A tramp! said Mrs. Lilly, with dignified disgust. "However did he get in here?"
I ain't no tramp, lydies, said the man, twisting a piece of straw in his rabbit mouth. "I've got a 'ouse in town, an' a box in Scotlan', an' a yatsh at Cowes, I 'ave. Blimme me, if I ain't a gent at large, and devoted"--he bowed and leered--"to the genteel sect."
Beatrice looked at him with a shiver. He wore a suit of clothes too large for him, a dirty red wisp round his lean throat, and carpet slippers bound with string to his large feet. He was of no great height, and his shock of red hair made him look even smaller. His face was clean-shaven, or rather it ought to have been, for apparently it had not been touched by a razor for quite a week. Twisting the straw in his mouth, and a ragged cricketing cap in his hairy hands, he straddled with his short legs and leered impudently. It was the animal eyes of the man that made Beatrice shiver: they were green and shallow, like those of a bird, and the expression in them was evil in the extreme. The creature evidently had been steeped in iniquity from his cradle, and the foulness of his presence marred the perfect beauty of that still garden sleeping in the sunshine, so clean and wholesome.
What do you want? asked Miss Hedge sharply and shortly.
I wos jest atellin' y', said Waterloo--as he called himself--and his voice rasped like a file. "I wants t'see Mr. Paslow."
He is in town, snapped Mrs. Lilly, surveying the creature with still deeper disgust. "Have you a message for him?"
Waterloo laid a warty finger on one side of his pug nose, and winked in a horribly familiar manner. "Thet's tellin's," said he, grinning, "an' not evin' to th' sect I'm so fond of, does I give myself away. Oh no, not at all, by no means, you dear things."
Go away, cried Beatrice, putting her handkerchief to her nose, for the atmosphere was tainted by the presence of the man; "if you don't, I'll call Durban." This was a happy inspiration, as she knew that Durban was on the premises.
The man's eyes flashed still more wickedly. "Ho, yuss! by all means, miss. Call 'im, and you'll see wot you'll see." He spat out the straw, and produced a black pipe, which he stuck in his mouth. "I kin wyte."
You'll be ducked in the horse-pond, you beast, said Mrs. Lilly, growing red with anger. "I'll hand you over to the police, and----"
Durban! Durban! called out Beatrice, who caught a glimpse of the servant round the corner of the terrace, and at once he came running down the steps. "Who is this man, Durban?"
How dare you come here? said Durban, advancing threateningly on the small man, who cringed and whined. "You were told not to come here at least a dozen times."
Lor'! whimpered the little man, now subdued and servile; "wot a fuss you do meke, Mr. Durban, sir. I come fur Mr. Paslow, I does."
Send him away, Durban, cried Beatrice with great disgust.
Durban lifted one finger, and at once the tramp went slinking away like a dog with its tail between its legs. And like a dog he halted at the hedge which divided the drive from the garden, and showed his teeth in an evil snarl. Beatrice could see the flash of white, and could guess that he was snapping like a mad cur.
Who on earth is that? she asked Durban, when the man finally disappeared behind the hedge.
Durban looked pale, and wiped his face with a shaking hand. "He's a creature who did some dirty work for the late master."
For Mr. Paslow? demanded Mrs. Lilly, who always spoke of Vivian's father in that way.
For Mr. Alpenny, explained Durban, becoming more himself. "He is an old scoundrel of nearly sixty years of age."
He doesn't look it, said Beatrice.
Strange as it may seem to you, missy, Waterloo has his vanity. He wears a wig, and his teeth are false. But he is old and wicked, and has been no end of times in prison. Mr. Alpenny employed him to do some business in the slums, and he was several times down at The Camp. I think he's a thief.
I never saw him before, Durban.
And you'll never see him again, missy, said the old servant emphatically. "Mr. Alpenny, as I told you, had to do with a lot of rogues and vagabonds, as many a money-lender has. But that sort of thing is all done with. Waterloo will never trouble you again."
I am glad of that, said the girl, who was quite pale. "His presence seemed to taint the air. What a horrible man!"
Why does he want to see Mr. Vivian? asked Mrs. Lilly sharply.
Durban wheeled quickly. "He wants to see Mr. Paslow, does he? H'm! I wonder why that is?"
I am quite sure you can explain, said Beatrice, who was piqued at being always kept in the dark.
Durban cast a look of pain on her, but replied quietly enough, "Perhaps I do, missy. Mr. Paslow, as I told you, had something to do with my late master's business."
I never knew that, said Beatrice, remembering what Alpenny had hinted about Vivian's crimes.
Ridiculous! cried Mrs. Lilly, bristling. "Master Vivian is a gentleman, and would not meddle with your Alpennys and Waterloos.--Begging your pardon, my young lady, since Mr. Alpenny was your father."
My stepfather, corrected Beatrice again.--"Well, Durban, if you won't tell me, I'll ask Mr. Paslow myself."
Do, missy; I am quite sure he can explain. And don't trouble your pretty head any more about Waterloo, as there is trouble enough in the house now.
What do you mean by that? asked the girl, her heart giving a bound.
Durban pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "I was coming to look for you," he said, "and I am glad that you called me. Major Ruck is in the drawing-room."
Who is he? asked Mrs. Lilly.
He was a friend of my late master's.
Then I hope he is a more respectable friend than the one we have seen, said the housekeeper indignantly. "Mercy me and all the silver and china ornaments in the drawing-room!" and she hurried towards the house.
It is all right, Mrs. Lilly; you will find Major Ruck quite a gentleman, and very presentable. He is a friend of Lady Watson's too.
But Mrs. Lilly never waited to hear this explanation. As fast as her stoutness would allow her, she ran up the steps of the terrace and disappeared round the corner. Left alone with Durban, Beatrice asked the question which had been burning her lips ever since she heard that the Major was within. "Why has he come, Durban?"
To ask you to marry him, said Durban grimly.
But I don't know him, said Beatrice, alarmed.
He knows you, missy--that is, he has seen your picture. Mr. Alpenny promised him that you should be his wife, and, as I told you, he will not let you slip through his fingers if he can help it.
Durban, said the girl, after a pause, "I quite understand that Major Ruck wanted to marry me when I was supposed to be the heiress of Mr. Alpenny; but now that I am poor----"
He has seen your photograph, said Durban again, and meaningly.
And you think that he is in love with me?
He did, said Beatrice, resolved to say as little as possible.
Will you not permit me to offer you a chair? said Ruck, casting an admiring glance at her beautiful face. Beatrice, seeing no good reason to refuse, accepted the seat he brought forward. Then Ruck sat down on a near sofa with his back to the window, and resumed the conversation with great coolness. Beatrice, although prejudiced against him from what her stepfather had said, liked his voice and the well-bred manner he possessed. All the same she was on her guard. No doubt Major Ruck would betray the cloven hoof before the interview was at an end.
Poor Alpenny! said the Major, leaning back on the sofa and twisting his gloves idly. "I was at school with him, and with Mr. Paslow also."
Vivian? asked Beatrice involuntarily.
Major Ruck laughed. "With his father. My dear young lady, I am old enough to have Vivian for a son. Paslow, Alpenny and myself were at Rugby a very long time ago. I am old enough to be your father, and yet," said the Major insinuatingly, as he leaned forward with a smile, "I have come to offer myself as a husband."
Mr. Alpenny told me before he died that you were likely to do so, said Beatrice, quite at her ease, and mistress of the situation; "but I cannot guess, Mr. Ruck----"
Major Ruck--retired! said that gentleman.
I cannot guess, Major, replied Beatrice, making the amendment, "why you should wish to marry me, whom you have never seen."
Pardon me. I have seen your photograph, which was shown to me by my late friend, poor Alpenny. Also, said the Major, with emphasis, "one day I came to The Camp, and Alpenny showed you to me."
That is impossible, said Beatrice, wondering if he was lying. "I have always been at The Camp, and I never saw you."
You were asleep, my dear young lady--asleep in a hammock under the trees. My friend Alpenny, added the Major, smiling, "was good enough to offer me a sight of the Sleeping Beauty. I fell in love with you on the spot. Mr. Alpenny, as we were old friends, was not averse to my asking you to be my wife; and, indeed, but for his untimely death, I should have come down to propose in a more reasonable way."
No way can be reasonable in this case, Major. You say you know me?
From a sight of you in the hammock, from your photograph, and from the fact that my late friend, poor Alpenny, gave me a very vivid conception of your charming character.
You seemed to have talked me over thoroughly between you, said the girl, her face flushing.
We did, confessed Ruck candidly. "I wanted to know if your character was as charming as your face, and as fine as your figure. I was told by Mr. Alpenny that your character transcended both."
I think you must be Irish, Major, you speak so glibly
I was quartered in Ireland once, said Ruck coolly, "and not far from the celebrated Blarney Stone. At least, Miss Hedge, I hope I speak sufficiently glibly to explain thoroughly the reason I wish you to be my wife."
In spite of her vexation, Beatrice could not be angry with the man. His manners were so charming, his voice so fascinating, and his whole attitude so devoid of anything approaching rudeness, that she was compelled to keep her temper. "I don't think I quite understand," she said at length, and suppressed a smile.
Ruck lifted his eyebrows. "Surely, my dear young lady, your glass tells you the reason? I have an eye for beauty. I have also an independent income of two thousand a year, and a small house in Yorkshire. I belonged to a good club; and you will find my career is well known, as regards the army."
You are a very eligible suitor! said Beatrice, with some scorn.
