, said the voice of Durban; and Alpenny, with a smothered ejaculation of pleasure, went to open the door. As he did so, Beatrice noticed on the wall near the desk two keys, one large and one small. The little one she knew to be the key of the postern gate, and without hesitation she took it down and slipped it into her pocket. As Alpenny turned round with the telegram and no very pleasant expression of countenance, she felt that she would at least be able to see Vivian Paslow on that evening without arousing the suspicions of her stepfather. It was unlikely that any one would come that night, and he would not miss the key, which she could get Durban to replace the next day. As this thought flashed into her mind, she saw the face of the servant at the door. He looked puzzled, but probably that was because he beheld her in the sanctum of his master, hitherto forbidden ground both to him and to her. The next moment Alpenny had closed the door, and Durban went away.
This telegram is from Major Ruck, said Alpenny. "He is coming down on Saturday, so be ready to receive him."
I shall leave the place if he comes.
You won't: you'll wait and see him--and accept him also. If you don't, I'll make things hot for Vivian Paslow.
This was, as Beatrice conceived, a game of bluff; so she replied boldly enough, "Mr. Paslow is able to look after himself. I decline to speak to Major Ruck, whosoever he may be, or even to see him."
Saturday! Saturday! said Alpenny coldly, and opened the door. "Now you can go. If you leave The Camp, or if you refuse Ruck as your husband, Vivian Paslow will reap the reward of his crimes." And he pushed her out, locking the door after her with a sharp click.
Crimes! Beatrice stood in the sunlight, stunned and dazed. What did Alpenny mean? What crimes could the man she loved have committed? Almost before she could collect her thoughts she felt a light touch on her shoulder, and turned to behold Durban.
Wasn't master in his counting-house all this afternoon? asked the servant. "You should know, missy, as the parlour is opposite."
Yes, he was, she replied with an effort. "I never saw him come out."
Durban wrinkled his dark brows. "Then how did he send the telegram, to which he has just now had an answer?" he demanded.
How do you know that this wire is an answer, Durban?
The reply was prepaid, missy. How did master do it?
Beatrice was equally puzzled. Alpenny had not been away from The Camp all the afternoon, yet had contrived to send a telegram, and prepay the reply.
It was truly a mystery. So far as Beatrice knew, there were but two ways of getting out of The Camp--by the large gate and the smaller one. Yet she in the parlour-carriage, facing Alpenny's counting-house, had not seen him emerge; nor had Durban, busy in the kitchen, the door of which commanded a view of the postern, beheld his master depart. The telegraph office was at the railway station three miles away, and there was no one in The Camp save Durban and his young mistress to send with a wire. Yet the wire had been sent, and the reply had been received. Beatrice ventured an explanation.
Perhaps my father sent the telegram yesterday.
No, missy. I took none, and master did not leave the place. No telegram has been sent from here for the last month.
Is there a third way out, Durban?
Not that I know of, missy, and yet----
What Durban would have said in the way of explanation it is impossible to say, for at this moment the querulous voice of Alpenny was heard calling snappishly. Durban hastened to the door of the counting-house, and it was opened so that he could speak with his master. But he was not admitted within. Beatrice retired to her bedroom-carriage, which was near the parlour, and had only been there a few minutes when Durban came over with a crest-fallen face.
We must put off going to Convent Grange, missy, said he rapidly; "master wishes me to go to town. He is writing a letter which I have to take up at once. I shall catch the six train."
Very well, Durban. We can wait.
The servant looked and hesitated, but before he could speak again Mr. Alpenny interrupted. Appearing at the door of his dungeon he waved a letter. "Come at once!" he cried; "don't lose time. What do you mean by chattering there?"
Durban gave Beatrice a significant look and hastened away. In another ten minutes he had left The Camp by the great gates and was on his way to the railway station. Alpenny saw him off the premises and then crossed over to his stepdaughter.
What were you saying to Durban? he asked suspiciously.
You mean what was Durban saying to me? she replied quietly; "you can surely guess. He was saying that you wished him to go to town."
There was no need of him to tell you my business, grumbled the miser, looking ill-tempered. "What are you doing this evening?"
Had he any suspicions of her intention? Beatrice thought not. The question was put in a snarling way, and simply--as she judged--to show his authority.
I intend to read, she answered simply, "and perhaps I shall take a walk"--in the grounds, she ostensibly meant.
Better not, warned the usurer, looking up. "Clouds are gathering. I am sure there will be a storm."
Very well, was her indifferent reply, although she wondered if he had missed the key of the smaller gate. "Will I come and say good-night to you as usual at ten?"
Alpenny nodded in an absent way, and walked into his counting-house with his hands behind him, and his form more bent than usual. Beatrice watched him cross the smooth sward, and then went to sit down in the parlour and meditate. In some way, which she could scarcely define, she scented a mystery. The episode of the telegram, the hasty departure of Durban, the proposal of marriage, all these things hinted--as she thought--at schemes against her peace of mind. And then, again, the words of Vivian Paslow. Those were indeed mysterious, and she was anxious to know what they meant. Finally, the hint that Alpenny had given as to Vivian having committed crimes, alarmed the girl. She felt that Alpenny was trying to inveigle Paslow into some trap, and from his words it was plain that he would stop at nothing to prevent the young man declaring the passion he felt for the girl. Also, from another hint, it would seem that the miser held--as, indeed, he had plainly stated--"Vivian in the hollow of his hand."
These thoughts made Beatrice very uncomfortable, the more so as never before had any mystery come into her life. Hitherto it had been serene and uneventful, one day being exactly the same as another. But with the visit of Vivian on that afternoon everything had changed, for since he had heard those mysterious words, Alpenny had not been himself. In some queer way he had forwarded a telegram, and in a hurry he had sent Durban to London, which he had not done for months past. Undoubtedly something sinister was in the wind, and Beatrice shivered with a vague apprehension of dread.
It certainly might have been the weather which made her feel so ill at ease, for the hot day had ended in an even hotter evening. The air was close, the sky was clouded, and there was not a breath of wind to stir the leaves of the surrounding trees. Ever and again a flicker of lightning would leap across the sky--summer lightning which portended storm and rain. Beatrice, trying to breathe freely in the suffocating air, wished that the storm would come to clear the atmosphere. There was electricity in the dry air, and she felt as uncomfortable as a cat which has its hair smoothed the wrong way. On some such night as this must Lady Macbeth have received Duncan, and Nature hinted at a repetition of the storm which took place when the guileless king was done to death in the shambles.
Beatrice could not rest within doors. She put on a hat, and draped a long black cloak over her white dress. Attired thus, she walked up and down on the dry grass, trying to compose herself. Around gloomed the girdle of trees, without even a leaf stirring. The colours of the flowers were vague in the hot twilight, and the white forms of the seven railway carriages stood here and there like tombs in a cemetery. As she lingered near the sundial, she cast a look upward at the Downs, which rose vast and shadowy to be defined clearly against a clear sky. The foot of them was but a stone-throw away from The Camp, and almost it was in her mind to climb their heights in order to get a breath of fresh air. Here in the hollow, embosomed in woods, she felt stifling; but up there surely a sweet, fresh wind must be blowing, full of moisture from the Channel. Then the thought of a possible walk recalled her to a remembrance of her appointment: she intended to keep it, even though Durban had gone away. The key was in her pocket, and she could slip out of the small gate for an hour, and get back again without Alpenny being any the wiser. Already a light gleamed from the solitary window of the dungeon, as it had gleamed ever since she could remember when the darkness came on. Behind the discoloured blind the miser laboured at his books, and counted his gains. So far as she knew all his money was banked and invested, and he kept no gold in the dungeon. Perhaps he feared robbery; and it really was remarkable that, seeing he was supposed to be a millionaire, The Camp had never been marked by the fraternity of London thieves. A visit there would surely have proved successful, if all the tales of Alpenny were to be believed. But perhaps the thieves had heard, as the miser had vaguely hinted, of his cleverness in keeping no specie in his retirement. But be this as it may, Alpenny, all these years, had never hinted at a possible burglary.
After a glance at the Downs and at Alpenny's lighted window, behind which he would sit until midnight, Beatrice entered one of the winding paths in the little wood and took her way to the gate. The large gates were locked, and Alpenny alone possessed the key; but she could open the smaller gate, and now proceeded to do so.
The lock was freshly oiled, and the postern swung open noiselessly. Standing on the threshold within The Camp, Beatrice paused for a moment. Some feeling seemed to hold her back. Into her mind flashed the sudden thought that if she went out, she would leave behind her not only The Camp, but the old serene life. It was like crossing the Rubicon; but with an impatient ejaculation at her own weakness, she shook herself and passed out, leaving the gate locked behind her. Then she stole through the glimmering wood, fully committed to the adventure. As she did so, a distant growl of thunder seemed to her agitated mind like the voice of the angel thrusting her out of Paradise. Truly, she had never before felt in this strange mood.
By a narrow path she gained the lane, and here the light was a trifle stronger, although it was rapidly dying out of the hot, close sky. It was close upon half-past six, so Beatrice knew that if she walked quickly she could arrive at the Witches' Oak almost at the time appointed. Owing to the late hour of starting she had quite given up the idea of going to Convent Grange, which was two miles away. She would meet Vivian, as she now arranged in her own mind, at the Witches' Oak, and would ask for an explanation. When he gave it, she could return rapidly to The Camp escorted by him; then slipping in, she would be able to say good-night to Alpenny at ten o'clock, and go to bed. For a moment, she wondered if Durban would return that night, or stop in town. If he came back, he would be angry if he found that she had left The Camp unattended and in the twilight. But she would be in bed even if Durban did return, and then she could decide whether to tell him or not. Also, the chances were that as he had gone to town so late he would remain there till the next morning to execute Alpenny's business, whatever that might be.
Passing along the lane, Beatrice had to run by the great gates, which were locked securely. In the twilight she thought she saw a small figure crouching before them, but in the semi-darkness could not be certain. However, the sight of the figure, if figure it was, troubled her very little. Probably it was that of some tramp, as there were many in the Weald of Sussex. But if the tramp was waiting at the gates in the hope of getting a crust or penny from the miser, he would be woefully disappointed. Beatrice, passing swiftly, hardly gave the matter a thought, but sped rapidly along under the deep shadows of the trees, and along the white dusty lane, between the wilted hedges, dry with summer heat. A quarter of a mile brought her to a side path, and down this she went calmly, congratulating herself that she had met neither tramp, nor neighbour on the road. The path wound deviously through ancient trees, and at length emerged into a rather large glade in the centre of which was a pond, green with duckweed. Over this spread the branches of the Witches' Oak, an old old tree, which must have been growing in the time of the Druids, and which had probably played its part in their mystic rites. A fitful moonlight gleamed occasionally on this, as the planet showed her haggard face, and under the tree Beatrice saw a tall figure waiting patiently. She crossed the glade in the moonlight, but the clouds swept over the face of the orb, as Beatrice paused under the oak. Then again came a growl of distant thunder, as if in warning.
I knew you would come, said Paslow, stepping forward, and for the moment it seemed as though he would take her in his arms.
In the darkness the cheeks of the girl flushed, and she stepped lightly aside, evading his clasp. Her heart told her to throw herself into those strong arms and be protected for ever from the coming storms of life, but a sense of modesty prevented such speedy surrender. When she spoke, her voice was steady and cool. There was no time to be lost, and she began hurriedly in the middle of things.
Yes, I have come, she said quickly; "because I want to know the meaning of the words you used to my father to-day."
I don't know what they mean, confessed Paslow calmly.
Then why did you use them?
I received a hint to do so.
From whom?
I can't tell you that. Miss Hedge--Beatrice--I asked you to meet me here, so that no one should interrupt our conversation. If you came to the Grange, Dinah would have prevented my speaking; and now that Mr. Alpenny is angry with me, I cannot come to The Camp. You must forgive me for having asked you to meet me here at this hour, and in so ill-omened a spot, but I have something to say to you which must be said at once.
What is it? Her heart beat rapidly as she spoke, for although she could not see his face in the darkness, she guessed from the tones of his voice that he was about to say all which she desired to hear.
Can't you guess? He came a step nearer and spoke softly.
Beatrice, feeling strange, as was natural considering the circumstance, laughed in an embarrassed manner. "How can I guess?"
Because you must have seen what I meant in my eyes, Beatrice. I want you to be my wife.
Her heart beat loudly as though it would give Vivian its answer without speech.
I don't understand, she said abruptly.
Surely you must have seen----
Oh yes, I saw, she interrupted rapidly, "I saw that you loved me. I also saw that you held back from asking me to marry you."
I had a reason, he said, after a pause; "that reason is now removed, and I can ask you, as I do with all my heart and soul, to be my wife. Dearest, I love you."
Can I believe that?
I swear it! he breathed passionately.
But the reason?
Paslow hesitated. "It was connected with money," he confessed at last. "Your father--or, rather, your stepfather--had a mortgage on nearly the whole of my property. I have lately inherited a small sum of money, and went to-day to ask Mr. Alpenny to arrange about paying off part of the mortgage. He accused me of wishing to rob him."
But why, when you desired to pay off the mortgage?
I can't say. I think--Vivian hesitated--"I think that he wishes to get possession of the Grange."
And his reason?
I can't tell you that. But the moment I offered to pay the money he burst out into a rage and said that I wanted to rob him. Then I warned him as to something I had heard against him in London.
What is that? she asked in startled tones.
I dare not tell you just now.
Is it connected with the Black Patch?
Not that I know of. And what do you know of the Black Patch?
I know nothing. I heard it mentioned--whatever it is--for the first time to-day, and by you. The effect on Mr. Alpenny was so strange that I wish to know what the Black Patch means.
I do not know myself, said Vivian earnestly. "Listen, my dear girl. The other night I found on my desk a scrap of paper, and on it was written--or, rather, I should say printed, for the person who wrote printed the letters--'If Alpenny objects, say "Remember the Black Patch."'"
Beatrice listened, bewildered. "What does that mean?"
I can't say. But when driven into a corner by his language I used the very words on the scrap of paper. You saw their effect.
It is strange, said Beatrice; then remembering what the miser had said to her, she grasped her lover's arm. "Vivian, he told me that you had committed crimes."
What a liar! I have committed no crimes, save that I have indulged in the usual follies of a young man whose parents died before they could guide him properly. What does he mean?
I can't say. But I think he wished to make me mistrust you.
I can guess that, for I asked him to-day if I could marry you. He refused, and raged worse than ever. It was then that he turned me out of his counting-house, and--well, you saw what happened. I suppose he wants you to marry someone else?
Yes. He told me so to-day. Major Ruck.
Who is he? demanded Paslow in a tone of anger.
I don't know. Major Simon Ruck, a retired army officer with a fine fortune, and who is fifty years of age, and----
Here there came a flash of blue lightning, and then a loud crash of thunder. Afterwards the strong wind hurtled towards them, bearing on its wings the drenching rain. Vivian was startled, and caught Beatrice to his breast in the darkness.
Darling, will you marry me? he asked, although she was scarcely mistress yet of her emotions in the storm and gloom.
Before she could answer, the pent-up feelings of the day found relief in a burst of hysterical tears. Pulling out her handkerchief she pressed it to her eyes, and at the moment felt the key, entangled in the handkerchief, fall out.
Oh, she gasped, "the key! it has fallen out of my pocket!"
I'll find it! and Paslow dropped on to the grass, now wet, while the rain came down in torrents. "I have it!" he said, wondering at this queer disconnected wooing, and rose with the key in his hand. "My dear, let us stand further under the tree, and then we can talk."
No! no! Beatrice was quite unstrung by this time. "I must go home at once. It is late, and my father--my--ah! who is that?"
Flash after flash of lightning, blue and vivid, illuminated the haunted tree, as though once again the witches were holding their demoniac revels. A short distance away stood a small man. Neither of the lovers could see his features in the fitful illumination. Vivian, with a cry of anger, ran straight towards the figure, and it disappeared. Tales of the spectres said to haunt the tree occurred to the mind of Beatrice, and, unstrung, and not mistress of herself, she left the oak and hurried across the glade. The lightning was flashing incessantly, and the thunder roared like artillery, while the steady rain spattered through the trees' tops. Trying to find the path which led to the lane, Beatrice ran on. She fancied she heard the voice of Paslow shouting, but again pealed the thunder to drown what he said. Losing her head--and small wonder, so terrific was the storm--Beatrice scrambled on through many paths, and finally, when there came an unusually vivid flash, she sank with a cry of terror under some bushes, and fainted on the streaming ground. How long she remained unconscious she did not know.
When she did regain her senses, a mighty wind was blowing through the woods, bending the stoutest trees like saplings. Through the swaying boughs, the girl could see the flicker of lightning racing across the sky; and every now and then boomed sullen thunder, loud and menacing. With an effort she gathered her aching limbs together and staggered forward blindly through the wood. She could not tell what the hour was, or guess where she was going, but by some miracle she managed to arrive at the lane. Even then, she did not recognise where she was, but ran blindly along in the hope of finding The Camp. There was no sign of Vivian, or of the man who had been watching them under the Witches' Oak. All around was the roaring darkness, laced with vivid lightning and alive with furious rain and wind. Like a demented creature, Beatrice sped along in mud and slush, kilting up her petticoats to run the faster. And ever overhead screamed the storm, while the wild winds tore and buffeted the tormented trees.
She bitterly regretted having kept the appointment She had learned little save that Vivian loved her, which she had known long ago. And now she had lost the key: Paslow possessed it, since he had not given it back to her before he ran after the watcher. So how was she to re-enter the jealously-guarded Camp? Alpenny would know that she had been out, that she had met Vivian, and there would be great trouble. These thoughts made the head of the girl reel as she ran along blind and breathless.
Then came several flashes, and before her, unexpectedly, she beheld the gate of The Camp. It was wide open, but, without thinking, she ran in at once, only too thankful to arrive home. As she passed the posts, she sprang unseeingly into the arms of a man. With a cry she tore herself away, and stared. In a flash of lightning she saw that he was tall, lean, clothed in black, and--the sight made her shriek--over his left eye he wore a Black Patch. Then the darkness closed down and she heard him brush past into gloom, running swiftly out of the gate, which he closed after him. She heard the click, and in some way managed to scramble across the wet lawn to her own bedroom-carriage. As she dropped on the threshold she saw that the light in the counting-house was extinguished. What did it all mean? she asked herself; and who was the tall man with the dark patch over his left eye?
After a few minutes' lying on the threshold of her carriage-bedroom with the rain beating upon her soaking dress, Beatrice rose with an effort and opened the door. It was never locked, as no one would be likely to enter. The matches and a candle were on a table by the bed, where she had left them, and soon she had a light. Beside the candlestick lay a folded piece of paper, and opening this, she read a line or two in Alpenny's crabbed handwriting.
I find you have gone out. I am going also, and will not be back for three days. Durban will return to-morrow and look after you.
There was no signature, but of course she recognised the calligraphy easily, as it had a distinctive character of its own. The contents of the note rather surprised the girl. In the first place, Alpenny made no remark as to her having taken the key; and in the second, it was strange that he should depart thus unexpectedly, leaving The Camp absolutely unguarded, even by a dog. Beatrice knew well enough that her stepfather frequently went away on business, and at times very unexpectedly, but she had never known him to take so hasty a departure. However, after a glance at the note, she determined to go to bed, being too weary to think of anything; too weary even to reflect that she was alone in that lonely Camp, and that the gate had been open when she arrived. A memory of the stranger with the black patch over his eye certainly made her lock her door, and see that the windows were well fastened; but when she had accomplished this for her own safety, she had only sufficient strength remaining to throw off her wet clothes and get into bed. And there she speedily fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, while the storm raged louder than ever. Her last thought was a hope, that Vivian had reached the Grange in safety.
When she awoke next morning it was ten, as the tiny cuckoo clock on the wall told her, and the sun was streaming in through the chinks of the window-shutters. She still felt weary, and her limbs ached a trifle, but for a moment or so she could not think how she came to be so tired. Then the memory of all that had happened rushed in on her brain, and she sprang from bed to open the door and windows. In a minute the sunlight was pouring cheerfully into the bedroom, and Beatrice was rapidly dressed, feeling hungry, yet at the same time anxious.
And much need she had to be. Her stepfather knew that she had gone out, and must have known that she had taken the key of the smaller gate, for which he would immediately look. He would certainly make himself most unpleasant, and she anticipated a bad quarter of an hour when he returned. Also, Vivian might have got into trouble with the man who had watched them meet under the Witches' Oak. Then, again, the gate of The Camp had been open when she returned, and a stranger had left the place hurriedly. All these things were very strange and disquieting, and Beatrice ardently wished that Durban was back, so that she might speak to him and be reassured. But it was probable that Vivian would come to The Camp that morning in order to learn if she had arrived safely; then they could renew the interrupted conversation, and come to an understanding.
The interview with Paslow perplexed Beatrice when she thought over it. Vivian's talk had been disjointed, and he had given her no satisfaction, answering her questions in a vague manner. That he should have proposed at so awkward a moment, and in so awkward a manner, also puzzled the girl. From what she could recall of the scrappy conversation it had been like one in a nightmare; and, indeed, the whole episode was far removed from the commonplace. The meeting-place under the ill-omened tree--the few hurried words--the rush of Vivian towards the strange man--and then her own headlong flight through the damp, dark woods--these thoughts made her very uncomfortable. It was more like romance than real life, and Beatrice did not care for such sensational events.
When dressed, she said her prayers and felt more composed; then stepped out into the broad, bright sunshine. After the storm everything looked fresh and vividly green: the world had a newly washed look, and the air seemed to be filled with vital energy, as though it were indeed the breath of life. But Beatrice soon saw evidence of the storm's fury. Huge boughs were stripped from the trees round The Camp, the flower-beds presented a draggled appearance, and the sundial had been blown down. For the rest, everything looked the same at usual. When she glanced at the dungeon, she saw that the door was closed and the blind was down, although this latter was a trifle askew. Beatrice could have gratified her curiosity by looking into the counting-house through the twisted blind; but she had seen sufficient of it on the previous day, and felt more inclined to eat than to waste her time peering into Alpenny's sanctum. With the idea of getting breakfast, she went to the kitchen, and speedily had the fire alight. Durban never locked the door of the kitchen carriage, so there was no difficulty in entering.
Beatrice found plenty of food in the cupboard, and made herself some strong coffee and an appetising dish of bacon and eggs. It was too much trouble to take the food to the dining-car, so she spread a cloth on the kitchen table, and made a very good meal. When she had finished, she washed the dishes and put them away; then went out again, feeling much better, and all signs of fatigue disappeared from her young and elastic frame. But for the evidences of the storm, she would have thought the past events of the night, those of a dream.
To pass the time, Beatrice swept out her bedroom and made the bed, then attended to the garden. Every now and then she would glance at the gate, expecting that Vivian Paslow would enter. But by twelve o'clock he had not come, and she felt very disappointed. Then she began to feel alarmed. What if he had met the man and had fought with him? What if the man had hurt him? She asked herself these questions, and half determined to go over to Convent Grange in order to get answers. But she did not wish to leave The Camp until Durban came back, since Alpenny was absent. Still the desire to hear and see Paslow was overwhelming, and she was just about to yield to her curiosity and leave The Camp to look after itself when she heard the rapid vibration of the electric bell, and knew that someone was at the gate. In a moment she was flying across the lawn, her heart beating and her colour rising.
Vivian! Vivian! sang her heart, and she threw open the gate, which was still unlocked. To her surprise, she beheld outside no less a person than Mrs. Snow!
The vicar's wife looked more amiable than usual and less grim. She was not very tall, and was dressed in dull slate-coloured garments very ugly and inexpensive, and likely to wear well. A straw hat trimmed with ribbons of the same sad hue surmounted her sharp, thin face, which was that of the miser species, hard and sour. Mrs. Snow had never been a pretty woman, and never an agreeable one, and as she faced Beatrice with what was meant to be a smile, she looked like a disappointed spinster. Yet she was the wife of the vicar, and the mother of Jerry, so she certainly should have looked more pleasant. But Mrs. Snow was a woman who took life hard, and made it hard for others also. If she could not enjoy herself, she was determined that no one else should. Whatever sins the vicar had committed--if any--the poor man was bitterly punished by having such a household fairy at his fireside.
Mrs. Snow! gasped Beatrice, who was immensely astonished, as well she might be, seeing that the vicaress had never before deigned to pay The Camp a visit.
Yes, my dear Miss Hedge, said the lady, with a suavity she was far from feeling, as the girl's fresh beauty annoyed her. "You are no doubt surprised to see me. But I have come to see Mr. Alpenny as my husband's richest parishioner. Last night's storm has damaged the spire of our church, so I have started out at once to collect subscriptions for its repair. There is nothing like taking Time by the forelock, Miss Hedge."
My father is out, said Beatrice coldly, "and will not be back for a few days. Then you can ask him, Mrs. Snow."
May I not put you down for a trifle?
I have no money, replied Beatrice, annoyed by the greed and persistence of her visitor. "Will you come in?"
She did not wish to invite the lady in, but Mrs. Snow showed so very plainly that she intended to enter, that Beatrice could do no less. In silence she led the way to the Snow Parlour, and the vicar's wife was presently seated on the linen-covered sofa, glancing with sharp eyes round the pretty place. It need hardly be said that she glanced with inward disapproval and outward praise. She wanted money for the spire, and therefore had to be polite; but that did not withhold her from inwardly finding all the fault she could.
A most charming place, said Mrs. Snow, still trying to make herself agreeable.
I am glad you think so, replied Beatrice, wondering why her unexpected visitor was so very polite; and mindful of Mrs. Snow's past behaviour, the girl could not think that the vicaress was making herself thus pleasant in order to get money for the spire. Besides, the spire had only been damaged on the previous night, and it seemed strange that the woman should begin to hunt for subscriptions for its restoration already. No! Beatrice came to the conclusion, and very rightly, that Mrs. Snow had another motive in paying attention to the girl she had so severely snubbed.
I have intended to call ever so many times, went on Mrs. Snow, not to be daunted by the frosty manner of her hostess, "but my husband, poor man, is not very well, and I have to attend to a great deal of the parish work."
There is no need to apologise, Mrs. Snow. I see very few people.
But those you see are really charming! gushed the vicaress. "I, of course, allude to Mr. and Miss Paslow."
They are friends of mine.
And of mine also, Miss Hedge. Though I will say that this engagement of my son to Miss Paslow does not please me. I really thought--here Mrs. Snow cast a searching look on the girl's face--"that my son admired you."