In that case, I trust you will accept me, said the Major, with easy assurance, "and especially as your late father wished that the marriage should take place."
I must decline, Major. Mr. Alpenny was my stepfather, and no blood relation of mine. There was little love lost between us. Again, I am poor--Lady Watson has Mr. Alpenny's money.
A very charming lady, whom I know intimately. I am glad she has the money and not you, Miss Hedge, as you can acquit me of mercenary motives.
Yes. But I don't see why you wish to marry me.
I can give you three reasons. Your beauty, one--the Major checked off his remarks on his fingers; "the wish of my late friend, poor Alpenny, two; and the strong desire of Lady Watson, three."
What has Lady Watson to do with my marriage? asked Beatrice in a fiery tone.
She was your mother's best friend, and----
That gives her no right to interfere, cried Miss Hedge, rising. "I thank you, Major Ruck, for your proposal, but I must decline."
No! no! Don't send me away with a broken heart, Miss Hedge.
Men like you do not break their hearts, Major.
There's some truth in that, admitted the Major; "our hearts are too tough. But, seriously speaking," he added, and his jovial countenance became grave, "you will be wise to marry me."
On the three grounds you mentioned? asked Beatrice disdainfully.
On a fourth ground--or rather, I should say, for a fourth reason, Miss Hedge--I can protect you.
From what?
I'll tell you when you are Mrs. Ruck.
I have no intention of being Mrs. Ruck, retorted the girl, her courage rising, as she felt that she was being driven into a corner; "and I do not understand these hints of danger, which are given to me so freely."
I gave you only one hint, said Ruck, his eyes on her face.
Mr. Paslow and Durban have given me others. What does it all mean?
I should advise you to ask the two men you have mentioned, said Ruck, taking up his hat, "unless, Indeed, you will change your mind and become the star of my life. As my wife, you will know everything; as Miss Hedge, I fear you must be kept in the dark. Come now, Miss Hedge, be advised. I am speaking for your good. I am a gentleman, well-off and passable in looks. Why do you refuse me?"
I can explain very shortly. I am engaged to Mr. Paslow.
You will never marry Mr. Paslow, said Ruck, his face darkening.
Before Beatrice could ask the reason for this remark, the door opened, and Vivian, very pale and defiant, entered. "I heard your last words, Ruck," he said calmly, "and beg to tell you that you are quite wrong. Miss Hedge will become my wife in two weeks--that is"--he bowed to Beatrice--"if she will accept me as her husband."
Major Ruck made no remark, but stood silent and motionless, ever smiling, according to his custom. Beatrice, on the contrary, uttered an exclamation of surprise, and ran forward to throw herself into Vivian's arms. Suddenly she stopped.
Do you mean what you say? she asked, hesitating.
I do, he replied firmly. "The obstacle I spoke of has finally been removed, and I am free to marry you."
Can I believe this? murmured Beatrice, clasping her hands and looking down doubtfully. "For a long time you held back from asking me to be your wife, although you must have seen that I loved you. On the night Mr. Alpenny was killed you proposed, and I accepted you."
Ah! said Major Ruck, smiling more broadly than ever.
Then, continued Beatrice, still addressing Paslow, "you again changed your mind, and said that some obstacle, which you then declared was removed, again prevented our marriage. Now you come once more and say much the same as you said before. How do I know but what you may change your mind again?"
I have never changed my mind throughout, cried Vivian impetuously; "there was an obstacle. I thought that it was removed, and then I discovered that it still remained: Now I have made strict inquiries, and I learn that I am free."
What is the obstacle? asked Beatrice, very pale, and still doubtful.
I can tell you that, remarked Major Ruck, changing his attitude for the first time; "this young gentleman is married."
I was married, said Paslow, as Beatrice shrank back with a cry of amazement, and, as Vivian thought, of anger; "but my wife is dead."
Ruck shrugged his shoulders. "So you say!"
So Durban says--so this death certificate says. I heard all about my wife's illness, as I went to the house where she died. I have seen her grave, and the doctor gave me this. He held out a certificate to Beatrice. "Do you not believe me?"
It is so strange, she murmured, taking the paper, and glancing at it in a scared manner.
And so untrue, said Major Ruck coolly.
You lie!
I am not accustomed to be told that I lie, said Ruck, and his eyes narrowed to pin-points.
Paslow turned his back on him contemptuously. "I care very little for that," he said. "You and your creatures betrayed me into difficulties, for which I have suffered bitterly. But now I am free, and you can harm me no longer."
Don't be too sure of that, Mr. Paslow.
Beatrice saw Vivian wince, and came forward. "Whatever Mr. Paslow has done," she said, with dignity, "I am certain that he is an honourable man."
Bless you for those words, my darling.
Major Ruck gave a short laugh, and did not seem so good-tempered as he had been. "An honourable man!" he repeated. "I fear if you knew all Mr. Paslow's life, you would see fit to change your opinion."
Vivian restrained himself from violent words. "Of course you talk like that, because it is to your interest to stop my marriage. But I trust to a woman's instinct," and he stretched out his hands toward Beatrice with an anxious smile.
She waved him back. "I must have an explanation first"
Beatrice!
Vivian, I love you, I shall always love you; but can you expect me to blindly believe, when I am so much in the dark as to what all these things mean? There must be an end to these hints and mysteries. If you really love me, you will explain fully, so that I know where I stand.
I think I can do that, said Ruck, fondling his moustache.
Then do so, said Paslow, throwing back his head. "We know a great deal of one another, Major, so it may be to your interest to speak the truth," and he looked meaningly at the other man.
I never tell lies, unless they are necessary, said Ruck calmly. "In this instance the truth will suit me very well."
Beatrice sat down, still holding the certificate of Mrs. Paslow's death, which seemed to be quite in order. "I am waiting to hear the truth," she said, "and hear it I will."
Without any invitation, Major Ruck sat down. "I may as well be comfortable," he said lazily, and smiled in his most genial manner. Vivian did not sit down, but stood near the window looking out at the fair prospect unseeingly. Knowing that his past was about to be revealed, he seemed nervous, and did not look at the girl he loved. Major Ruck was much the coolest of the trio.
I can tell you the truth very briefly, said Ruck, stretching out his legs. "As I said, I was at school with Mr. Paslow's father, and also with Alpenny. Some eight years ago this gentleman"--he glanced towards the silent Vivian--"came to town. I did what I could to give him pleasure, as his father was dead, and I desired to do what I could for the son of my old friend.--That is true, I think?" he added, turning politely to Paslow.
You were extremely kind, said Vivian, stiffly and guardedly.
Thank you. Mr. Paslow then had money, and I think I showed him London very thoroughly. We had a great time.
Pray go on with your story, said Beatrice, icily.
Oh, it's the truth, replied Ruck, with a genial chuckle "I think Mr. Paslow will bear me out in that."
I have yet to hear what you have to say.
Ruck raised his eyebrows. "What can I say, save that which happened, my dear fellow?--Mr. Paslow"--he now addressed himself to Beatrice--"met in town at the house of a friend of mine, a certain young lady called Maud Ellis. He fell in love with her----"
I was trapped by a scheming woman, you mean, put in Paslow brusquely.
Fie! fie! fie! said Ruck good-humouredly. "Don't blame the woman, my dear fellow; that is mean. But trapped, or not, you married her."
I did; and found that she only married me because she thought that I had money.
So you should have had, and a great deal of it, but that Alpenny managed to collar the estates. But you loved her.
I did not, save in the way one loves such women at an early age.
Oh! sneered Ruck; "she was perfectly respectable."
I should not have married her else, said Vivian quickly, and not daring to glance at Beatrice. "I have nothing to say against her, save that she was heartless, and left me within six months. But I repeat that I was young and foolish at the time, and that she schemed to marry me. I fell into her toils, and bitterly have I had to pay for doing so; but for her I should have long ago have married Miss Hedge."
I don't think Alpenny would have permitted that, Paslow.
Perhaps not; but he is dead, and cannot harm me now.
The evil that men do lives after them, scoffed Ruck. "Alpenny had the power when alive; someone else may have the power now."
Not you, at all events, Ruck.
Beatrice rose quickly. "Am I to hear the rest of the story?" she asked Ruck. "Is this all you have to bring against Mr. Paslow?--that while a young man he was entrapped into marriage by an adventuress?"
Oh, Maud Ellis was no adventuress, said the Major, easily, "but a very nice girl. Lady Watson knew her well."
Lady Watson seems to know everyone, retorted Beatrice; "but who knows Lady Watson?"
I do, very well, said Ruck quietly; "but we are not discussing her. Later on, should you desire to learn about her, I can supply you with all necessary information. Meanwhile----"
Meanwhile, repeated Beatrice, "I should like to hear what Mr. Paslow has to say."
What can I say? said Vivian, with a look of despair. "I married Maud Ellis, as I said, and she left me after six months of a miserable life. Some times since I saw her, but she never would come back to me."
Did you wish her? said Beatrice quickly.
She was my wife, said Vivian calmly, "and I wished to behave as her husband, little as I loved her; but she always refused to come back to me. I met you, and said nothing about my fatal marriage. There was no need to."
It would have been better had you been open.
I see that now; I did not see it at the time. But you know that I loved you always, and you know now why I did not dare to ask you to be my wife. A few weeks ago I heard that Maud was ill. I went to see her, and found that she was suffering from influenza. I saw her several times: then I heard that she was dead. I proposed to you, Beatrice, under the oak. Later on, when I went to town to look after your property, and learn if Alpenny had done you justice, I again went to the house, and learned that what I had heard was false. Maud was extremely ill, but still alive. Then I came down, and you know what took place between us. I went again and again to town, and saw the doctor.