Oh no. He has always been devoted to Miss Paslow.
His devotion is misplaced, snapped Mrs. Snow, some of the veneer of her gracious manner wearing away. "I shall never consent to such a marriage."
You must tell that to Miss Paslow and to your son, said Beatrice coldly; "I have nothing to do with it."
Well--Mrs. Snow hesitated--"I thought that you, being a friend of Miss Paslow's, might point out how foolish her conduct is."
It is not my place to interfere, said Miss Hedge in a frosty manner, and beginning to gain an inkling as to why the vicaress had paid this unforeseen visit.
Of course not. I should never ask you to do anything disagreeable, Miss Hedge. I hope you will come and see me at the Vicarage. Now that I have found you out, I really must see more of you.
It is very kind of you, Mrs. Snow; but I never go out. My father does not wish me to.
So eccentric dear Mr. Alpenny is! murmured the vicaress. "I was in town only two weeks ago, and Lady Watson mentioned how strange he was. You know Lady Watson, of course?"
I never set eyes on her. I don't even know the name.
That is strange, and Mrs. Snow really did look puzzled; "she knew all about you."
Beatrice started. "What is there to know about me?"
Oh, nothing--really and truly nothing. Only that Mr. Alpenny married your mother and adopted you when she died. I was not here when Mrs. Alpenny died, but I believe she is buried in our churchyard.
I have seen the tombstone, said Beatrice coldly. "And how does this Lady Watson come to know about me?"
She was a school friend of your mother's--so she said.
Oh! Beatrice felt her face flush. Here was a chance of learning something that neither Durban nor Alpenny would tell her. "I should like to meet Lady Watson."
You shall, my dear Miss Hedge. She is coming in a few weeks to stop at the Vicarage.
I shall be happy to see her. Beatrice had to swallow her pride before she could say this, as Mrs. Snow had really treated her very badly. But she was anxious to learn something of her mother, and to find out if she had any relatives, as she was determined not to marry Ruck, and knew that if she did not, Alpenny was quite capable of turning her out of doors. Of course Durban would always look after her, but Beatrice wished to be independent even of Durban. At the moment she never thought of Vivian and his hasty proposal, but it came back to her memory when Mrs. Snow introduced his name.
I hear that Mr. Paslow is thinking of moving from this place, said Mrs. Snow. "Such a pity! so old a family. The Paslows have been in the Grange since the reign of Henry VIII. It was originally a convent, you know, and the Paslow of those days was presented with it, by the king--so shocking, wasn't it? He turned out the nuns and lived in the place himself. That is why it is called Convent Grange."
So Miss Paslow told me, responded Beatrice, rather weary of this small-talk, and wondering why it was being manufactured.
But Mr. Paslow is poor, pursued Mrs. Snow, "and can't keep the place up. I expect he'll go to the colonies, or some such place. So you can easily see why I don't want my son to marry his sister."
Beatrice felt very much inclined to tell her garrulous visitor that Vivian had inherited money, and would probably clear off the mortgages and live in the style of his forefathers. But she restrained her inclination, as it was none of her business, and rose to intimate that the interview was at an end. But Mrs. Snow still sat on.
Really a lovely place, Convent Grange, she chattered, "although sadly out of repair. Haunted, too, they say, although I don't believe in ghosts myself. But I hear an Indian colonel was murdered there some twenty-four years ago, and his ghost is said to haunt the room he was killed in."
I never heard that, said Beatrice, wondering why Dinah had never imparted so comparatively modern a tragedy to her.
I dare say not, said Mrs. Snow tartly; "the Paslows don't like talking about the matter. I heard about it from an old shepherd who keeps sheep on the Downs. Orchard is his name, and he was the butler of Mr. Paslow's father, who was alive when Colonel Hall was murdered."
I never heard of a shepherd being a butler.
You mean that you never heard of a butler turning a shepherd, said Mrs. Snow; "neither did I. But I understand that the poor man's nerves were so wrecked by the sight of the dead body that the doctors of those days ordered him to take the open-air cure. So he became a shepherd. A most superior man."
Who murdered Colonel Hall?
No one ever found out. His throat was cut, and he was discovered dead in his bed. I believe a casket of jewels was stolen at the time, and was never found. But even if the Paslows didn't tell you about this, I wonder your father did not, dear Miss Hedge, as he was here at the time, and a visitor at the Grange.
My stepfather never tells me anything.
How dull you must be. He really is so eccentric. Lady Watson knew him years and years ago, and says that he is quite a gentleman. He was at Rugby with her husband, Sir Reginald, who is dead. But he took up this money-lending business, which really is not respectable, besides which, it is quite forbidden by the Mosaic law. Well, I must be going. Mrs. Snow rose, still smiling. "But you really must come over to the Vicarage, and let me make your life more gay. I shall also try and induce your father--no, stepfather--to come over."
I don't think you'll be able to manage that, said Beatrice dryly, and wondering what all this alarming sweetness meant; "my stepfather never goes out."
He did over twenty years ago. Ask him about his visit to Convent Grange, and about Colonel Hall's murder. It caused a great sensation, although the criminal was never found. But who is this? Mrs. Snow stepped out into the sunshine as she spoke, and pointed her slate-coloured parasol towards Durban, who was standing near. He must have approached very softly, and must have heard every word the vicaress said for the last few minutes. His dark face looked unnaturally white, and he cast a nervous glance at the visitor. Beatrice noticed nothing, however, and ran to him at once.
Oh, Durban, I am so pleased to see you. Father has gone away. See, he left this note, and----
I'll take my leave, so as not to interrupt you, said Mrs. Snow graciously; "then you can talk to the man. What a charming place!" She looked round severely and walked from one carriage to another. "Your bedroom, a dining-room, another bedroom"; then she stopped at the dungeon and tried the door. "Oh, Bluebeard's chamber! I must not look in here."
It is the master's counting-house, lady, said Durban, who was close at her heels and seemed anxious for her to go.
How delightful! A counting-house in a dark wood--just like 'Alice in Wonderland.' May I look in at the window? Mr. Alpenny is from home, so he can't object, and before any one could stop her she was peeping through the window, where the blind was askew. Then she gave a cry of alarm. "Miss Hedge, your father is within. He is lying on the floor." She stood on tiptoe. "Oh! he is dead. I see blood!"
Impossible! cried Beatrice, rushing forward and pushing the meddling woman aside.--"Yes Durban!--Oh, great Heavens!"
The servant came running up and also glanced in. Then, with an exclamation of horror, he ran into the kitchen and came out with a bunch of skeleton keys. Both the women, pale and terrified, stood beside him while he fitted these into the lock. None would open the door, and he flung them away with a smothered oath. For a moment he paused, then ran into the wood. Mrs. Snow turned to Beatrice.
Your father has been murdered. I shall tell the police.
Yes, do! said Beatrice, clasping her hands. "I never knew. When I came home last night, he left a note saying that he would go away for a few days, and----"
Here is the man with a log, interrupted Mrs. Snow.
Indeed, it was Durban who came, dragging after him a large beam. With a strength of which Beatrice had never thought so stout a man was capable, he caught this in the middle, and, retiring for a few paces, made a run at the door. It burst open with the shock, and, dropping the beam, Durban went inside. Mrs. Snow drew Beatrice back.
It is not for you to see, she said sharply.
How dare you stop me! said the girl, angry at the liberty, and pushing Mrs. Snow away, she ran forward.
Durban tried to keep her out, but she managed to gain a glimpse of a stiff figure lying on the floor under the mahogany desk.
Oh, good Heavens! shrieked the girl; "his throat has been cut!"
So was Colonel Hall's! muttered Mrs. Snow, and stole a glance at Durban, which made the man turn even greyer than he already was.
After eighty years, halting Nemesis had at last caught up with Jarvis Alpenny. He had buried himself in seclusion; he had surrounded himself with bolts and bars and other precautions; but the order that his sordid career should end had come from the Powers that deal with evil-doers, and he was as dead as a door-nail. And very unpleasantly he had died too, for his wrinkled throat had been cut from ear to ear. Who had done it no one seemed to know.
Beatrice might have supplied a clue; but for reasons connected with the Paslow family she held her tongue, and feigned ignorance when the rural police came on the scene, which they did very speedily, owing to the zeal of Mrs. Snow. The sergeant of the district questioned and cross-questioned Miss Hedge, with very little success. She told him that, on the previous evening, she had gone for a walk in the woods round The Camp, but did not mention with what object. There, as she stated very truly, she had been caught in the storm, and at some unknown time had stumbled home wet and weary, and so tired that she had at once slipped into bed. The note from her stepfather was produced, and confiscated by the sergeant; the details of Mrs. Snow's curiosity leading to a discovery of a crime, were given; and then Beatrice professed that she could tell no more. The bucolic constable believed her readily enough, and informed his Inspector who came that Miss Hedge had told the truth and nothing but the truth. This might have been so, but she certainly had not told the whole truth, else might the sergeant have added to the note left by the dead man, a certain gentleman's handkerchief, marked with three initials--"V.R.P."
This piece of evidence Beatrice had picked up so near the body, that a corner of the handkerchief was soaked in the life-blood of the miser. Her quick eye had seen it almost the moment she had entered the dungeon at Durban's heels, and when falling on her knees by the dead she had mechanically picked it up, without lynx-eyed Mrs. Snow seeing the action. Durban would only allow the women to remain for two minutes in that place of death. Then he drove them out, and insisted that Beatrice should retire to her parlour. She did so while he reclosed the door of the counting-house, and while Mrs. Snow, almost too excited to speak, ran for the nearest constable, who in his turn summoned his sergeant.
Alone in the parlour, Beatrice, still mechanically grasping the handkerchief, suddenly remembered how she had found it, and at once examined the corners. It was with a gasp of terror that she realised to whom it belonged. "V.R.P." could only stand for Vivian Robert Paslow, and he--as she knew only too well--was the enemy of the deceased. Could it be that Vivian had killed the miser to settle the question of marriage, and secure his threatened property from getting into the cruel clutches of his victim? In that first moment of horror Beatrice was inclined to think so. Then, with a revulsion of feeling, she recoiled with horror from so base an idea. The man she loved was not a midnight assassin: however much he may have hated Alpenny, he certainly would not have put the old man to death in so barbarous a fashion. Finally, he had been with her under the Witches' Oak last night, and could not possibly be guilty.
Then, again, on further thought it occurred to her that such an alibi could scarcely serve in this case. The meeting at the haunted tree had taken place about seven o'clock, and had lasted, so far as she could reckon from confused recollection, for a quarter of an hour. Then had come the episode of the pursuit of the watcher by Paslow, her own flight through the woods, the breaking of the storm, and her fainting-fit. She might have been hours unconscious; she might have been hours getting home, for she had very little recollection of that mad passage through the furious wind and rain. Only she remembered reaching The Camp between the gates, and blindly falling into the arms of a lean, tall man with a black patch over his left eye. Had that man been Vivian? Was it truly her lover who, in the intervening time, had stolen to the deserted Camp, and using the key of the small gate (which she knew he possessed) had gained access to the dungeon, there to commit his crime? No! It was impossible. If she could only remember the time when she came back! This was hard to do, and yet it was done, for chance came to her aid.
Besides the cuckoo-clock which had awakened her, Beatrice possessed an old silver watch, given to her on some far-distant birthday by Durban. It stood on a small stand beside the bed, and she remembered that in slipping between the sheets, weary and half asleep, she had knocked this down between the table it stood on and the wall. Some instinct must have directed her to look for it at the moment. She thrust the incriminating handkerchief into her pocket, and ran to the bedroom carriage. There she found the watch--found also that it had stopped at the hour of nine o'clock. It was just possible that the stoppage had occurred when she had knocked it over. She certainly had wound it up as usual on the previous night, and twice before, when knocked off its stand, it had stopped dead.
Yes, thought the girl, inspecting the yellow dial, "it must have been stopped by the fall, unless"--she shook it vigorously--"unless it has run down"; but a steady ticking told her that the main-spring was not yet fully unwound, and she replaced the watch on its stand, with a firm conviction that she had entered the bedroom at nine on the previous evening. Vivian had left her to follow the spy at a quarter past seven, so he could easily have committed the crime, so far as time and opportunity went, as one hour and three-quarters had been taken up by her in getting home. An alibi, therefore, was little good in this case, and on the evidence of the handkerchief he would assuredly be hanged.
No! no! no! murmured Beatrice with rising inflection, and speaking aloud in her agitation; "it is untrue. Vivian would never commit so cowardly a deed as to kill an old man of eighty, however much he may have hated him. I shall hide the handkerchief--but where? The police are sure to search the place, and--and----" A sudden thought struck her. "I'll keep it in my pocket," she decided, and thrust it, neatly folded up, to the very bottom of that receptacle. Later, she intended to cautiously question Paslow, and learn if he had been to The Camp on that night. But the conversation would be between their two selves. She would tell no one else of the handkerchief she had picked up, not even Durban, faithful servant though he was.
It was at this moment, and as though in response to her mental mention of his name, that Durban appeared. He looked much shaken by the tragedy, and was green with scarcely concealed fright. Beatrice eyed him with astonishment, as she had never deemed him to be much attached to the old tyrant who had gone so violently to his long rest. Durban evaded her searching glance, which was perhaps fortunate, as the girl herself did not wish her own countenance to be too closely scrutinised.