And your wife also?
No--yes, once; but she was so ill, and my presence disturbed her so much, that the doctor would not let me see her again. Then I went one day, and heard that she was dead and buried.
Why did you not go to the funeral? asked Ruck sneeringly.
I did not know that she was dead. I remained away from the house--it was in Kensington--for a long time, as it was useless for me to go and see her; and the doctor always kept me advised as to how she was going on. However, he gave me no notice of her death, and she was buried when I next heard news.
Beatrice expressed surprise. "But surely the doctor was wrong in not telling you she was dying? You should have been with her."
I should; but the doctor neglected to inform me. I had a row with him about the matter. However, I got the certificate, which you hold, and saw the grave; so I am now free to marry you--that is, if you will have me after what you have heard.
Beatrice did not reply immediately to this question. "We can talk of that when we are alone," she said, and glanced towards Ruck, who still lounged in his chair.
That is a hint for me to go, he said, rising lazily. "Well, I shall go--unless you will marry me?"
Were you the last man in the world I should not marry you, said the girl quietly; "and I do not see why you wish to."
We talked about that before, said Ruck, taking up his hat; "but now that the real Prince Charming has come on the scene, I see that there is no chance for me. I will allow you to marry Paslow----"
Allow me! cried Miss Hedge indignantly. "Allow me!" echoed Vivian, clenching his fists.
I will allow you, repeated the Major smoothly, "on condition that you give me the Obi necklace."
What? asked Beatrice, starting back, "Colonel Hall's----"
It was his property. I knew him very well, interrupted Ruck. "He gave that necklace to Mrs. Hedge."
To my mother? Impossible! The necklace was stolen when Colonel Hall was murdered in this very house.
So it was thought, but I know otherwise. Colonel Hall gave the necklace to Mrs. Hedge, who was his cousin, just before the murder. I learned that from Alpenny, who was in the house at the time; and that was why Alpenny married Mrs. Hedge--he wanted the necklace. And that is why I wished to marry you, added Ruck, smiling blandly, "as I want the necklace. It is valued at ten thousand pounds, and Alpenny promised to give it to you when we married."
I don't know how much of this is true, or how much is not, said Beatrice, looking puzzled, and pressing her hands to her head; "but I have not got the necklace. I never knew that my stepfather had it. There is no need for you to get angry, Major Ruck. I know nothing about the necklace save what I heard from Mrs. Lilly; and she told me that Colonel Hall was murdered, and the necklace was stolen."
The necklace was given to Mrs. Hedge, said Ruck, who was now very angry, "and Alpenny promised to give it to you. If you give it to me, I will go out of your life and you can marry Paslow; if not, I can stop this marriage."
I defy you to do your worst, said Paslow savagely.
Don't do that; it might be dangerous, said Ruck, with a meaning look. "Well, Miss Hedge?" He turned to Beatrice.
I know nothing about the necklace, she replied. "If you married me you would marry a pauper. Lady Watson has Mr. Alpenny's money; and if he did receive the necklace from my mother, he certainly never gave it to me, or even spoke of its existence."
Ruck turned pale and looked at the ground. "Can Lady Watson have secured it?" he muttered.
You had better ask her. And now, Major Ruck, that I know your real reason for wishing to marry me, I may tell you that I would willingly have given the Obi necklace to escape such a match! and she turned her back on him scornfully.
The Major, notwithstanding that he was in the house, and in the presence of a lady, put on his hat. He had quite lost his suave manners, and looked thoroughly angry. "I shall take my leave, Miss Hedge," he said, bowing ironically. "Marry Paslow Whenever you choose; he is free now, as he says; but if trouble comes of your marriage, do not say that I did not warn you."
What trouble can come? asked Beatrice, turning like a lioness.
Don't say that you have not been warned, said Ruck, backing towards the door. "As to myself, I shall search for the necklace, and get it. Lady Watson may know of its whereabouts.--Paslow, I congratulate you on a possible marriage----"
You cannot stop it, Ruck, said Vivian coolly.
Oh, I have no desire to do so. All I wanted from this lady was the Obi necklace. As she has not got it, there is no need for me to sacrifice my freedom. Miss Hedge, good-day; Paslow, good-day; and with a bow, the Major took his gigantic figure out of the room.
The two young people looked at one another in silence. "What does it all mean?" asked Beatrice helplessly.
You heard what Ruck said, answered Vivian. "He wanted to marry you for the necklace. As you have not got it, he will trouble you no more."
In any case, he would not trouble me, cried Beatrice indignantly. "Does Major Ruck think me a child to be driven into a match about which I care nothing? What influence can he have to make me do what he wanted?"
He was playing a game of bluff, said Vivian eagerly. "He cannot force you to marry him, nor can he stop my marriage. He could have done so before, because he knew that my wife was alive; but now that she is dead, his power ceases. And, Beatrice"--he paused and looked down--"how can I ask you to be my wife after what you have heard?"
The girl looked at him in silence. Had she loved him less, she might have refused to answer his appeal. As it was, her love overcame the momentary anger which she felt at having been kept in the dark. At once she moved towards him, and placed her arms round his neck.
We are all sinners, she whispered; "and I love you too well to let you go."
God bless you, my darling, faltered Vivian, pressing her to his breast.
Let the past alone, said Beatrice, kissing him. "We shall marry, and live for one another. Look with me, Vivian, to a happy future."
My darling--my darling! and Paslow fell on his knees.
It really did seem as though the course of this true love was about to run smooth. Durban, to whom Beatrice explained all that had taken place during Ruck's visit, heard what she had to say in silence, and seemed relieved when he heard the whole.
I am glad that Mr. Paslow arrived at the moment, said Durban, when the story was ended. "He and the Major now understand one another."
I never knew that Vivian was acquainted with Major Ruck.
He met him at Mr. Alpenny's town office, missy.
The Major seemed to threaten Vivian, observed the girl thoughtfully.
Durban shrugged his fat shoulders. "That is so like the Major," he retorted carelessly; "he is all stage thunder. Now that he knows you have not the necklace, he will trouble you no more. Mr. Paslow is not rich, missy; and you have lost the master's money; still, I should like you to marry the man you love, and go away."
Why do you want me to go away? she demanded peremptorily.
It will be better, murmured Durban, uneasily.
You are still keeping something from me, Durban?
Nothing that is necessary for you to know, missy.
Beatrice saw very well that the old servant was fencing, and wondered what it was that he feared. "The necklace?" she said suddenly.
I do not know where it is, missy.
Did you ever see it?
Once. Colonel Hall showed it to me--a very fine set of diamonds.
Where did Colonel Hall get it?
I cannot say--somewhere in the West Indies, I think.
You were Colonel Hall's servant in the West Indies, Durban?
I was, missy. Durban looked at her with fire in his dark eyes. "He was the best of masters, and I loved him. He brought me to this place with him, and here he met with his death."
Do you know who killed him?
No, missy, I do not.
Why did you take service with Mr. Alpenny?
I was poor, said Durban, with a shrug, "and my master, the Colonel, was dead. I had no home, and I was thankful to accept the situation. I might not have stayed in it for so long, missy, but that Mr. Alpenny married. It was you who have kept me at The Camp all these years."
And what about Mrs. Hall?
Nothing, missy. She was a silent lady. I know very little about her.
Durban--Beatrice looked at him keenly--"are you telling me the truth?"
I am, missy. Why should I tell you a lie? All I know of Mrs. Hall is, that she was the daughter of a West Indian planter, who was my father's master in the time of slavery. I was born on the estate, and afterwards entered the service of Colonel Hall--a captain he was then--to whom I became greatly attached. He saw Mrs. Hall, and fell in love with her. They married, but did not get on well together, for what reason I cannot tell you. They came here to see Mr. Paslow's father, who was an old friend of the Colonel's. Mrs. Hall stopped in London for a time, and then came down for one night with the nurse and her child. My master was murdered, and the necklace disappeared. That is all I know.
But, Durban, Major Ruck says that the Colonel gave the necklace to my mother before his death.
That is not true, cried Durban vehemently, and his eyes blazed. "There was no reason why he should give it to--to--Mrs. Hedge. And I saw the necklace in the Colonel's hands on the very night the crime was committed. Yes, and I saw him place it in the green box beside his bed. Next morning the window was open, the Colonel was lying dead with a cut throat, and the Obi necklace was gone. I can tell you no more, and I don't know why you wish to know all this."
Because, said Beatrice slowly, "it is my belief that the same man with the black patch who murdered Colonel Hall murdered Mr. Alpenny; and in both cases I believe that the murder was committed for the sake of this necklace."
I did not know that Mr. Alpenny had it, missy.
Major Ruck says that he had, and married my mother for the sake of the necklace, which doubtless--as it has not been found after his death--he turned into money.
It might be so, murmured Durban moodily. "Major Ruck knew a great deal about Mr. Alpenny which I did not know. He was a kind of decoy duck to the master--a man about town who brought foolish youths to borrow money. A dangerous man, missy, and one you are well rid of. Missy"--he laid his hand on her arm--"be advised; seek to know no more. Mr. Alpenny's life was not a good one or a clean one. Marry Mr. Paslow, and go away."
I'll think of it, Durban, said Beatrice, after a few moments of thought, and there the conversation ended for the time being.
All the same, Beatrice had no idea of going away. She even thought that she would not marry Vivian Paslow until things were made clear, and she--so to speak--knew where she stood. What with Vivian's marriage to Maud Ellis, and the late Mr. Alpenny's hints that the young man had committed crimes, there was much in Paslow's life which she did not understand. Had she loved him less, she would have had nothing more to do with him. But she did love him with all her heart and soul; consequently she believed that he was more sinned against than sinning. It was nothing out of the common that a young man in London should be entrapped into such a marriage; and, after all, it was not unusual that Vivian should strive to hide from her--the woman he really loved--the folly of which he had been guilty eight years ago. That she could forgive, and did forgive, and was ready to marry her lover as soon as he wished. But she could not rid herself of a vague fear that if she did marry him, it would only be the beginning of fresh misery. Durban's desire that the young couple should go away, seemed to her ominous; and Vivian, although under stress of circumstances had confessed the marriage, did not seem to be communicative regarding the other mysteries. What if at the back of all these things lurked some terrible scandal which might ruin her happiness and that of Paslow's?
While thinking thus, it occurred to Beatrice that she had never learned what Vivian had done on that night when he left her under the Witches' Oak. They were together walking in the garden after dinner when she considered this question, and she asked Vivian at once to explain. He removed his cigar and looked at her searchingly.
What a woman you are to ask questions! he said, with a forced laugh.
I want them answered, said Beatrice rather imperiously.
Vivian shrugged his shoulders. "I am not averse to doing so," he said in a weary manner. "Well, on that night I left you and ran to see who was watching. It was a red-headed little beast called Waterloo, employed as a spy by Mr. Alpenny!"
I know him--I have seen him.
Seen him? Vivian started and looked uneasy. "When?--where?"
In this very garden. And Beatrice related how the tramp had suddenly appeared to mar the beauty of the scene. "He wanted to see you," she concluded, "but Durban sent him away."
Had I seen the brute I should have horsewhipped him, cried the young man angrily. "He was a spy of Alpenny's."
On me?--on you?
On us both. Alpenny knew that I loved you, and did not want us to meet. He told Waterloo, who was hanging round The Camp, to keep his eye on you and on me. Waterloo confessed----
Did you catch him?
Yes, I did, and nearly broke his neck. He confessed that he had been set to watch by Mr. Alpenny, and had been lurking outside the great gates of The Camp.
I saw him, said Beatrice, recalling the vague shadow which she had seen crouching in the shade on that fatal night.
He saw you go past, went on Paslow, "and followed to the Witches' Oak like your shadow. When I caught him he told me all this, so I gave him a kicking and let him go. The dog was not worth fouling my hands with. Then I went back to the Oak to find you. You had gone, so I fancied that you had gone home. I did not follow, as I thought that I might run up against Alpenny and that there would be more trouble. I went home to the Grange, and then was coming along the next morning to see you, and give you the key, when I met Durban."
It was then that you heard of the murder?
Yes; and afterwards went up to town to see Alpenny's lawyer about your chances of getting the money. You see, Beatrice, Major Ruck, and other creatures employed by Alpenny, were quite capable of destroying the will, so as to get the money themselves.
But how could they do that?
By bribing or blackmailing the lawyer of Alpenny. The man is not above reproach, as he did much dirty work for Alpenny. Ruck knows of many of these underhanded dealings; and on hearing of Alpenny's death, it struck me that Ruck might try to force the lawyer--Tuft is his name--to destroy any will that might be made in your favour, by threatening to communicate with the police. However, I saw Tuft, and he produced the will. It was genuine enough, as I know Alpenny's handwriting very well. The money was left, as you know, to Lady Watson. I believe that years ago Alpenny admired her, although I do not see why he should leave her such a large fortune and cut you out.
He hated me, said Beatrice sadly; "he always did. Before he died he told me to expect nothing, and I am a pauper, as you know. Vivian," she said suddenly, "let us put off our marriage for a time. I can go out as a governess, and we can wait."
Why should we wait? he asked quickly, and his arms went round her in a firm embrace.
Are you sure, murmured Beatrice, "that if I marry you, all trouble will be at an end?"
Quite sure. My first wife is dead, so I can take a second. Ruck and those other beasts cannot harm me now. No, Beatrice, we shall marry in a week as you promised.
I have no wedding-dress!
That does not matter. I marry you and not your clothes. If we postpone our marriage, it may never take place.
Why not?
Because there are those who would stop me from marrying you. Not Ruck--he can do nothing. Beatrice,--he caught her hands and looked deep into her eyes--"I own to you that I have been a fool. My marriage with that adventuress introduced me into strange company. I will not tell you now what straits I have been in and what trouble I have undergone. Only trust me and marry me. I shall then tell you the whole of my life's history. Believe me, there is nothing in it for which you will cease to love me. My worst sin is having kept this first marriage from you."
I will trust you, whispered Beatrice, who was much perplexed; "but is it not possible to clear up these mysteries?"
You may clear them up, said Vivian, after a moment's hesitation. "I cannot help you--I dare not," he ended, and abruptly left her.
What did it all mean? Beatrice asked herself that question again and again, but without receiving any answer. But for her overwhelming love, she would have hesitated to step forward in the dark, as she really was doing when consenting to this marriage. But she felt that Vivian needed her aid, and that only when they were man and wife would that aid be of any real service. She made no attempt to continue the conversation when they met again in the drawing-room, nor did she seek out the old servant to ask questions. But since Vivian hinted that by her own unaided efforts she might arrive at the truth, whatever it might be, she determined to search on. In one way or another she was resolved with all the force of her strong nature to put an end to these provoking mysteries.
It was for this reason that the next morning found her climbing the Downs. Vivian had gone with Dinah into Brighton, and Beatrice, alleging the death of her stepfather as a reason for retirement, had remained at home. In reality, she wanted to trace out Orchard the ex-butler, who had turned shepherd, and whom Mrs. Lilly had told her of. From that elderly dame Beatrice obtained the information that Orchard lived on the Downs in a little wooden hut, like the savage maid in the popular song, and having gained a fair notion of its whereabouts, she set out to seek the man. He had been in the house at the time of Colonel Hall's murder, and apparently had seen something. Had he not done so, his nerves certainly would not have been so shattered as to make him give up the comfortable profession of a butler for the hard life of a shepherd. Certainly he might refuse to speak out, as he assuredly had not told the police anything likely to lead to the discovery of Colonel Hall's assassin. But Beatrice had great faith in her woman's wiles and in the power of her tongue to get what she wanted. It was the sole way in which she could do so, as she had no money wherewith to tempt the old man. But then so patriarchal a person might be above bribery and corruption.
It was a divine day, and the breezes were blowing freshly across the spacious Downs from the distant Channel. Beatrice loved to look on these wide spaces of green, and to watch the sheep moving across the close-shorn turf, which they kept in such good order. A mile's walk brought her into the vicinity where Mrs. Lilly had informed her that Orchard watched his flock, and she speedily saw the hut, a tiny box of a house roofed with turf and standing on the Downs, without railing, or fence, or garden round it--just like a house that had lost its way.
Fate favoured her, and she took it as a good omen when she saw the old man seated at the door eating his midday meal. He was bent and white-headed, and had a long white beard. In fact, he might have passed for Father Christmas had he been appropriately dressed. His eyes were faded, blue and mild, and he seemed in no wise disturbed when she approached. "Good day, miss," said the ex-butler.
Good day, responded Beatrice. "Will you let me sit down? I have been walking for some time."
Certainly, miss, said Orchard, with the deference of a former indoor servant; "but the air will do you good. I suppose, miss, you are one of the gentry from Brighton? They often come up here to breathe the air and get appetites. Sit down, miss."
By this time he had brought out a stool, and Beatrice sat down with a weary air, for she really was tired. "I come from the Weald," she said, waving her hand towards the luxurious verdure of the valley below. "I live there."
A very nice place, miss. I lived there once myself.
At Convent Grange? said Beatrice, glad to see that Orchard was disposed to be communicative.
He turned a mild look of surprise on her, and considered her face attentively. "Why, yes, miss," he replied, "although I don't know how you come to know that."
Mrs. Lilly told me.
Orchard let a glimmering smile rest on his pale lips. "Sarah Lilly?" he said musingly. "Ah, I have not seen her since we were fellow-servants together--and that was long ago. I might have married her, miss, as we liked one another. But she was married and I was married, so we couldn't come together."
I should think not, said Beatrice, smiling at the grave way in which the old shepherd spoke. "Mrs. Lilly is a great friend of mine."
Is she, miss? And no doubt--he considered her still more attentively--"Mrs. Lilly told you how I came to be a shepherd?"
Yes, she told me that.
I did it for my nerves, said Orchard, looking away at the treeless green expanse; "they were shattered by the terrible calamity which happened in that house. The air here cured me."
Do you know who killed Colonel Hall?
You are the first person who has asked me that question for many years, miss. Time was when many did so, but the Colonel has been buried these five-and-twenty years, and his terrible death is quite forgotten. I don't know who killed him--for certain, that is, miss.
Have you no suspicion?
Oh yes, said Orchard calmly. "I believe that Mr. Alpenny murdered Colonel Hall to get a certain necklace."
That cannot be true, said Beatrice aghast; "a Major Ruck----"
I don't know him, interpolated Orchard.
Well, he says that Colonel Hall gave the necklace to my mother.
And who was your mother, miss?
Mrs. Hedge----
Who married Mr. Alpenny? cried Orchard, rising suddenly to his feet and really startled out of his mildness.