I've shut it up in the counting-house, said Durban, his eyes on the ground, and jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "The police will be here soon. Mrs. Snow will tell them; she'll be glad of the chance."
Why? Did she know my--the late Mr. Alpenny?
That's right, missy. Durban raised his eyes with approval, and dropped them again. "Never call him your father."
He was my stepfather, Beatrice reminded him.
Ah--hum--yes, gurgled Durban. "Yes, missy, Mrs. Snow knew master before you were born--at Convent Grange."
I heard her say that Colonel Hall's throat had also been cut.
Durban shuddered, and leaned against the door. "Yes," he whispered faintly, "that was so, missy."
Mr. Alpenny's throat has been cut in the same way.
Durban half smiled, but his expression was wry and twisted. "There is only one way to cut a throat, missy."
Ugh! Beatrice turned pale, and threw up her hand. "Don't!"
It is a nasty subject, missy. I--I'm sorry for the master. And yet, he added, half to himself; "if ever a man deserved what he got, master was that man."
What do you mean? asked Beatrice, taking a step towards him.
Master had many enemies, went on Durban, again casting his eyes on the ground; "a money-lender always has."
Then you know----
I know nothing, snapped the man angrily, and wiping his swarthy face with a duster. "Master sent me to London last night, as you knew, missy. I only came down by the morning train, and walked here, in time to find you with Mrs. Snow. What did she want?"
Beatrice smiled faintly in her turn. "Subscriptions for the church spire, which was blown down last night."
Oh! That was the excuse?
Excuse for what, Durban?
To see you, missy, and learn---- But there! Durban turned away. "She came here to make mischief between you and master. Thank Heaven he is dead, and you will get the money. Mrs. Snow can't harm you now."
Why should she wish to harm me, Durban?
That's a long story, missy. Now that the master is dead, I can tell it to you. But first we must learn who killed----
I know, interrupted Beatrice quickly; "a tall man, with a black patch over his left eye."
Durban turned greener than ever. "How do you know that, missy?" he asked in a strangled voice.
I saw him when the gates were open, about nine o'clock last night.
Durban looked at her sharply. "Then you did go for that walk, missy?"
Yes, I had to. Mr. Paslow wished to see me. Durban--she made a step forward, and clutched his arm tightly--"I'll tell you what I don't intend to tell any one else," and without giving the man time to make an observation, she related the whole story of her adventure, suppressing only the episode of the handkerchief. This she did, so as to avert any possible suspicion from Vivian, since Durban, knowing that Paslow had been with her, would not connect him with the crime--that is, if he was stupid enough not to calculate the time, and thus prove the futility of the alibi.
Durban listened quietly enough. "I am glad that Mr. Paslow will marry you, missy," he said at last, and removed her grasp from his arm. "You will inherit a lot of money from the dead master. It ought to be twenty thousand a year!"
But, Durban, Mr. Alpenny told me very plainly that if he died, I would be a pauper.
I don't believe it, burst out the half-caste; "he would not dare to--to----" Here he halted and stammered, "C--c--curse him!"
Durban! She stepped back a pace in sheer amazement at the savagery of the tone.
Dead, or alive, curse him! cried Durban, his voice gathering strength from the intensity of his hate. "He was a scoundrel--you don't know how great a scoundrel. Missy"--he grasped her arm in his turn--"you shall have the money, I swear it. Then marry Mr. Paslow, and go away for a few years, till all blows over."
Till what blows over? asked Beatrice anxiously.
Hush! Durban let go her arm, and controlled himself by a violent effort. "The police! Say as little as you can. You know nothing--I know nothing."
Durban, are you afraid?
Of Mrs. Snow. Hush!
The last words were scarcely out of his mouth when the two policemen, who had entered the gates left open by Mrs. Snow, came up to them with important airs. The sergeant was stout and short, the constable lean and tall.
We take possession of this place, miss, said the stout man breathlessly.
In the name of the King and the law, finished the lean person.
And anything you say will be used in evidence against you, they both murmured in a breath, then stared sternly at the startled girl and the green-hued half-caste.
Do what you like, said Beatrice, drawing herself up; "neither myself nor Durban know anything."
But---- began the sergeant, snorting with excitement.
I will answer all questions at the proper time, and at the proper place, said Miss Hedge, cutting the plethoric man short. Then she retired into her bedroom and shut the door.
The constables grumbled at her sharpness of speech, but went to work. They examined the body, searched every inch of The Camp, made plans, took notes, asked innumerable questions of Durban, and finally insisted that Beatrice should submit to an examination. This she did composedly enough, but said as little as she well could. It was her intention to reserve an account of what she had seen for the inquest. She did not even tell the Inspector, when he arrived to take charge of the case.
There was immense excitement in Hurstable. The quiet little Sussex village had never before been defiled by a crime of this brutal kind. Sparsely populated as the district was, a great number of agricultural labourers gathered in a remarkably short space of time. Their wives and children came also, and the police had much difficulty in keeping them out of the precincts of The Camp. Then by next day the news had reached Brighton, and crowds of tourists--it being the holiday season--poured into the Weald on foot, on bicycles, in motor cars and carriages, and by train. With them came the reporters from various newspapers, London and local, and the whole place buzzed like a hive at swarming-time.
Beatrice remained in The Camp under charge of Durban. Dinah Paslow came to offer her the hospitality of Convent Grange; but, much to the surprise of Beatrice, the man who had proposed to her on that fatal night never made his appearance. Without any embarrassment, Dinah told her friend that Vivian had gone to town as soon as he heard that Alpenny was dead.
Beatrice was both surprised and alarmed when she heard of Vivian's abrupt departure without seeing her. It argued that he was guilty, and feared to face her. Yet, try as she might, it was impossible for her to believe him to be a murderer.
Why didn't he come to see me? she asked Dinah.
He wanted to, replied the freckled girl. "But then he said that he had important business to attend to, connected with you, and went up to town the day before yesterday. I have not heard from him since, and don't know when he is coming back."
Business connected with me! repeated Miss Hedge, much perplexed. "I don't understand."
Neither do I, dear. But don't worry. Vivian loves you, and whatever he does will be for your benefit. I do wish you'd come to the Grange, Beatrice, and let Mrs. Lilly look after you--she knows about herbs and things, and you look so pale. And no wonder, seeing what a shock you have had. I wouldn't stop in this place for anything, seeing ghosts and spooks--ugh! and Dinah ended her somewhat incoherent speech with a shudder.
I cannot come until the inquest is over, said Beatrice, rapidly surveying the situation.
And then?
Then, perhaps. It depends upon Mr. Paslow.
Vivian, you mean, said Dinah quickly.
I have no right to call him Vivian, replied Beatrice proudly.
Yes, you have. Vivian told me that he had asked you to be his wife, and that you had accepted.
Dinah--Beatrice looked directly at the girl "did he tell you where he proposed?"
Yes; under the----
Hush! Miss Hedge sank her voice to a whisper as she saw a blue-coated constable moving heavily round the garden, and gradually drawing nearer. "Not a word. Hold your tongue about that meeting."
But why? asked the amazed Dinah.
I'll tell you later, said Beatrice hurriedly; "that is, when I have seen Vivian. Have you his address?"
No. He went away, and said he would be back soon. Oh dear! cried Dinah fretfully; "there is such a lot of mystery about Vivian, and has been for ages and ages. Sometimes he's jolly, and then he's as dismal as a sick cow. I thought it was love, for Jerry often is the same--silly boy. But I don't believe it is love," concluded Dinah decidedly. "Vivian has something on his mind."
What do you mean?
Something horrid. I don't know what it is, but I fear the worst.
Don't be a fool, Dinah, said Beatrice impatiently, for she winced at hearing her own doubts put into speech. "It's money troubles that annoy him, and probably, now that Mr. Alpenny is dead, he has gone to see the executors, to know how his mortgage will stand."
As if he couldn't ask you, cried Dinah, rising and throwing her riding-skirt over her arm. "You'll get the money, of course. It ought to be a lot, Beatrice, for Jerry, who has had dealings with money-lenders, says they make heaps and heaps."
I know nothing until the will is read. Go away, dear, and come back after poor Mr. Alpenny is buried.
Poor Mr. Alpenny! mocked Dinah. "Well, you are forgiving, Beatrice. He was a nasty old man, and never did any good in his life. He is more useful to me and Jerry dead than alive."
Dinah!
Oh, I know it's horrid of me, said Miss Paslow penitently, "but we must live--I mean Jerry and I must think about our marriage. His father won't allow him any money, and Mrs. Snow is a cat. Our only chance of getting married, and living in a tweeny-weeny house, with a general servant, is for Jerry to get a rise. Now, if Jerry writes something picturesque about this murder, he'll get the rise and----"
Oh, go away, cried Beatrice, for this disconnected talk grated on her over-strung nerves, "and don't tell even Jerry that I met Vivian--I mean Mr. Paslow--under the Witches' Oak."
I won't say anything, promised Dinah firmly; "and I suppose it was improper for you to meet Vivian so late without a chaperone. But you will marry Vivian, darling, won't you?" she went on coaxingly. "He is so poor, and loves you; and then Mr. Alpenny's money--I mean your money--can set up the family again, and----"
The patience of Beatrice was at an end. She took Dinah firmly by the arm and led her out of the gates past the sleepy policeman, who blinked in the sunshine like an over-fed cat. "Go and assist Jerry to write paragraphs," she said sharply; "you are a tiresome girl."
It's your nerves, said Dinah, not at all annoyed by this abrupt dismissal. "I feel that way myself, when Jerry is irritating. He is such a---- Well, I'm going. There's Tommy Tibbs holding Fly-by-Night. Hi, Tommy, bring her here. Good-bye, darling: keep your spirits up. I'll come and see you later. You must come to the Grange, and----"
Beatrice closed the babbling lips with a kiss, and went inside, while Dinah argued with Tommy about the price of holding her horse for one long hour. The policeman opened his eyes and looked at the tall, slim young lady with approval as she went past him. He thought she was a trifle too pale, and she had black circles under her eyes; but otherwise he approved, and smiled graciously. Beatrice took no notice of him, but went to her parlour, to think over the strange conduct of Vivian Paslow.
Dinah was right He certainly had something on his mind, and did not seem to be a free agent. Something hampered him in every way. He had long desired to propose to her, and yet had only done so when some cause, which he declined to explain, had been removed. Again, he had gone up to town on hearing of Alpenny's murder, and without ascertaining whether she had reached home, or not, on that fearful night. He had not even left a message; and then in her pocket was his handkerchief, dyed with the life-blood of the miser. These things were strange and disquieting, and Beatrice resolved that before reaffirming her decision to marry him, he would have to explain what underhand causes were at work to make him behave so mysteriously.
No time was lost in holding the inquest on the body of Jarvis Alpenny. The weather was hot, and it was just as well to place the remains underground as speedily as possible. A doctor was summoned from Hurstable to examine the body, and pronounce if possible the hour when the murder had taken place. Then the corpse was conveyed to the solitary inn of Hurstable, a few miles away, and there the jury looked it over. Afterwards the Coroner summoned them into the inn parlour, and Inspector Grove related all that had been discovered by the police.
It was not much, and threw no light on the authorship of the crime. The deceased--so ran the official narrative--was a money-lender of great repute, and that none of the best. He possessed a small office in London--52 Trunk Street, Cheapside--but seldom went there, as he preferred the quiet of the country--probably on account of his age, which was considerable. Nevertheless, from habit apparently, Mr. Jarvis continued to do business up to the very hour of his death. He died in harness, as might be said; for on the table, whereunder he lay, were letters from people--who need not be mentioned--asking for loans of money. These he was apparently considering, when he was struck down.
I understood, and I have seen, said the Coroner emphatically, "that the deceased's throat was cut."
Inspector Jones assented, but pointed out that the old man was first felled by a blow from behind, as was apparent from a wound at the back of the head. The assassin had evidently entered stealthily, and had taken his victim by surprise. The murder was very deliberate, as the criminal had first stunned the old man, and then had cut his throat in a most brutal and thorough fashion. Therefore, as the Inspector suggested, the motive of the crime was more than mere robbery. A robber, having stunned his victim, could have taken what he desired, and escaped before Mr. Jarvis regained consciousness. But the death had taken place from the throat-cutting, and not from the blow on the head.
Has anything been taken from the room? asked a juryman.
You mean the railway carriage, corrected the Inspector, who was pedantic in speech, and particular as to facts. "Yes; the safe was opened with the keys of the deceased--probably taken by the assassin from the dead body--and all, the papers have been taken away."
What do you mean, exactly? asked the Coroner.
Inspector Jones held up his right hand. "I mean," he declared emphatically, "that the safe was as bare as the palm of my hand. All papers were removed, the drawers were emptied, and nothing was left--absolutely nothing."
The assassin must have carried quite a load?
As the safe is a large one, and probably was fairly filled, it is extremely likely, replied the Inspector. Then he went on to state that the fact of the death was discovered the next morning by Mrs. Snow, the vicar's wife, who was paying a visit to Miss Hedge. The police were called in, and everything had been done to discover the whereabouts of the assassin, but in vain. Villagers, labourers, railway officials, chance folk travelling in carts and motor-cars and on bicycles had been questioned, but no suspicious character had been observed. The assassin had stolen in upon the old man out of the night; and when his detestable task had been executed, he had again vanished into the night with his plunder, leaving not a footprint behind by which he could be traced.