Yes. Mr. Alpenny is now dead, and----
I know--I know, said Orchard, waving his hand; "he met with the due reward of his wickedness. I can talk of him later, and I'll tell you why I suspect him. Mrs. Hedge's daughter--the Colonel's child----"
What? cried Beatrice, springing to her feet.
Mr. Alpenny never told you, I suppose, said Orchard coolly; "but he married Mrs. Hall, who took the name of Mrs. Hedge because she was suspected of being concerned in the crime. You are Miss Hall--Miss Beatrice Hall!"
Beatrice waited to hear no more. As a sensible woman, she should have remained where she was to question the old shepherd, and learn why he stated so firmly that she was the daughter of Colonel Hall who had been murdered so cruelly at the Grange; but the mere fact of the announcement startled her, and without pausing, she rushed away, as though to escape from her thoughts. Orchard looked after her in mild surprise, but did not call her back, although her action must have puzzled him. The ex-butler seemed to have outlived all curiosity, or else the Downs had cured his nerves so thoroughly that he did not feel startled. However, be this as it may, he returned to his dinner, and sat watching the slowly-moving sheep without giving a thought to the young lady who had called upon him.
How Beatrice descended the slope of the Downs into the valley she never knew. Her brain was filled with the information she had so strangely gained. She was not Beatrice Hedge, but Beatrice Hall, the daughter of the dead man who had owned the necklace. Ruck asserted that the Colonel had given the necklace to his wife before the murder. As Mrs. Alpenny, who called herself Mrs. Hedge and who really was Mrs. Hall, had been the wife of the Colonel, this was not unlikely. Alpenny, finding that she possessed the necklace, might have married her to gain possession of the same. But what Beatrice could not understand was, why her mother should have married the usurer. It was true that he had always been her admirer, as Durban himself had stated; but from accepting attentions to marrying the man who paid them, was a long step. Mrs. Hall had taken it, under the name of Mrs. Hedge, and again Beatrice wondered what the reason could be.
Durban must have known this truth. He had been the faithful servant of Colonel Hall, and had always spoken of him with love and admiration. If she--Beatrice--were the Colonel's child, the adoration of Durban for herself would be explained. He loved her, because he had loved her dead father. But why had Durban held his tongue over the marriage, and had allowed everyone to think that Alpenny had married a Mrs. Hedge? Durban, as Beatrice well knew, had no love for Alpenny, yet he had said nothing likely to prevent such a match. Certainly Durban might not have had the power; but there appeared no reason why he should have concealed the truth from his dead master's child. Beatrice was beginning to see light. There was some mystery concerning her, which had to do with her father's murder, with the missing necklace, and probably with the murder of Alpenny himself. Durban now might tell the truth and explain matters seeing that she already knew so much. Then, again, he might refuse to speak out, and she would be as much in the dark as ever.
Major Ruck doubtless knew the truth from Alpenny, although he had declared that Mrs. Hedge was the cousin of Colonel Hall. But Beatrice, remembering his hesitation in making the statement, was certain that Ruck was cognisant of the real state of affairs. Was Vivian Paslow likewise enlightened? She could not be certain of this. Vivian might or might not know, but he assuredly had some secret on his mind which he refused to impart to her until the marriage took place. Had that secret to do with her real parentage which had been revealed to her by Orchard? Beatrice was minded, then and there, to ask Vivian for the truth. But she could not do so on the spur of the moment, much as she wished to since Vivian was at Brighton with Dinah and would not be back for some hours. Durban certainly was at The Camp, but Beatrice, very naturally, considering his attitude, was doubtful if he would speak out At the foot of the Downs, and when on the road leading to Hurstable village, she paused to think what was best to be done. She half regretted that she had not stopped with Orchard to learn more. It would be just as well, she thought, to go back: but a glance at the steep wall of the Downs led her to change her mind. She could not face that weary climb again, as her nerves were shattered by the communication which had changed her life.
Then it occurred to her that Mrs. Snow knew her mother. Mrs. Snow--then Miss Duncan--had been at Convent Grange when Colonel Hall was murdered. She must have known that the so-called Mrs. Hedge was really Mrs. Hall, and must have known also the reason why Mrs. Hall under a feigned name had married Jarvis Alpenny. Mrs. Snow declared herself to be a dear friend of Mrs. Hall. Why, then, did she hate Beatrice, who was the daughter of that same dear friend? That Mrs. Snow hated her Beatrice was convinced, as she had pointedly neglected her throughout five and twenty years. Yes Mrs. Snow would be the best person to question; and having made up her mind rapidly, the girl took her way to the Vicarage of Hurstable.
Mrs. Snow, looking more sour and elderly than ever, was in the garden, engaged in the Arcadian pastime of gathering roses for decorative purposes. She was a good housekeeper, and liked to see a dainty dinner-table. Notwithstanding her disagreeable nature, she made the vicar and his son comfortable enough, and really loved them both in her sour way. Jerry, indeed, was the apple of her eye, and it was for this reason that she resented his engagement to Dinah Paslow. With any other girl it would have been the same. It was not the individual maiden that Mrs. Snow hated, but the girl who took her son to be a husband. For the sake of her own selfishness, which she miscalled maternal love, she would have liked Jerry to remain a bachelor all his life, just to please her, and bestow all his affection on his dear mother. But the young man himself had not found that affection, although it really existed, strong enough to fill his life. Therefore he had asked Dinah to marry him, and so strongly had he held his own on the subject, that Mrs. Snow had been won over so far as to receive Dinah as a future daughter-in-law.
Mrs. Snow, said Beatrice, when she entered the pretty grounds of the Vicarage, "I wish to speak to you particularly."
The vicar's wife looked sourly at her visitor. She hated Beatrice because of her beauty, amongst other things; and when she saw that same beauty was somewhat worn and haggard, that the girl looked ill and had lost her vivacity, she felt pleased. "Quite washed out," said Mrs. Snow to herself, and thus became more amiable. Laying down the scissors, with which she had been clipping the flowers, she advanced with what was meant to be an ingratiating smile. "My dear Miss Hedge, I am so pleased to see you. This is the first time that you have called. Come inside, please."
Thank you. I prefer to remain in the garden and take up as little of your time as possible.
Mrs. Snow stiffened. "What an extraordinary tone to take with me," she said, with the offended air of a thorough egotist.
Can you wonder at it? We know so little of one another.
That is, as it may be, snapped Mrs. Snow, wondering what her visitor had come to see her about "I may know more of you than you think."
For that reason I come to see you, said Beatrice calmly.
Her hostess started, but speedily recovered her calmness. "I really do not know what you mean, Miss Hedge," she said composedly.
I think you know this much, that I am not Miss Hedge.
Oh! said Mrs. Snow, her sallow face flushing an uneasy red. "Will you not be seated?"
Thank you. Beatrice moved towards a garden seat at the far end of the lawn; but Mrs. Snow touched her arm, and pointed to a side-path.
I have a very secluded arbour there, she said significantly, "where we cannot be overheard." And she led the way down the path.
The whole world may hear what I have to say, declared Beatrice boldly, and resolved to be a party to no mystery.
But the whole world, said Mrs. Snow, stopped with a disagreeable smile, "may not hear what I may have to say--that is, if you press me."
I want to hear everything, said the girl sharply; "for that reason I have come to you."
I fear you will go away less easy in your mind than you came.
Beatrice shrugged her shoulders. "My mind has been uneasy ever since the death of my stepfather," she retorted. "Is this the place?"
This is the place, assented the vicaress.
It was--as Mrs. Snow had stated--a very secret place. The path ended In a kind of semicircular enclosure surrounded by a high hedge of hawthorn. The arbour faced the path, so that any one seated therein could see an intruder advancing along the path. The haven of rest was of light trellis-work overgrown with roses, and had a comfortable wooden seat at the back, and two basket chairs in front of this, with a small green-painted table between. Beatrice sank into one of the chairs, and Mrs. Snow subsided into the other. The table was between them, and the two glanced at one another when seated. Mrs. Snow looked as sour as ever: but there lurked a watchful look in her eyes, which a more discerning person than the visitor would have seen at once. Beatrice on her part, having nothing to conceal, was perfectly open; and caring very little for what Mrs. Snow had to say, resolved that, whatever it might be, she would bind herself to no secrecy. The scene being set, the actresses spoke. Beatrice politely waited to give Mrs. Snow a chance of opening the conversation, while Mrs. Snow was equally determined that her visitor should speak first. Under these circumstances a silence ensued which lasted for quite two minutes. Mrs. Snow, being the most impatient, yielded first to the desire to use her tongue.
You spoke very strangely just now, Miss Hedge, she said, and purposely uttered the name to evoke frank speech from Beatrice.
Miss Hall, if you please, said the girl, falling into the trap.
Oh! Miss Hall, replied the other, flushing. "I never knew that your mother was called Hall."
As she was your dearest friend--you told me as much--I fancy you must have had some idea.
Perhaps, said Mrs. Snow, looking down uneasily. Then she raised her face with a frown. "Who told you this?"
A man called Orchard. You may know of him, Mrs. Snow?
I have no reason to deny that I know of him. He was the late Mr. Paslow's butler, and became a shepherd on the Downs, because the doctor said he would have to live in the open air.
Why?
Did he not tell you? His nerves were so shattered by that horrid murder which took place at the Grange twenty-five years ago.
You allude to the murder of my father?
To the murder of Colonel Hall, corrected Mrs. Snow snappishly.
My father was Colonel Hall.
So this man Orchard says? sneered the other, her face flushing and her hands opening and shutting.
And so I believe. Come now, Mrs. Snow, you must tell me what you know of this matter?