Yet the night was rainy, said the Coroner sapiently.
And the grassy sward, retorted Jones, "runs right up to the railway carriage wherein the crime was executed. I have inquired at the Trunk Street office, and cannot learn from the confidential clerk there that Mr. Alpenny was threatened in any way, or feared for his life or property. The affair is a mystery."
And is likely to remain so, with such an ass as you at the head of affairs, murmured the Coroner, as the Inspector, severely official, stepped down to give place to a rosy little man.--"Well, doctor," he asked aloud, "what do you know about this sad business?"
Dr. Herman knew very little, save from a medical standing-point He lived in Hurstable, some miles distant from the scene of the crime, and drove round all the surrounding district to see his patients. A constable stopped him on the day after the crime had been committed, and he had been asked to examine the corpse. He found that it was that of an old man. The body was badly nourished, but healthy enough for a man who certainly was over eighty. The blow on the head would not have killed a man with such vitality, old as he was. Death had ensued from the cutting of the throat. "Which was neatly done," said the doctor, with professional approval. "I should think a very sharp instrument was used, and a very dexterous hand had used it. No bungling about that affair," concluded Dr. Herman.
Humph! said the Coroner doubtfully; "and what does that mean? Do you insinuate that a doctor cut the throat and used a surgical instrument to do so?"
I insinuate nothing of the sort, said Herman hotly, for he did not like the sneer of the Coroner; "it might have been a butcher, who is quite as dexterous with a knife as a medical man, although not quite in the same way."
Pooh! pooh! We're all animals, doctor, laughed the Coroner, "and you are all butchers, whether you are called so or not. Come, now, at what time did Mr. Jarvis Alpenny meet his death?"
I cannot be sure of that--I cannot commit myself to an exact opinion, said the little doctor doubtfully. "I should say the crime was committed between eight and nine of the previous night But, as I say, I cannot be quite certain."
Between eight and nine of the previous night, wrote the Coroner, and called the next witness.
This was Mrs. Snow, who gave her evidence with much volubility. She had called on Miss Hedge to ask for money in order to get the spire of Hurstable Church mended. Miss Hedge had stated that her stepfather was from home, but she--witness--had glanced into the railway carriage which was called the counting-house of Mr. Alpenny. There she had seen the deceased--dead, lying in a pool of blood. At once she gave the alarm, and Durban, the servant, burst open the door with a beam.
The door of the carriage was locked, then?
Oh yes, assented Mrs. Snow. "I tried it myself. I expect the assassin killed poor Mr. Alpenny, and after robbing the safe, went out with his plunder, and locked the door after him. He had the keys."
One moment, said Durban, rising in the body of the room. "My master carried the keys--all the keys, including that of the counting-house, on a single ring. The keys were in the safe, and----"
We'll hear you later, said the Coroner sharply.--"Go on, Mrs. Snow."
I have nothing further to say, said the vicar's wife, trying to convey a sympathetic look in her eyes, "save that I am sorry for Miss Hedge. And I may add," she continued, after a moment of hesitation, "that Colonel Hall was murdered at Convent Grange twenty-five years ago, in the same way."
I remember the case, said the Coroner, who was an old resident of the neighbourhood. "And what do you infer?"
That the assassin of Colonel Hall and the assassin of Mr. Alpenny are one and the same, said Mrs. Snow promptly.
Why should you connect the two? asked the Coroner coldly, and very much puzzled.
Colonel Hall and Mr. Alpenny had much to do with one another, said Mrs. Snow, "and did some business together. That their two throats should be cut, is a coincidence."
Only that and nothing more, Mrs. Snow. I cannot see what the old crime has to do with the new one.
I am sure there is some connection, snapped the sour woman, and then stepped down from the witness-box with a triumphant glance in the direction of Beatrice. Why that glance, and one of such a nature, was sent, Beatrice could not guess. But then the conduct of Mrs. Snow was perplexing her more and more.
Durban's evidence was to the effect that he had been absent when the crime took place. Mr. Alpenny had sent him to town with a letter, and he had returned the next morning to find the old man dead. Mrs. Snow had first informed him of the fact. He had burst open the door with a beam, as it was locked, and then had discovered that Mr. Alpenny's throat was slit from ear to ear. "And I saw," added the witness quickly, "that the keys of the deceased, including the key of the counting-house, were on the ring which dangled from the key used to open the safe."
Then you do not think that the assassin could have locked the door after him?
Certainly not, seeing that the key was left behind.
Was there not another key?
No. My master had the only key of the counting-house; it was one of a most peculiar make, and there was no duplicate. Mr. Alpenny was always careful to lock up his papers, and to keep the door of the counting-house locked.
Then there must be another way of getting into the counting-house.
Inspector Jones rose to assure the Coroner that the place had been thoroughly examined. "There is no way of entering the railway carriage which is called the counting-house, save by the door."
But if the door was locked, and the key inside, the assassin must have got out by another way. What about the window?
It's so small and so barred that a child could not get through it.
The Coroner scratched his head, and looked at Durban. "You were the confidential servant of the deceased," he said helplessly; "perhaps you can explain?"
I can explain nothing, said Durban promptly, and quite at his ease; "certainly I was Mr. Alpenny's servant, but he made no confidant of me. I took letters to the London office, but what was in them I never knew. I was cook and general servant--that is all."
You were often in the counting-house?
I was never in the counting-house in my life, sir. Mr. Alpenny would not allow either Miss Hedge or myself to enter.
Humph! said the Coroner again; "the whole mystery seems to centre round the counting-house. Had Mr. Alpenny enemies?"
The usual sort a money-lender is bound to have, said Durban, with a shrug. "People sometimes came and called him names; and he told me that many borrowers objected to the high interest he charged."
Did the deceased ever give you to understand that his life was in danger?
Never. He appeared quite happy in his own way.
Was he expecting any one on the night he was murdered?
I cannot say. He sent me to town with the letter, and I was to come back next morning--which, added the witness pointedly, "I did."
Mr. Alpenny did not expect to be killed?
No. He would have taken some precautions had he thought that, as he feared death.
After this several jurymen asked questions, and the Coroner cross-examined the half-caste. But he could tell nothing likely to lead to a discovery of the assassin. He simply declared that he was not in his late master's confidence, and knew nothing: that he had gone to town on the night of the murder, and had only learned of it through Mrs. Snow. The Coroner and, incidentally, Inspector Jones were annoyed; they had quite counted on a solution of the mystery when Durban was examined. But he could tell nothing, and they saw no reason to doubt his evidence.
Beatrice was called as the final witness, and told very much the same story as she had related to the sergeant. Only on this occasion she stated the time when she had returned. The Coroner asked her how she knew that she had entered at nine, whereupon she detailed the episode of the fallen watch. "I am sure that when I knocked it down, it stopped at nine," she said; "at that hour I returned."
Why did you not go in and see Mr. Alpenny?
In the first place, I was worn out, said the witness; "in the second, there was no light in the window of the counting-house; and in the third, I found the note left by Mr. Alpenny, which I handed to the sergeant. And in the fourth place," added Beatrice, before the Coroner could make an observation, which he seemed inclined to do, "I saw the assassin!"
Everyone was startled, and a confused murmur filled the room. "You saw the assassin?" said the Coroner, aghast.
When I entered the gates of The Camp at nine o'clock. He is a tall man, with a black patch over the left eye.
A black patch! cried Mrs. Snow, rising, much excited. "Colonel Hall was also murdered by a man with a black patch. I swear it."
The words rang piercingly through a dead silence. Beatrice, startled by persistent introduction of a bygone crime, stared at the lean-faced woman who made the outcry. The Coroner blinked furiously, and nursed his chin in his hand, considering what to say and what to do. Finally, he made up his mind to rebuke Mrs. Snow. "You have given your evidence," said he, frowning a trifle, "and now you must be silent."
You should note what I have told you, said Mrs. Snow calmly, but her bosom heaved impatiently; "the one crime may help the other."
As how? asked the Coroner politely.
Because you may strike down two birds with one stone.
I should rather put it, if what you say is true, Mrs. Snow, that we may strike down one bird with two stones. I understand that you say the man who murdered Colonel Hall--I remember him well--also murdered Mr. Alpenny?
"You heard what Miss Hedge said about the black patch, Dr. Arne: and you know that Colonel Hall's throat was also cut. There was some stealing also,"" said Dr. Arne musingly, ""which makes the parallel more complete.""
"There was a diamond necklace stolen, said Mrs. Snow quietly; "at least I remember that. I was not married then, and Mrs. Hall was my dear friend."
I never saw her, said the Coroner coldly, and a trifle rudely. "All this is not to the point--Miss Hedge, will you go on?"
What would you have me tell you? asked the witness, who had been listening eagerly to Mrs. Snow's account of the earlier crime.
How could you see this man, seeing that the night was dark and very stormy?
I saw his face in a flash of lightning, explained Beatrice, and then related the momentary meeting. But she suppressed the fact that on the same night she had met Vivian under the Witches' Oak. It was not pertinent to the case, she thought. Moreover, with the knowledge of whose handkerchief was in her pocket, she thought it best to keep Paslow's name out of the matter.
The gates were open? asked the Coroner, when she ended.
Wide open.
Mr. Alpenny had the key, I believe?
Yes; but that key was not on the ring to which the others were attached. It hung on the wall.
Along with the key of the smaller gate, put in Durban.
Then Inspector Jones spoke. "The key of the large gate," said he, "I found in the lock the next morning, where it had been left."
The man with the black patch closed the large gate after him, as he ran out, said Beatrice.
Ah! then, probably he opened the gate from the inside, and when he met you he was too startled to take it out of the lock.--And the smaller key--that belonging to the little gate, Mr. Inspector?
It is hanging on the wall of the counting-house now.
Beatrice started, and grasped the chair near which she stood to keep herself from falling. Vivian had picked up the key when she dropped it under the Witches' Oak. He must have replaced it in the counting-house himself, when he was inside. He had also left the handkerchief which she had in her pocket. Surely he was guilty, and yet--and yet--oh! it was too terrible. A word from the Coroner recalled her.
You look pale, Miss Hedge? he remarked suspiciously.
And no wonder, said the girl faintly; "the whole affair is so very terrible."
Well, well! said Arne, relenting, and believing this excuse, which was feasible enough. "I shan't keep you much longer. Why did you not see Mr. Alpenny on that night?"
I have told you: the note----
Ah! yes. I was about to remark on that when you spoke last--Mr. Inspector, why has not this note been put in evidence?
Inspector Jones, with profuse apologies, laid the note on the table.
I quite forgot, he said, looking ashamed, "but here it is. As you will see, Mr. Alpenny says that he is going away for three days."
Where did you find the note, Miss Hedge?
Beside my bed on that night. I naturally thought that, as the light was out in the counting-house, and the note explained, that Mr. Alpenny had gone away as he intended.
Quite right--very natural--hum--hum. When you found the body--he spoke to Durban--"what clothes was it dressed in?"
Mr. Alpenny always wore one suit, and Durban explained the old-fashioned dress; "but when I found the body, it was clothed in a loose cloak which he used to wear in rough weather."
And a hat?
The hat was on the desk, sir.
Humph! said Dr. Arne thoughtfully; "then it would seem that he was struck down, just as he was going up to town. Could Mr. Alpenny have caught a train so late?"
Yes, sir, if he left The Camp at nine o'clock. There was a train at half-past ten to Brighton; and he could have caught a late one on the main line, or he could have stopped at Brighton all night. He sometimes did.
It is nearly three miles to our local station, said Dr. Arne. "Could an old man like Mr. Alpenny walk that distance?"
He often did, declared Durban emphatically; "he had a wonderful constitution, had the master."
Marvellous vitality, cried Dr. Herman from his seat, and was rebuked by his enemy the Coroner.
Arne asked a few more questions, and then addressed the jury. He pointed out that, on the evidence before them, they could not arrive at any conclusion as to who was the actual murderer.
The man who murdered Colonel Hall, cried Mrs. Snow.
Quite so, said the Coroner smoothly; "but that man escaped, and was never discovered. If it is the same man--and certainly, Mrs. Snow, it seems as though your surmise is right--he may escape again. Mr. Alpenny apparently was about to start on his journey, after leaving the note for Miss Hedge, and probably was turning over some necessary papers, when he was struck down. Regarding the locked door, I can offer no explanation: nor have the police been able to find this masked man, who assuredly must be the assassin. The case is full of mystery, and I do not see what can be done, save that the jury should return an open verdict."
He made a few more observations, but what he said was not very much to the point. The jury--what else could be done?--returned a verdict of murder against a person or persons unknown, with an observation to the effect that the police should hunt down the man with the black patch. This last remark was rather irregular; but, to say the truth, everyone was so puzzled over the aspect of the case that no one had any very clear idea of what to say or do. However, the verdict--such as it was--resolved itself into the terms above stated, and the jury betook themselves severally to their homes, there to puzzle over the matter. Beatrice went back to The Camp with Durban, and both felt glad that the corpse was still left in an outhouse of the hotel. Neither wished that gruesome relic of mortality to remain in The Camp.
That is all right, missy, said Durban, when the two were walking along the lane towards The Camp; "master will be buried to-morrow, and we won't think of him any more."
I'll never get the sight of that body out of my head, said Beatrice, with a shudder. "Durban, who could have killed him?"
I cannot say, missy, said the half-caste stolidly; "you heard what evidence I gave."
Yes. But did you speak truly?
I spoke what I spoke, said Durban sullenly; "the least said, the soonest mended."
Beatrice felt a qualm of terror at the memory of the replaced key and the handkerchief in her pocket. "Then you have some idea who killed Mr. Alpenny?"
No, I have not, missy--that is, I cannot lay my finger on the man.
Then it was a man?
It might have been two men or three, missy. Master had dealings with very strange and dangerous people: I don't wonder he was killed. And, cried the half-caste, stopping to emphasise his words, "if I knew who killed him, I would shake that man's hand."
Durban! Why, in Heaven's name?
Because--because--missy, he broke off abruptly, "let the past alone, my dear young lady. Mr. Alpenny was a bad man, and came to a deserved end. I did not kill him, you did not kill him, so we had better think no more of him. When he is buried, you will have the money, and then you can marry Mr. Paslow and be happy."
I shall never marry Mr. Paslow--never, never, cried Beatrice bitterly, and lifted a wan face to the mocking blue sky.
But he loves you.
And I love him. All the same--Durban, she broke off in her turn, "I want to hear all you know about Mr. Paslow.
I know nothing, missy, said Durban, looking profoundly surprised; "he is poor but good-hearted, and I like him."
You don't think that he--he would commit a crime? asked Miss Hedge faintly, and clinging to the servant.
No! cried Durban, with great assurance. "What makes you think that?"
Mr. Alpenny said----
Durban did not give her time to finish. "Master would accuse any one of anything, to gain his ends," he said quietly. "He did not wish you to marry Mr. Paslow, because it was to his interest that you should marry Major Ruck."
So he said. Do you know this Major?
Yes, said Durban, with some hesitation, "and a wicked man he is. If he comes to marry you, missy, tell Mr. Paslow, and he'll settle him."
I don't expect that I shall see Major Ruck.
I don't know, muttered the servant doubtfully; "the Major won't let you slip through his fingers if he can help it."
Durban, you seem to know much that you will not tell me?
I do know a lot; but it is useless to tell you, missy.
Not even about Colonel Hall's death, Durban?
The half-caste turned green, and winced. "Not even about that, missy," he said coldly. "Get the money, marry Mr. Paslow, and go away from this place."
Do you think Mrs. Snow is right? persisted Beatrice, wondering at his nervous looks. "Did the man who killed Colonel Hall, kill Mr.----"
I don't know--I can't say, interrupted Durban, gloomily; "it might have been another one of them."
Are there then two men who wear black patches over the----
Durban clenched his long, nervous hand. "You'll drive me mad with these questions," he said fiercely, and with less of his usual respect. "I tell you, missy, I know much, and yet I know nothing which it would do any good for you to hear. I have watched over you in the past, and I shall watch over you in the future. You have been surrounded by devils. Master was the worst; but now that he is dead, all danger is at an end. You have the money, and you can go away."
You speak in riddles.
Let them remain riddles if you have any love for me, said Durban moodily; and Beatrice, although anxious to hear more, held her peace.
After all, she had her own cross to bear. In some way Vivian was mixed up with this horrible crime. He could not possibly be guilty of it, in spite of the evidence. Moreover, Mrs. Snow said that the assassin was the same as he who had killed Colonel Hall, which would put Vivian's innocence beyond a doubt. In spite of her desire to obey Durban to whom she owed so much, Beatrice had to insist on an answer to this question. "I won't ask you anything more," she said to the sullen man--and he was sullen--"only this: Is the assassin of Colonel Hall the assassin of Mr. Alpenny?"
I think so, muttered the man, "but I cannot be sure."
You must be sure, for my peace of mind, Durban.
Your peace of mind, missy? he asked, surprised.
Yes. I must tell you, as I know you will hold your tongue. But I think--I believe--no, I don't: but I fancy, that is. Durban--she caught the man's shoulders and shook him in the roadway--"did Vivian Paslow murder Mr. Alpenny?"
Missy! Durban looked startled, but his eyes sparkled. "No! no! One thousand times no! What makes you think that?"
The handkerchief--the key, and Beatrice, producing the handkerchief, told Durban the whole of what had happened. "And I am thankful that Mrs. Snow did not see me pick it up," she finished.
Wait till we get to The Camp, missy, said the old servant kindly, and led her along the short distance that intervened between where they had stopped and The Camp itself. Once there, Durban took her to the parlour-carriage and went away. He returned with some orange-blossom water, which is a good nerve tonic, and made her take it. When the girl was more composed, he stood before her with raised finger.
Missy, he said gravely, "I have been, and I am, a good friend to you."
Yes--yes, I know you are, she said, with a sigh.
The reason of my fidelity you shall know some day, he went on, "and a good reason it is. But you must ask me no more questions until I voluntarily tell you all that it is needful you should know. With regard to Mr. Paslow, you can set your mind at rest. He is quite innocent. The handkerchief you found was left behind by him on the day he had that quarrel with Mr. Alpenny."
Are you sure?
I am absolutely certain. I saw it on master's desk when I went in to get that letter which I was to take to town. As to the key, I got it from Mr. Paslow himself.
When did you see him?
Later on in the day--on that day when we found out the murder, explained Durban fluently. "I went outside, and found that Mr. Paslow was coming in, to see if you had got home safely. He told me that he possessed the key of the small gate, which you had dropped, and gave it to me. I replaced it on the nail in the counting-house, where the Inspector found it. Mr. Paslow went to London whenever he heard of the crime, and at my request."
But why, Durban? asked Beatrice, relieved to find that Vivian had not been so callous or neglectful as she had thought.
I wanted him to see Mr. Alpenny's lawyer, and look after the will, said Durban steadily. "He wanted to see you; I would not allow that, as you were quite worried enough."
But the sight of Vivian would have done me good, protested the poor girl faintly, for she was quite worn out.
I can see that now, said Durban regretfully, "but I thought at the time that it was wiser to keep you quiet. If I had thought that you suspected him, I should have spoken before: but you never mentioned his name, so I deemed it best to be silent. But he is perfectly innocent, and, when he comes back, will be able to tell you where he went after he left you on that night. Meanwhile he is seeing after the will."
Is there any need?
Every need. I tell you, missy, that even though Mr. Alpenny is dead, you are surrounded by scoundrels. But if you get the money--and master swore to me that he would leave you the fortune--you will be absolutely safe.
From what, Durban?
From the wicked schemes of these people. Major Ruck---- Here Durban checked himself and spoke softly and soothingly. "There! there, missy, ask no more questions. Some day your foolish, old, silly Durban will make things plain. Just now, think only that you will be rich, that you will marry Mr. Paslow, and that everything will go well with you."
Beatrice raised her arms, and dropped them with a helpless air. She seemed to be more than ever surrounded by mysteries, and Durban, who was able to explain, insisted upon holding his tongue. At all events, her mind was set at rest regarding the honesty of Vivian; and she thought it best to take the old servant's advice, and possess her soul in patience until such time as he chose to tell her the truth, whatever that might be. But it was all very puzzling, and her head ached with the effort to think matters out. After a time Durban persuaded her to lie down, which she did very willingly, being quite prostrate after the terrors of the past few days.
She fell into an uneasy doze, and was awakened by the sound of a much-loved voice. At once she put on her dressing-gown and opened the door. Vivian, looking weary and dispirited, was talking to Durban near at hand, where she could overhear plainly.
Yes, he was saying, "Beatrice gets nothing. All the money--quite twenty thousand a year--has been left by Alpenny to Lady Watson."
Lady Watson! cried Beatrice, opening the door; "my mother's friend?"
Vivian turned away. Durban changed to his usual green pallor, and seemed deeply agitated.
Yes, said Durban, "your mother's friend." He paused, and then spat on the ground. "Curse her!" said Durban fiercely.
Beatrice stared. At Vivian's grey drawn face, bereft of youth, and at Durban's savage green countenance, she looked spell-bound. A pause ensued. Beatrice did not know what to make of the men: Paslow's averted looks, and worn paleness; Durban's curse for Lady Watson. Would the fact that she did not inherit the money account for such emotions? She thought not, and so requested information.
What is it? she asked, looking from one to the other; but she looked longest at Vivian.
You have heard, missy, said Durban, recovering himself somewhat. "We have lost the money."
I can bear that, if I lose nothing else, said Beatrice, her eyes still on Paslow's grey face.
But that she should get it! cried Durban, shaking impotent fists in the air, "after all she has done. And I can do nothing to force her to be fair. Who would have thought the foul old thief would have squandered his gold on her silly face? I could----" Here he caught sight of the frightened looks of Beatrice, and let his hands fall. As he walked past Vivian towards the kitchen, he breathed a sentence in the young man's ear. "She may know much," said Durban imperatively, "but not all."
Great Heaven! Could I tell her all, do you think? groaned the man.
Beatrice caught the drift, if not the exact words of these whispers, and came towards Vivian. Durban was already within the kitchen, and had shut the door. The two were alone--she eager to know the worst; he silent, and tortured with much that he could not explain. "Vivian, Vivian," she continued, and laid her hand on his arm. He shook it off with a shudder. "My dear!" said Beatrice, shrinking back; "oh! my dear," and she stared with fast-locked hands.
Not that, whispered the man, with dry lips. "You might have called me so when we stood under the Witches' Oak, but now"--he made a despairing gesture--"that is all at an end."
Do you take back your proposal of marriage? asked the girl, colouring.
I do, because I must. Vivian looked at her hungrily, as though he would have given his life to take her in his arms--as was, indeed, the case. "If I did not love you so much," he said hoarsely, "I would lie; but loving you as I do, I must speak the truth."
The whole of it? she asked bitterly.
So much as I may tell Miss Hedge.
Miss Hedge?
I have no right to call you otherwise now, said Paslow sadly. "I told you of a bar which prevented my asking you to be my wife?"
Yes; and you said that it had been removed.
I was wrong. It is not removed. I had no right to speak.
What is this bar?
I cannot tell you, Beatrice. He caught suddenly at her hands. "If I could lie down and die at your dear feet, I would, for my heart is sick within me. I have sinned, and bitterly I am paying for my sin. When I spoke to you under the oak, I was then able to be your true lover, and hoped to be your loving husband. But now"--he flung away her hands--"that barrier which I thought removed, is still between us. I am not a free agent. I dare not ask you to be my wife."
But you have asked me, and I have consented, she panted, red with shame and anger. "Why are you playing with me like this?"
Why are the gods playing with both of us, you mean, he said, with a mirthless laugh. "Were you and I on the other side of the world, we might be happy--and yet, even then it would be impossible. I love you, but you have every right to hate me."
I don't understand one word you are talking about, said Beatrice sharply, and tried to resolve some sense out of his wild words. "Is it that you committed this crime?"
I! He started back amazed. "Beatrice, I may be bad, but I am not so evil as that. I hated Alpenny, and had every reason to hate him, but I never laid a finger on the poor wretch. I did not kill him myself, nor can I tell you who killed him. Ah," he went on, half to himself, "Durban said something of this--about the key of the small gate--but he explained."
Is what he said true?
Perfectly true. I am innocent. It is not the murder that is a bar to divide us. I could face that out; but there are other things which prevent my being a free agent.
Have you a master, then?
I have those about me who know too much, said Vivian fiercely, "and if anything would make me stain my hands with blood, it would be the knowledge that I am the sport of thieves and vagabonds. How it will all end I do not know--for me, that is. But for you, my best and dearest"--he made a step forward, but she evaded him.--"for you, I know the end. You must come to Convent Grange and----"
Go to the Grange, after what you have said? she flamed out.
I shall not trouble you. I shall go to town. You can stay with Dinah and with Mrs. Lilly for a time. Then Durban and I will see if we cannot get you some money from Mrs.--that is, from Lady Watson.
Why should she give it to me? asked Beatrice, shrugging.
Because--he began, then ended abruptly--"I cannot tell you."
Vivian--Beatrice moved swiftly forward and laid a firm hand on his shoulder--"I do not understand all this. Mr. Alpenny, poor wretch, hinted at crimes on your part."
Do you believe him? asked Vivian, turning his haggard young face towards her.
No, she said firmly. "I love you too well for that."
God bless you! A tear dropped on the hand, which he kissed.
She drew it away. "But you are not open with me; you are not honest with me. If you have troubles, I have a right to share them. Tell me of this barrier."
No, said Vivian firmly. "I cannot. I dare not. All I can say is that the barrier may be removed in time. Only trust me."
Has the barrier to do with this crime?
In some ways.
And with the death of Colonel Hall?
What do you know of that? asked Paslow, amazed.
Very little; but Mrs. Snow hinted----
That woman! She'll make mischief if she can. Don't trust her. She hates you, Beatrice.
Why should she? I hardly know her.
But she knows you--that is, she knows of you. To explain what it all means would be to tell you much that I would rather you did not know--that you must never know.
I am not a child----
You are the woman I love, and therefore I shall not allow your mind to be tainted with--with--with what I could tell you, he ended rather weakly.
Beatrice reflected for a few minutes. Apparently Vivian was in some trouble connected with other people; possibly--as she guessed--with those scoundrels who surrounded Alpenny, and of whom Durban had talked. For some reason, which she could not guess, he was trying to keep from her things which were vile and evil. She could not think how a young country squire could be involved in Alpenny's rogueries--which it seemed he was. And then his--but she gave up trying to solve the problem on such evidence as was before her. It only remained that she should use her own eyes, her own intelligence, and maybe, sooner or later, she would arrive at an understanding of things. Then, perhaps, she would be enabled to remove this barrier which stood between them. Strange though Paslow's conduct was, and open to dire suspicion, she still loved him, and knew in her heart of hearts that she would love him until he died. This being the case, she made up her mind with the swiftness of a woman who is fighting for what she loves best, and looked at him searchingly. He was watching her with anxious eyes, but shifted his gaze to the ground when she looked at him.