I know nothing.
Perhaps Miss Duncan may be able to tell me?
Ah!--the vicar's wife laughed carelessly--"you know my maiden name, and perhaps my occupation before I married my husband?"
I heard that you were a governess.
Who said so?
Durban.
In that case, since he has been so frank, I wonder that he did not tell you how Mrs. Hall--your mother--killed the Colonel.
Beatrice started to her feet. "You dare to say that?"
Yes, I do, cried Mrs. Snow venomously. "She killed your father to gain possession of a diamond necklace, and married Alpenny because he could have accused her of the murder."
That is not true, said Beatrice, closing her eyes with horror.
It is true. I can prove it.
Why did you not do so twenty-five years ago?
Because your mother was my friend.
Mrs. Snow--Beatrice opened her eyes, and leaned across the table--"you were never my mother's friend."
The woman moved uneasily, and her hands were restless. "Had I not been so, your mother would have stood in the dock."
Ah! you had your own reason for keeping quiet.
Do you mean to accuse me of being her accomplice? said Mrs. Snow, rising, and scowling.
Sit down, please. Beatrice pushed her back into the chair.
How dare you! gasped Mrs. Snow. "I was never treated before so in the whole course of my life!" And she made to rise again.
Again Beatrice pushed her back. "I am stronger than you, Mrs. Snow," she said scornfully; "you shall sit down, and you shall tell me everything you know."
And if I do not?
I'll go at once to the police.
Mrs. Snow turned white. "To the police?"
Yes. Listen. I believe that the man with the black patch who murdered my father, Colonel Hall, also murdered Mr. Alpenny. My mother is entirely innocent, and were she alive she would say so. Mrs. Snow laughed at this remark, but in a hollow manner. "Yes, you may laugh, Mrs. Snow, but what I say is true," resumed Beatrice firmly; "and if you don't tell me all you know, I shall tell the police that you accuse my mother and say that you can substantiate your accusation. When arrested, you may be forced to speak out."
Arrested? How dare you! Mrs. Snow was furious. "How can I be arrested when the murder of your father took place twenty-five years ago? It is ridiculous."
Oh no; this second murder has to do with the first, so that will bring the death of my father up-to-date. Speak out, or I go at once to Brighton, and then----
You will not dare---- gasped the vicaress in a cowed tone.
I give you three minutes to make up your mind, Mrs. Snow.
I don't want one minute. I shall tell you all I know--all I believe to be true: your mother is guilty.
Was guilty, since she is dead, corrected Beatrice quietly; "and I do not believe one word. You hated her, in spite of the fact that she was--as you say--your dearest friend."
You are right! cried Mrs. Snow with hysterical vehemence; "I did hate her--always--always! She took from me the man I loved. Yes, you may look and look, but I loved George Hall, your father, with all my heart. I was only a governess, poor and plain; your mother was a planter's daughter, rich and beautiful. We were at school together. I was her companion afterwards; but I always detested her, and now----"
Now you detest her daughter, finished Beatrice.
You have your mother's beauty, said Mrs. Snow, and cast a venomous look on the girl's pale face.
So this is the reason you kept away from The Camp, and spoke of me to others so bitterly as you did?
Yes. You may as well know the truth: I hate you. You have the beauty of your mother, who stole George Hall away from me. But you have not the money; I saw to that.
How could you prevent my inheriting the money? I suppose you allude to Mr. Alpenny's fortune.
Because I told Mr. Alpenny if he left the money to you that I would accuse him of being an accomplice of Mrs. Hall in her murder of the Colonel. Miss Hedge, or Miss Hall, or whatever you like to call yourself, I hate you so much that I would like to put the rope round your neck.
Yet I am the daughter of the man you loved! said Beatrice, wondering at this bitterness.
All the more reason I should hate you. His daughter--yes, and the daughter of Amy Hall, whom I loathed with all my soul.
If so, why did you not accuse her of the murder?
I gave her a chance of repentance.
No, Mrs. Snow, that was not the reason. You did not tell the police, because you could not prove your accusation. For all I know--for all the police know--you may have murdered my father yourself.
Mrs. Snow laughed scornfully. "I murder George Hall? Why, I loved the very ground he trod on. You can prove nothing against me."
Nor can you prove anything against my mother.
Can I not? Mrs. Snow rose and flung her arms about exultingly. "I was stopping at the Grange. I was lying awake on that night, wondering when my misery would end."
What misery?
The misery of loving your father, and of seeing him with your mother. But I sowed dissension between them: they were never happy.
You wicked woman!
I am a woman, and that answers all, said Mrs. Snow sullenly. "I don't mind telling you all this, as you cannot accuse me of anything. If you did say that I told you what I am now telling you, I should deny it; and who would believe you, against a respectable woman like me?"
You are a wicked woman! said Beatrice again. "Go on with what you have to say. I want to get away from you as soon as possible."
You may not be in such a hurry to leave me on a future occasion, retorted Mrs. Snow. "You and I have not done with one another yet. I know much that you would like to know."
What is that?
I'll tell you later. Meanwhile, I tell you that I was lying awake and heard a noise. I stole out, and saw Mrs. Hall ready dressed to go out into the passage. She was at the head of the stairs, and with her was old Alpenny, for he was old even then. They stopped talking for a time, as I saw, and he apparently was persuading her to do something. Then they went along towards the wing where Colonel Hall slept. I went back to bed, wondering what Mrs. Hall meant by keeping a midnight appointment with old Alpenny. I never suspected the truth. Next morning the necklace was gone and George Hall murdered. And she did it! shouted Mrs. Snow savagely; "she--you mother! Alpenny was her accomplice. He wished to get the necklace. He was afraid to kill George Hall himself, and made a woman do it. Then she got the necklace after she cut poor George's throat, and Alpenny made her marry him under a threat of denouncing her as what she was, a murderess--a murderess--you--you daughter of one!" jeered Mrs. Snow, pointing a mocking finger at the pale girl.
You lie! said Beatrice, shaken but not convinced.
A black patch was found under the window of my father's room. It was open; and now that a man with a black patch killed Mr. Alpenny (for the necklace, for all I know), I believe he also killed my father.
You admit that Mr. Alpenny had the necklace. How did he get it?
Orchard said that Alpenny killed my father.
No; your mother did. Alpenny was merely the accomplice.
Wait. Major Ruck declared that Colonel Hall gave the necklace before his death to Mrs. Hedge. Now I know that Mrs. Hedge was really Mrs. Hall, I believe him. Father gave my mother the necklace, and doubtless what else you say is true. My mother was forced to marry Alpenny, because he threatened to denounce her, She must have been suspected of the crime. I can see that plainly, else she would not have changed her name to Hedge. I wonder she was not recognised.
No one knew her here, said Mrs. Snow gloomily. "She was only one night at Convent Grange, and on that night her husband was murdered. Pshaw! She is guilty."
I don't believe it, insisted Beatrice, rising defiantly; "but I will prove the truth of what you say. Durban must speak out now."
And he will accuse your mother as I accuse her. Why did Durban go to serve Alpenny for nothing? Because Alpenny, wishing to get a faithful servant for nothing, said he would denounce Mrs. Hall unless she married him and brought Durban with her. Durban knows the truth, but he has kept silent all these years because he dared not speak out without hanging Mrs. Hall.
She is dead now, so nothing can be done, said Beatrice sadly; "but at least her memory can be cleared, and I shall clear it."
If you delve into your mother's past, you will find more things than murder in it, said Mrs. Snow sneeringly. "She loved Major Ruck."
What?
She loved Major Ruck, I tell you. He also was at Convent Grange on the night the crime was committed, and I believe that your mother was about to elope with him when I saw her dressed at midnight, with Alpenny talking to her.
Oh, said Beatrice coldly, "I thought that she was there--as you say--to murder my father."
She intended to do so, and then elope with Ruck; but Alpenny caught her in his toils. For all I know, I may have seen her talking after the murder, and Alpenny may have gone with her to get the necklace.
You make out a very pretty case, Mrs. Snow, said Beatrice, her heart beating loudly and quickly, for the weight of evidence did seem to be against Mrs. Hall. "However, I shall see Durban, and then come again to see you. Good day," and she moved away, while Mrs. Snow laughed.
It was all very strange, thought Beatrice, as she walked towards Convent Grange. She had learned much from Orchard and from Mrs. Snow, yet apparently there was more to learn. Who had killed Colonel Hall? Who had murdered Jarvis Alpenny? Was the assassin one and the same? And if she found the assassin, would she learn who possessed the necklace, which seemed to account for both crimes? Finally, did she discover the identity of the assassin and the necklace, would she be able to learn the mystery which lurked in the background of Vivian's life? These were the questions which Beatrice asked herself on the way home.
In spite of Mrs. Snow's assertion and significant tale of the midnight meeting with Alpenny, the girl could not bring herself to believe that her mother was guilty. A woman would never think of cutting a man's throat, and probably when a frail little woman such as Mrs. Hall was reported to have been, would not have the power. Then again, Alpenny was murdered in the same way, and Mrs. Hall had been lying in Hurstable churchyard for years. Also, if Mrs. Hall was guilty, what had the black patch which had reappeared in the second crime to do with the first one? It seemed impossible that these riddles could be answered.
On arriving at the Grange, Beatrice found Dinah and Jerry Snow walking down the avenue. Apparently they had been quarrelling, for they did not walk arm in arm as usual, and Jerry was as sulky as Dinah was tearful. "Whatever is the matter?" asked Beatrice, stopping.