Will you answer me a few questions? she asked quietly.
If I can, he replied, hesitating.
Her lip curled in spite of herself. "You need not be afraid. I shall respect your secret, whatever it is--for the present, that is. Meanwhile, perhaps you will tell me if you know who killed Mr. Alpenny?"
No. I told you before that I did not know.
Have you any suspicion?
Not even a suspicion, he answered frankly, and he looked at her as he spoke, so serenely, that she believed him.
Will you tell me about Colonel Hall's murder?
I know very little about it. I was a child at the time. Mrs. Lilly can tell you anything you wish to know. Why do you ask?
Because, from what Mrs. Snow said, I believe that the first murder of Colonel Hall is connected with the second murder of Mr. Alpenny.
I don't believe that, muttered Vivian, uneasily.
I do. The murders--both of them--were committed by the man with the black patch. What do you know of that?
Nothing, save that I used the words to frighten Alpenny, and found them on the paper laid on my desk.
Do you know who laid that paper there?
I have not the least idea. The desk is near the window, and that was open. Any one could have passed the paper through the window. I asked Dinah and Mrs. Lilly, but neither one of them knew how the paper came to be there.
If you remember, continued Beatrice slowly, "Mr. Alpenny muttered something about it being the third time. Well, then, I truly believe that the words you used unconsciously were a warning. Twice he was warned, and on the third warning he expected to be killed. That was why, I believe, he arranged to go up to town, when he was struck down. You were used by someone as the unconscious instrument to give him the warning."
I might have been, but----
That is, she added, coming so close to him that he felt her breath on his cheek, "if you really and truly are ignorant of the meaning of the words."
I swear that I am, stammered Vivian, turning red. "Then your secret has nothing to do with the black patch?"
No. I am as puzzled as you are over that. Well?
Well, said Beatrice, looking over her shoulder--she had moved towards the door of her bedroom as he spoke--"I intend to go to the Grange, and I do not care whether you stop there or not. The worst is over now. I know that you love me----"
God knows that I do, he said hurriedly.
And He knows that I love you, she went on steadily. "I don't care what crimes you have committed, or what stops you from again asking me to be your wife. I love you, and I intend to marry you----"
Beatrice!
She threw up her hand to keep him at his distance. "Wait! I intend to solve the mystery of these murders myself. The two are connected; and when I find out who killed these two men, I shall be able to marry you. Is that not so?"
Possibly--that is----
You need say no more. Tell Dinah that I shall come to the Grange this evening. For the present, good-day. And she went in and shut the door.
Paslow stood where he was for a moment, then flung himself forward to kiss the wood of the door. "Oh! my love--my love--my heart!" he murmured; "what a dreary, weary way you have marked out for yourself. But I shall follow you along the path of shadows, and perhaps we two will emerge at length into the sunshine."
He turned away, and, passing the kitchen carriage, knocked at the door sharply. Durban appeared. "I heard everything," said the servant, who was now more composed.
And what do you say, knowing what you do know?
I say, let missy go on. It may be that God intends her to learn the truth, and right matters.
But Lady Watson has the money, Vivian reminded him.
She has everything, said Durban bitterly; "she always did have everything." Then, with an afterthought, "But what she really wanted, she never got, Mr. Paslow."
And what was that?
Never mind. Least said, soonest mended. I will tell missy nothing, and you must hold your tongue also. Only let us guard her from danger.
I don't think there is danger for her, Durban.
Ah--hum--one never knows. There are those--but no matter. Let her go her ways. It may be that she may learn the truth, and put things straight.
She can never put them straight for me, said Vivian bitterly.
I can do that, said Durban. "Let missy go to the Grange. I go to London. You will have news from me."
Paslow caught his arm as he turned to go. "You will not----"
I am too fond of my neck for that, said Durban, and went into his kitchen, while Vivian, full of sore thoughts and yet with a certain glimmer of hope, now that Beatrice was to take a hand in the game, went home to Dinah.
Beatrice packed her boxes and got ready to go. By five o'clock she was hatted and cloaked, and a trap was waiting at the gates to take her to Convent Grange along with her luggage. Alpenny was to be buried on the morrow, but it was just as well that Miss Hedge should leave The Camp to-night. But she was not to go yet for an hour, for scarcely had she reached the open gates, when a small lady, fashionably dressed, entered, and came straight towards her. When Durban saw her, he frowned. "Lady Watson!" he breathed in the ear of his young mistress.
She seems anxious to take possession of her property, said the girl bitterly, and looked carefully at the woman who had supplanted her in the race for Alpenny's wealth.
Lady Watson looked--in the distance--like a child, so small and delicate and slender did she appear. But when she came close, which she did, with an engaging smile, Beatrice saw that her face was covered with innumerable fine wrinkles, and that she was painted and powdered, and made up--as the saying is--to within an inch of her life. Her hair was dyed a golden colour; she wore a veil to hide the too obvious make-up of her face; and the only young thing about her were a pair of sparkling eyes, of a bright brown. At one time she had been--without the aid of art--an extremely pretty woman: even now--with the aid of art--she looked attractive and youthful, providing she was looked at from a safe distance, like an oil-painting. Her dress was ultra-fashionable, and she wore it with the air of a woman accustomed to spend no end of money in drapers' shops. Her teeth were good, but probably were false, as was her smile. Beatrice, a straightforward person herself, took an instinctive dislike to this gushing little mass of affectation, which came mincing towards her. She had no wish to cultivate the acquaintance. But Lady Watson gave her no time to express her dislike, either by looks or in words.
My dear child--my sweet Beatrice, she cried, in a rather shrill voice, and sailing forward with eager, outstretched hands, "how glad I am to see you at last! That dreadful Mr. Alpenny--he never would allow me to come and see you, although I was your mother's dearest--very dearest and closest friend. But then the poor creature is dead; and he really wasn't a nice person, when all is said and done."
Mrs. Snow told me that you were my mother's friend, replied Beatrice gravely, and surrendering her hands to the eager grasp. "I am glad to see you, as I wish to talk about my mother."
Oh! Lady Watson started, and cast a suspicious look on the grave young face. "Then you are not glad to see me on my own account?"
I scarcely know you, Lady Watson.
Ah, but you will soon. I am a very easy person to get on with, as Durban knows. Dear old Durban--she turned a smiling glance at the half-caste, who looked gloomily at the ground--"he is as young as ever.--It is long since we met, Durban?"
Very long, madam, said Durban coldly, his eyes still on the ground, and Beatrice saw his hands opening and shutting as though he could scarcely keep them from Lady Watson's throat.
Well, well, we won't talk of the past just yet--it is unpleasant, my dear Durban, and she gave a pretty little shudder. Durban made no reply in words, but, raising his eyes, looked at her meaningly. She shuddered again, this time with genuine terror, and turned pale under her rouge. Beatrice wondered what secret there could be between the two--the fashionable lady and the poor servant.
Still the same gloomy thing, tittered Lady Watson, passing her flimsy handkerchief across a pair of dry lips; "you always were, you know, Durban. The Colonel--but there"--as Durban looked at her again--"we'll not talk of the past, but of the future.--Of course, dear Miss Hedge, you know that poor Mr. Alpenny left me his money?"
I understand so, said Beatrice coldly.
And, naturally, you are annoyed?
No. Before his death Mr. Alpenny gave me to understand that he would not leave me any money. You perhaps had a greater claim on him than I, Lady Watson.
The other tittered, and avoided Durban's eyes. "Oh dear me, no. The poor creature--Mr. Alpenny, you know--was in love with me ages and ages ago, long before I married Sir Reginald. But Reginald is dead, and so is Mr. Alpenny--everyone seems to die--so dreadful, you know, Miss Hedge--or rather I should say Beatrice. I shall call you Beatrice, since we are to be friends, and live together."
Live together?
Oh! haven't I told you? I am such a feather-head. Yes. Whenever I found that poor Mr. Alpenny--queer creature, wasn't he?--had left me his money, I said I would come down and ask you to be my companion--my child, in fact, if I may put it so. You shall have everything you want. I must have someone to look after the house, as the servants are so tiresome, and I am a lonely woman without a chick or child.
Miss Hedge is going to Convent Grange, said Durban thickly.
Lady Watson started and again turned pale. "That horrid place!" she said faintly.
Why do you call it that? asked Beatrice quickly.
There was a horrid murder committed there ages ago. I was in the house at the time, and----
Madam, interposed Durban sharply; "please do not tell Miss Hedge anything more. She has had enough horrors for the time being."
Lady Watson looked straight at Durban, and he looked straight at her. The situation was adjusted between them without words, and although Beatrice protested that she wished to hear about the earlier crime, the frivolous little woman declined to say another word.
How can one talk of such things in the midst of such lovely scenery as you have here? she cried, and put up a tortoise-shell lorgnette to survey The Camp. "Quite delicious. I shall make this a kind of country-house. So odd, you know, with all these railway carriages. Dear Mr. Alpenny! he was so very queer in his tastes. But I'll come here with you, dearest Beatrice, and we'll garden and live like milkmaids--like Marie Antoinette, you know. Rural life--delicious."
I am going to live at the Grange, Lady Watson.
But I want you to be my companion. I insist. Lady Watson spoke with some sharpness, as apparently she was a lady not accustomed to be thwarted in her wishes.
I have arranged to live at the Grange, said Beatrice, and Durban nodded his approval; "for a time, that is. Afterwards, I intend to go out as a governess."
What! With that face and figure? You foolish girl, I won't allow it. You must enter society on my money--or rather on that poor creature's, Alpenny's, money--and marry and----
I don't think you have any right to tell me what to do, Lady Watson, said Beatrice, annoyed by this imperious air.
As your mother's dearest friend?
I don't recognise that as an authority. But if you will give, me your address in town, I'll come and see you and talk about my dear mother. I want to know everything about her.
I can tell you nothing, said Lady Watson tartly; "that is, I won't, unless you come as my companion."
Lady Watson, I thank you very much for your offer; but I go to the Grange, and as I am already overdue, I must leave you now. Good-day.
She held out her hand, which Lady Watson waved aside. "You provoking girl, I won't say good-day. I am stopping with Mrs. Snow, and will come and see you at the Grange. Give me a kiss"; and before Beatrice could stop her, Lady Watson kissed her warmly. When the little woman drew back, Beatrice saw to her surprise that the bright brown eyes were filled with tears.
The funeral was over, and Jarvis Alpenny was buried beside the wife whom--according to rumour--he had so cruelly neglected. The excitement about his mysterious death was apparently buried with him, and Hurstable again became a somnolent hamlet, devoid of news and intelligence. In spite of every effort, the police were unable to trace the man with the black patch. No one seemed to know anything about him, and he had vanished as completely as though the earth had swallowed him up. The local and London papers made their usual crass remarks about the inactivity and uselessness of the police, and, save in a rare paragraph, ceased to notice the matter. The murder was only a nine hours' wonder after all.
Lady Watson went away from the Rectory without calling upon Beatrice, as she had promised. Perhaps this was because she had unpleasant recollections of Convent Grange, or perhaps on account of a short conversation she had with Durban after Beatrice left The Camp. But whatever might be her reason, she did not again ask Miss Hedge to become her companion, nor did she call or even write. With her twenty thousand a year she returned to London, and left The Camp in charge of Durban, who still continued to inhabit his old quarters. Sometimes he came over to see Beatrice, and appeared to be more devoted than ever to the girl. But he said nothing about the various mysteries he had hinted at, nor did Beatrice inquire very closely what they might be. She saw very plainly that both Durban and Vivian were determined that she should know as little as possible--for what reason she could not imagine--and therefore, in pursuance of her determination, she cast about to find some path which might lead to a discovery of the truth, whatever that might be. She wished to learn who had killed Alpenny, and thought that, by examining into his past life, she might be able to learn something of his enemies. Once she discovered who disliked him, and the reason of such dislike, she fancied that she might lay her hand on the assassin. But there was no one to tell her of Alpenny's past, as both Durban and Vivian kept silent. But as, according to Mrs. Snow, the murderer of Colonel Hall was the assassin of Jarvis Alpenny, Beatrice determined to learn all she could about the earlier crime, in the hope that her discoveries in that direction might enable her to elucidate the mystery of the later murder.
Mrs. Lilly was the best person to apply to for a history of Colonel Hall's untimely fate, as she had been housekeeper to the Paslows for many, many years. Beatrice, during the first fortnight of her stay, hinted that she would like to hear about the tragedy, and Mrs. Lilly, after some hesitation, promised to tell her what she knew. Accordingly, Beatrice, two weeks after the burial of her stepfather, was seated in the Grange garden waiting for the housekeeper. Mrs. Lilly had first to attend to her work, but promised that as soon as it was ended she would come out and chat. As Dinah had gone over to the Rectory to see Mrs. Snow, Beatrice was quite alone. She did not count Vivian, as he scarcely stopped an entire day at the Grange, and very rarely a night. Some business took him constantly to London, but what it might be the girl could not guess. After that abrupt conversation in The Camp, the two said very little to one another. It was a strange wooing, and extremely unsatisfactory.
The garden of Convent Grange was delightful, as was the house, although both were somewhat dilapidated. The ancient red brick mansion had been--as Mrs. Snow had informed Beatrice--a convent in the reign of that arch-iconoclast, Henry VIII. When his greedy hand was laid upon ecclesiastical property, he had bestowed the convent on Amyas Paslow, who promptly turned out the nuns, to house himself and his family. But there was some curse on the place and on the race, for the family never prospered overmuch, and when the property came to Vivian Paslow, he was as poor as an English gentleman of long descent well can be. Nevertheless, he still clung to the old mansion, although he could have sold it at an advantageous price to an American millionaire. In some wonderful way he managed to scrape enough money together to pay the interest on the mortgage to Alpenny, and thus had kept a roof over his head and that of Dinah. Lately, as he had told Beatrice under the oak, he had inherited a small sum of money from an aunt, and thus things were easier with him. The girl fancied that it must be business connected with the paying-off of the mortgage that took him so often to London; but on this point he gave her no information.
The day was hot and drowsy, and Beatrice, clothed in black--for she paid her stepfather the compliment of wearing mourning--sat on an old stone seat, between two yew trees cut in the shape of peacocks. Before her, on a slight rise, rose the mellow brick walls of the Grange, covered with ivy. A terrace ran along the front of the house, and over the door was the mouldering escutcheon of the Paslow family. What with the queer pointed roofs, the twisted stacks of chimneys, the diamond-paned casements, and the prim gardens, the place looked particularly delightful. A poet could have dreamed away his days in this rustic paradise, and Beatrice felt as though she were in the land of the Lotos-eaters. But even as she slipped into vague dreams, she pulled herself up, and shunned the enchanted ground. There was sterner work to do than dreaming. Before she could become the mistress of this castle of indolence, and wife of its master, it was necessary to lift the cloud which rested on the place. To do so, she would have to begin by questioning Mrs. Lilly, and impatiently awaited the arrival of that worthy soul.
Towards noon Mrs. Lilly appeared on the terrace, and sailed down the broad garden-path between the lines of brilliant flowers. She was stout and comely, with white hair and a winter-apple face. A very honest, pleasant old woman was Mrs. Lilly, but behind the times. It was her boast that she had never been away from the Weald of Sussex for one solitary day out of a long length of years; and she had no patience--as she frequently stated--with the new-fangled notions of modern life (of which, it may be remarked incidentally, she knew no more than a child unborn!). Beatrice looked at the housekeeper's worn black silk dress, at her lace cap and voluminous apron, and acknowledged that Mrs. Lilly was a picturesque figure, who might have stepped out of the pages of a Christmas Number. The very model of a pompous, narrow-minded, honest, kindly old English servant.
Well, my dear, said Mrs. Lilly, who looked on the three young people as children and addressed them accordingly, "I've got through my work. And a wonder it is, seeing that Polly and Molly"--these were the two servants--"are so lazy. But I have had the rooms brushed, and the dinner is ordered, and everything is in apple-pie order; so here I am ready for a rest." And she sat down beside Beatrice with a groan, remarking on the stiffness of her joints.
You won't have much rest with me, Mrs. Lilly, laughed Beatrice, who, knowing the old lady well for some years, was quite familiar with her. "Have you got your knitting?" Mrs. Lilly was always knitting when off domestic duty. "Oh! here it is. Now make yourself comfortable, you dear old thing, and talk."
What about? asked Mrs. Lilly, mounting her spectacles, and beginning to click the needles.
Colonel Hall's death.
Oh! my dear, said the housekeeper with dismay; "do you really wish me to tell you about that horrid thing?"
Of course; and you promised to do so.
But wouldn't you rather hear about the ghost? said Mrs. Lilly in coaxing tones; "that's an old family legend, and ever so much nicer."
No. Colonel Hall's death, or nothing.
Why do you wish to know?
Beatrice evaded this question dexterously, not thinking it wise to admit Mrs. Lilly into her confidence too largely. "Oh! Mrs. Snow talked a lot about it at the inquest."
I heard about that, my dear. Strange that your stepfather should have been murdered by a man with a black patch over his left eye!
You agree with Mrs. Snow, then?
That the same man committed the other murder? queried Mrs. Lilly musingly. "I can hardly say that. Certainly a black patch, that could have been worn over an eye, was found on the grass under Colonel Hall's window the morning after his murder, but----"
The man was not seen, then? interrupted Beatrice.
No. Only from the presence of the black patch, the detective who had charge of the case thought it had been worn for the purpose of disguise. There was a great stir about the matter, as Colonel Hall was well known as a Government official. He came from some West Indian island, I believe, where he was Administrator or something, ended Mrs. Lilly vaguely.
Well, then, tell me all from the beginning. Mrs. Snow has very little to go on, if that is all about the black patch. I saw Mr. Alpenny's murderer wearing it, you know; but neither Mrs. Snow nor any one else saw Colonel Hall's assassin with it on.
Mrs. Lilly nodded. "I heard of your experience. My dear, you should not run about the woods at night: it isn't ladylike I wonder you didn't faint with horror when you saw the man!"
I should have, had I known of this theory about Colonel Hall having been killed by such a man. As it was, I felt too worn-out to be startled by anything. Where ignorance is bliss. Go on, Mrs. Lilly; tell me all Mrs. Snow does not know.
I think she knows a very great deal, remarked the housekeeper viciously. "I never could bear that lady--a sour, bad-tempered woman if ever there was one. She was a governess, you know. Yes; she and Mrs. Hall were at school together, and Mrs. Hall made her a kind of companion. After the murder, and when Mrs. Hall went back to the West Indies, Mrs. Snow--a Miss Duncan she was then--stopped on and married the rector, who was a fool. I am quite sure he has regretted ever since that he made her his wife."
I don't like Mrs. Snow myself, said Beatrice thoughtfully. "And who is this Lady Watson who knew my mother?"
I cannot tell you. I have never set eyes on her. Some school friend of Mrs. Snow's, I dare say. Mrs. Snow always said everybody had been to school with her. I believe she told lies, finished Mrs. Lilly with great contempt.
Tell me about Mrs. Hall and the Colonel?
He was a tall, handsome man, very kind, and stately in his bearing, my dear. Mr. Paslow--the father of Master Vivian--knew him very well, and asked him to stop here.
With Mrs. Hall?
Yes. But Mrs. Hall only came for one night, and that was the night of the murder. I don't think she got on well with her husband.
What was she like to look at?
A small dark woman, very grave, and sparing of words. I think she had something on her mind. She seemed to be very much afraid of her husband, and rarely spoke to him. She came down with a one-year-old baby, and a nurse--a delicate-looking woman, far gone in consumption, poor soul.
Just like my mother, said Beatrice; "she died of consumption, you know, Mrs. Lilly. At least Mr. Alpenny said so."
I never saw your mother, my dear. Mr. Alpenny married a few weeks after the murder, and took Mrs. Hedge, as I understand she was called, to The Camp. She never came out, and no one ever saw her. When she was buried, everyone was quite amazed to hear that Mr. Alpenny had a wife--though, of course, it was hinted that he had married. He was deeply in love with Mrs. Hall, you know.
Lady Watson says he was deeply in love with her.
I don't believe the man was deeply in love with any one save himself, declared Mrs. Lilly sharply. "I detested him, and say so, even though he is dead and your father."
My stepfather, corrected Miss Hedge. "I did not like him myself, Mrs. Lilly. He was a cruel man."
He was, and had far too much influence with the old master. It was then that he got the mortgage on the Grange, which is such a trouble to Master Vivian. But perhaps Lady Watson will not be so hard to satisfy as Mr. Alpenny, and Master Vivian may be able to arrange, as he has inherited this little sum of money from his aunt. I wish he was clear of all these difficulties, ended Mrs. Lilly, with a sigh.
Go on. You have not said a thing about the murder.
I wonder Durban did not tell you about the matter. He was Colonel Hall's servant, you know.
Beatrice started to her feet, quite amazed by this intelligence. "Do you mean to say that Durban was Colonel Hall's servant?" she asked.
Didn't you hear me say so? said Mrs. Lilly tartly.
Yes; but he never explained that to me.
There was no need to. Besides, Durban doesn't like to speak of the murder of his master. He was the Colonel's servant, and came with him from the West Indies. Any one can see that Durban has black blood in him.
It is all very strange, murmured the girl, sitting down again.
Well, I thought so myself, as Durban never liked Mr. Alpenny. However, when the Colonel was buried, and Mrs. Hall went back to the West Indies with the baby, Durban stopped on, and when Mr. Alpenny married Mrs. Hedge, went to serve at The Camp.
He has been a good friend to me, said Beatrice ponderingly. "I wonder why?"
He was a good friend to your mother also, I heard. I asked Durban about your mother's marriage, and about your real father, Mr. Hedge, but he never would tell me anything.
It is strange,--strange, mused Beatrice, quite perplexed over this tangled story. "And the murder?"
Mrs. Lilly wasted no more time, but plunged at once into the middle of the story, which Beatrice heard to the end without interrupting her more than was absolutely necessary. "Colonel Hall came down here to stop, as I said," resumed the old lady, "being a dear friend of my late master. Durban was with him, and Mr. Alpenny was in the house at the time. Later on, Mrs. Hall came down with the baby and the nurse, and with Mrs. Snow, who was then Miss Duncan; but that was not for a week. Colonel Hall had a necklace of diamonds that he had brought from the West Indies; it was valued at ten thousand pounds, and was called the Obi necklace, as there was some legend attached to it."
Obi is African witchcraft, said Beatrice.
Like enough, said Mrs. Lilly indifferently. "Colonel Hall had a lot to do with the black people. My master, Mr. Paslow, warned the Colonel that he might have the necklace stolen; but the Colonel laughed at him. It was in a green box which he kept beside his bed. The box contained official papers, and also the Obi necklace. I understand that Colonel Hall intended to give it to his wife; but as there was some difference between them, he did not give it to her. But when she came down, she asked him for it. He refused, and was sharp with her, so she went to bed in tears. Colonel Hall also retired at ten o'clock. The next morning he was found dead in his bed with his throat cut, and the Obi necklace was gone."
What happened, then? asked Beatrice, breathlessly.
The police were called in. Mrs. Hall was in a fright, and grew so ill that she had to be taken up to town and put in some hospital. I know that she went from one fainting fit into another, and the doctor said that she would die unless she was taken out of the house. So she and the baby and the nurse were bundled off to town. Mrs. Snow--Miss Duncan, that is--stopped on with Durban. The police could find nothing.
They found the black patch?
Yes; and there were rumours of a man wearing such a patch having been seen in the neighbourhood. Colonel Hall always slept with his window open, as he was mad on the subject of fresh air. His bedroom was on the first floor of the west wing, and the ivy offered a foothold to any one who wanted to climb up. As the black patch was found on the grass below the window, it was believed that the assassin climbed up the ivy and tried to steal the necklace. Colonel Hall must have awakened: but before he could give the alarm, he was stunned in some way.
Just like Mr. Alpenny, murmured Beatrice.
When he was stunned, the assassin cut the poor man's throat, continued Mrs. Lilly, shuddering. "Ugh! it was a sight. Then the murderer went off with the necklace. The police tried to trace him by that, but could not do so. I expect the necklace was broken up and the stones were sold separately."
The assassin was never caught?
Never. And it is nearly five-and-twenty years ago, so I don't expect he ever will be caught.
He may be, now that he has committed a second crime.
Mrs. Lilly laid down her knitting and removed her spectacles. "Do you believe it is the same man?"
The crimes are so similar, that I believe it is, said the girl earnestly. "Colonel Hall was stunned, and then his throat was cut; Mr. Alpenny was treated in the same way. Colonel Hall was robbed of this necklace; Mr. Alpenny was robbed also. And yet," added Beatrice, looking at Mrs. Lilly, "I don't believe that in either case robbery was the motive for the crime."
What other motive could there be? asked Mrs. Lilly, amazed.
Revenge of some sort, in both cases. Both the victims were stunned, and so the plunder could have been easily carried off safely. But in each case the assassin cut the throats of his victims. That looks like revenge.
Mrs. Lilly resumed her knitting and shook her head. "I can tell you nothing more," she said, after a pause. "Orchard might know a lot--I always thought that he did."
Who is Orchard?
He was our butler at the time, and afterwards went to be a shepherd on the Downs yonder, and Mrs. Lilly nodded towards the high range of hills spreading fair and green in the sunlight.
Beatrice started. "Mrs. Snow said something about that," she observed, thoughtfully. "Why did the man become a shepherd? So odd!"
It is odd--I always thought it was odd, said Mrs. Lilly; "but, you see, the sight of the body--Colonel Hall's body--gave poor Orchard a kind of fit, and the doctor said he would have to live in the open air. At all events he left the house, and when we next heard of him he was a shepherd on the Downs. He is well known, I believe, and is alive still. I have never seen him from that day to this, but I daresay if you went up yonder and inquired, you would see him. He may know something more than I do."
I shall certainly see him, said Beatrice. "I want to learn all I can about this case."
Before Mrs. Lilly could reply, a shadow fell on the sward before them. They looked up to see a small, dirty, red-haired man leering at them in an affable way.
Morning, lydies, said this creature; "I'm Waterloo!"