It's Jerry's cruelty, mourned Dinah, whose sorrow made her look even plainer than usual.
It's Dinah's foolishness, retorted Jerry, and walked on.
Come back, cried the girl, "or I'll never, never, never speak to you again. Do you wish to break my heart?"
You're breaking it yourself, grumbled the young man. All the same, he returned to where the two girls were standing.
And after all I have put up with from your mother, complained Dinah.
Oh! leave my mother alone.
I wish she would leave me alone. She is always highly disagreeable to me. I believe it is a family failing, concluded Dinah spitefully.
Don't marry me, then.
I don't intend to--you--you bear!
Beatrice listened to all this with covert amusement. She knew that the two loved one another too well to think of parting, whatever might be the grounds of their quarrel. "Come, come," she said soothingly, and prepared to play the part of peacemaker. "What is the matter? Is Jerry jealous?"
No, snapped Dinah. "I am--very jealous. He"--she pointed to Jerry, who still looked sulky--"has been flirting with another girl. I was in the village an hour ago, and there was Jerry as bold as brass talking to a red-haired minx, who squinted."
She doesn't squint, growled Jerry.
There, you see; he defends her.
Dinah! cried Jerry in desperation, "how can you be so silly? I love you and you only."
You love that horrid girl. I saw her looking at you.
A cat may look at a king.
She certainly is a cat, though you're not a king.
Well, said Beatrice, preparing to move on, "I am going back to the house, and you two can settle it yourselves."
Dinah clung to her friend. "No. I won't be left alone with Jerry."
Well, then, explain, said Beatrice impatiently, for she had too many worries of her own to take any profound interest in the frivolous ones of these milk-and-water lovers.
I'll explain, said Mr. Snow defiantly. "There is a young lady I know in London----"
Young! cried Dinah; "she's thirty-five, and painted."
Well, then, she came down here to the inn, and I met her outside. She exchanged a few words with me, and said that she wanted to know the nearest way to the Downs. It seems that her father is a shepherd on the Downs--a man called Orchard.
What? cried Beatrice, disengaging herself from Dinah's too fond embrace. She could scarcely believe her ears. That she should come from seeing the ex-butler for the first time, to stumble--so to speak--across his daughter, was indeed an extraordinary coincidence.
Jerry looked at her amazed, as he could not understand her tone. "Why do you look so astonished?" he asked.
I have only lately come down from seeing Orchard, she said. "Oh, by the way, Dinah," she added, turning to the girl, "Vivian came back with you from Brighton?"
No, said Dinah crossly; "he had to see someone, and will not be back until late. I came home myself, and passed through the village to see Jerry making love to that horrid girl. And Jerry had the coolness to follow me."
Only to explain, urged Jerry. "Come, Dinah, don't be silly. I know the lady only a little; she is on one of the papers belonging to our editorial firm, and does the fashion column."
She might dress better, then, retorted Dinah crossly, and determined not to be appeased. "I saw cheapness in every line of her dress."
Ah, said Jerry artfully, "she cannot set off a dress like you."
Don't be silly, cried Miss Paslow, but smiled for all that.
What is this lady's name? asked Beatrice.
Lady!--Dinah tossed her head--"when her father is a shepherd, and, I dare say, a very bad one."
Miss Maud Carr is her name, said Mr. Snow, ignoring Dinah, much to her wrath.
Maud! Beatrice remembered that this was also the name of Vivian's dead wife, and again wondered at the long arm of coincidence.
I know very little about it or her, said Jerry in an injured tone, "save that she writes about women's fashions. We have met at journalistic clubs in London, and, of course, when I saw her I passed the time of day with her."
You passed an hour, snapped Dinah, "and very pleasantly, I'm sure."
She's not a bit ashamed of her birth, continued Jerry, still ignoring Dinah as a punishment. "I never knew her father was a shepherd in London, but she confessed it to me here quite easily."
That's her artfulness, commented Dinah. "Why are you so curious about this woman?" she asked Beatrice.
The girl shrugged her shoulders. "I am not curious," she denied; "but as I have just seen old Orchard, it is strange that his daughter should have been speaking to Jerry."
Not at all, Beatrice. Jerry is always fond of these painted, horrid women, who never pay for their dresses because they write for fashion papers. I should be ashamed to earn my living in that way.--Well--she faced round to the impenitent Mr. Snow--"and what have you to say?"
Nothing, said Jerry crossly. "You are always nagging, Dinah."
After that! cried Miss Paslow, looking up to see why the heavens did not fall. "Well, I'm--I'm----" Words failed her, and she turned her back. "I'm going home. All is at an end!" and she sped up the avenue, glancing back meanwhile on occasions to see if Jerry followed.
But Jerry did nothing of the sort, and explained to Beatrice why he stood his ground. "Dinah needs a lesson," he said gravely. "You have no idea how she nags at me. I can't speak to any one without her getting into a pelting rage."
It shows how she loves you, said Beatrice soothingly.
I don't want to be loved in that selfish way. It's just like mother: she wants all one's affection, and nags the whole time, saying it is for my good. I've had quite enough of that in mother, without taking it on in a wife. I want a woman who will cheer me up, and look upon me as something to be looked up to. But I'll punish her, said Jerry wrathfully. "She expects me to run after her. I won't; I'll stay here and talk to you."
I'm busy, said Beatrice, taking a step or two away. "I have to go to The Camp to see Durban."
You needn't. He's at Convent Grange looking for you.
Oh! Then I'll go to him at once.
Better wait to hear what I have to say, urged Jerry; "it's about the murder of Mr. Alpenny."
Beatrice stopped short, wondering what she was about to hear. "Have you discovered anything?" she asked breathlessly.
I can't say if what I have discovered is of any use, explained Mr. Snow, "but it might put the police on the track of the assassins."
What have you found out?
Well, I was down Whitechapel the other night, said Jerry, "making an inquiry into some robbery that has taken place. There was a detective with me, and we saw all manner of queer things; also, we heard all manner of queer talk. In one way and another we picked up information about the Black Patch Gang."
The Black Patch Gang! echoed Beatrice. "Yes!--yes?"
It's a gang of rogues, thieves, and vagabonds, went on Mr. Snow. "The police have never been able to lay hands on the head of the gang, or break it up. This gang goes about committing burglaries, and stealing things, and picking pockets. They must have a kind of academy like Fagin's," mused Jerry, "and they know one another by a black patch worn over the left eye."
Just like the man I saw?
Yes. I thought of that when I heard the story, said Jerry, "and the detective thought the same. He is going to hunt out this gang and learn the whereabouts of their headquarters. And, Beatrice"--he moved forward to place a cautious hand on her arm--"it struck me--I don't know if it struck the detective, but it struck me, that Alpenny, who was a precious scoundrel--I beg your pardon----"
Go on, she said impatiently. "I know he was my stepfather, but I always thought him a wicked man myself."
I believe he was a fence, said Jerry solemnly.
What is that?
The chap who disposes of stolen goods. Yes; I really believe that was why Alpenny lived in the country. The Black Patch Gang brought their stolen goods down here, and he got rid of them in some way. I expect the police will come down and make a thorough search throughout The Camp. There may be all manner of secret hiding-places.
But, Jerry, protested Beatrice, who was very pale, as various thoughts rushed through her mind, "I never saw any London thieves in The Camp, or, indeed, any one disreputable."
Did you ever see any client? asked Jerry impressively.
No. Mr. Alpenny kept his business very quiet.
He had need to if he was a fence. Beatrice, remember how the keys were in the counting-house, where the man was murdered, and how the assassin could not have got out unless he used the keys. I believe there is another entrance to that railway carriage, and the assassin came in by that way, along with the rest of Alpenny's precious clients. I am quite sure the old man was the head of the gang.
There was Waterloo----
I know, said Jerry quickly. "Dinah told me about him, and Mrs. Lilly told her. Waterloo is a blackguard. The detective in Whitechapel explained what a scoundrel he was--one of the worst. Why did he come down here?"
I don't know, murmured Beatrice, and then it flashed across her mind that the tramp had come to see Vivian. Coupling this desire with the speech of the late Jarvis Alpenny regarding Vivian's crimes and Vivian's secret troubles, which she was so anxious to find out, the girl suddenly turned pale. She wondered if Paslow himself was one of the Black Patch Gang. "It's impossible," said Beatrice, with a gasp, and leaned against a tree to support herself.
What is impossible? asked Jerry. "Here, hold up."
It's all right, she said, recovering herself with a violent effort; "a little weariness, that is all. I have been on the Downs, remember. I don't see how you can connect this gang with Mr. Alpenny."
Remember, he was murdered by a man with a black patch over his eye.
Yes, but---- the girl broke off. "I hope the police won't come down here," she said, with pale-lips, and wondering if Vivian's conduct would bear investigation.
They just will, said Jerry bluntly, "and I hope so. I'll be able to make a lot out of the matter, if any loot is found. Why, the editor may raise my salary."
You aren't worth it, cried an indignant voice near at hand, and Dinah appeared from amongst the trees. "How dare you treat me in this way, Jerry Snow? Why didn't you come after me, and why didn't----"
Dinah, asked Beatrice hurriedly, "have you been listening long?"
No. All I heard was that Jerry wanted his salary raised. What has he been talking about? and she eyed the two suspiciously.
Are you jealous of Beatrice? demanded Mr. Snow scornfully.
What nonsense, when you know she is going to marry Vivian! And I really don't think I'll marry you. Take back your ring, and----
Beatrice waited to hear no more. Leaving Dinah pouring out her voluble wrath on the devoted head of her lover, she ran up the avenue, wondering what further revelations she would hear. This was a day of wonders. She had learned that she was the daughter of Colonel Hall; she had heard her dead mother accused of murder by Mrs. Snow; and now she discovered that Alpenny--as was probably the case--had been connected with a gang of rogues. What would be the end of all these terrible things? She could not tell, and ran on, anxious to reach her own room in order to think matters over.
She quite forgot that Jerry had told her Durban was waiting to see her. But the old servant was on the watch. Hardly had she set foot on the terrace when he issued from the house; and came towards her with a smile. It died away, however, when he saw her pale face.
Whatever is the matter, missy? he asked anxiously, Beatrice looked at him calmly, and wasted no time in explaining herself. "I have learned at last what you would not tell me."
Missy! cried Durban, and his swarthy face grew green, as it always did when he was startled.
I am the daughter of Colonel Hall, who was murdered here. My mother was really Mrs. Hall, who called herself Mrs. Hedge and married Alpenny!
Durban gasped. "Who told you this?"
Orchard, who was the butler here, and now is a shepherd on the Downs.
It is true, said Durban, flinging wide his hands. "I knew you would find out. I am glad you have found out."
Why did you not tell me?
I was prevented.
By whom?
First by Alpenny, and then by Major Ruck.
The man with whom my mother was about to elope?
Durban looked at her swiftly. "Orchard never told you that?"
No. Mrs. Snow told me.
You have seen her. Then you know?
I know that she accuses my mother of the crime--of the murder of my father, Colonel Hall.
That is a lie, said Durban between his teeth. "But she would not stick at a lie to harm your mother."
How can she harm the dead?
She might harm the memory of the dead, said Durban evasively. "And what else have you heard?"
From Mr. Jerry Snow, I have just heard that there is a gang of thieves in London called the Black Patch Gang.
Augh! groaned Durban, casting down his eyes. "Go on."
Mr. Alpenny is connected with them. Mr. Snow says that he was a fence who disposed of stolen goods.
Where did Mr. Snow hear this story?
From various people in Whitechapel.
Rumours only, said Durban, striving to appear calm; "there is not a word of truth in it. Mr. Alpenny was wicked, but not so bad as that, missy. I swear it."
I believe that Mr. Snow has spoken the truth, said Beatrice sharply. "You are still trying to keep me in the dark."
For your good, missy--for your good.
Or for Mr. Paslow's safety--which?
I don't know what you mean, gasped Durban hoarsely.
I don't know myself exactly, since you will not be candid, said the girl wearily; "but I have found out much, and I shall find more. When I discover that necklace----"
The Obi necklace? You have never found that?
No. But I am looking for it.
Missy, do not. I implore you, do not. There is a curse on that necklace. It caused the death of your father, the disgrace of your mother, and the murder of Mr. Alpenny.
How do you know that? Had Mr. Alpenny the necklace?
Yes. Your mother gave it to Alpenny for you.
Then where is it?
I don't know--I cannot tell. And if I did know I would never tell, missy. Enough sorrow and trouble has come about over that necklace--the accursed thing! I--I---- Durban broke down, and, with a groan, fairly ran away, leaving the amazed Beatrice mistress of the field.
There was certainly enough to think about. Beatrice retreated to her room, and proceeded to reason out the meaning of all she had heard. It was evident that both Vivian and Durban were in some way connected with criminality in connection with Mr. Alpenny's vocation of "fence," since both refused to speak. Waterloo, apparently, was a member of the Black Patch Gang, and had come down the other day to see Vivian. Beatrice remembered now how Vivian had hinted that he was connected with rogues and vagabonds, and how he appeared to be fearful as to what Major Ruck might say. Ruck himself probably was a member of this criminal association. In any case, as Durban had confessed, he was a decoy duck to lure the unwary into the late Mr. Alpenny's nets.
But the question which now presented itself to the puzzled girl was, whether, Alpenny being dead, the organisation would end. The old usurer had been extremely clever, and, wanting his brains, this association might disband for want of a competent head. Ruck certainly,--as he appeared to have some authority,--might become the moving spirit; but from what Beatrice had seen of him, she did not think he was capable of handling such difficult matters. And she did not much care. All she desired was to learn what Paslow had to do with these rascalities,--if Durban was implicated in the rogueries,--and, if so, to rescue both. She could not believe that either of these kind men, and whom she loved so dearly, would act in a blackguardly way. In some manner the two had become entangled in Alpenny's nets, and knowing this, Ruck was making capital out of the knowledge. This was the conclusion which Beatrice arrived at, and she determined to force Vivian to explain.
I love him dearly, she assured herself, as she stared at her pale drawn face in the looking-glass; "but I cannot marry him until I know exactly what part he has taken in all these terrible doings." With this resolve she went down to dinner, and found Vivian there in a very happy state of mind. Lately the cloud had passed away from his brow, and he seemed more like his old self, of the days when she had never guessed what an abyss there was under her feet--under their feet, indeed, as she could not separate herself, even in thought, from Vivian Paslow.
My dear Beatrice, he said, coming towards her with a smile: and then, when he saw her face, he stopped short, just as Durban had done. "Why, my darling, what have you been doing with yourself?"
Nothing, replied Beatrice quietly. "After dinner I'll tell you."
Then there is something, said Paslow, seeing how she contradicted herself, and trying to make her speak out.
Yes, she answered with an effort, "there is some thing. I have learned much to-day."
About what?--from whom? Paslow gasped out the questions, and his heart beat violently. He felt sick with apprehension. What had she heard, and why did she look at him in this way?
I'll tell you after dinner.
But I want you to tell me now.
No, said Beatrice very directly, and was spared further speech, for at that moment Dinah came into the room, followed by Jerry in evening dress.
I've made it up with Jerry. He has asked my pardon, she said in a cheerful voice, "so I invited him to dinner as a reward."
I hope it is a good dinner, said Jerry blandly. "I deserve a big reward for having given in to you."
It is always a man's duty to give in to a woman, said Miss Paslow.
I hope you don't think it is the wife's duty to bully the husband?
On occasions. A little storm clears the air.
Further argument was cut short by the sound of the gong. Vivian, who had been watching Beatrice all the time, gave her his arm, and they led the way into the dining-room, while the lovers wrangled behind. The table looked dainty and neat, as it was brilliant with flowers and glittered with old silver and cut crystal. In spite of his difficulties Paslow had always kept up a certain state at the Grange, and, looking at the table, no one would have guessed that its owner was nearly bankrupt. Dinah, who with Mrs. Lilly was responsible for the meal, pointed out to Jerry the various dishes set down on the menu, and described what share she had taken in preparing the same. "So you see, Jerry darling, I am a magnificent housekeeper."
On your brother's income, said Jerry, with a shrug, and enjoying the soup. "What will you be on mine?"
On ours, corrected Dinah. "I'll be splendid, of course. Your income cannot be very much less than Vivian's. We live here like Elijah, who was fed by ravens."
I am fed by a dove, said Mr. Snow gallantly.
How sweet! sighed Dinah sentimentally. Then feeling really hungry after her argument with Jerry, she began to eat, and laid all sentiment aside: that could come afterwards in the moonlight.
Beatrice and Vivian exchanged few words during the meal. They talked about the weather, about the various trifles in the newspapers which interested idle people, and made a light meal. But at the back of their thoughts lay the consciousness that a crisis was approaching in their lives, and neither one knew how it would end. Would love be strong enough to make the girl overlook youthful folly? That was what Vivian asked himself. And Beatrice wondered if Vivian's love would be powerful enough to make him confess plainly what was the meaning of all these mysterious things which raised a barrier between them. The dinner was a mere farce so far as they were concerned; but Dinah and Jerry ate enough for four, and chatted meanwhile so gaily that any silence on the part of the remaining two was overlooked.
The meal ended, Vivian and Jerry did not linger over the bottle of old port which the host placed before his guest. Jerry was at an age when love was preferable to strong drink, and Vivian wished to have a confidential conversation with Beatrice as speedily as possible. Therefore by common consent they adjourned to the drawing-room, and found the two girls drinking coffee on the terrace. It was a deliciously warm night with a full moon, and countless stars gemming the heavens. Quite a night for Romeo and Juliet, meet for love and for soft whisperings. Nightingales sang in the thickets, and the trees were absolutely still owing to the want of the faintest breath of wind. Dinah, finishing her coffee, began to get sentimental again and beckoned to Jerry. The two went down the steps into the sleeping gardens, and Beatrice was left seated at the small table on the terrace with Vivian smoking at her elbow.
She glanced at him in the ivory moonlight while she made up her mind what to say. He looked slim and handsome in his well-cut clothes--a dark and somewhat stern man with a finely-featured face, Greek in its perfect lines. It seemed impossible that such a man could be involved in sordid roguery. He looked what Beatrice, in spite of circumstances, always believed him to be--an honourable English gentleman who was her lover and who would be her adoring husband. Vivian was staring at the retreating forms of Jerry and Dinah as they vanished down the avenue; but he became conscious that Beatrice was looking at him, and turned to look at her.
Surely a lover never saw a fairer maid. In her black dress, with her white neck and arms shining in the moonlight, she looked wonderfully beautiful. The pale glimmer of the moon concealed all the ravages which trouble had made, and she appeared like an angel ready to take flight. It was with difficulty that Paslow prevented himself pressing her in his arms; but until matters were cleared up between them, there was no chance that she would allow him to embrace her. He could see that, in the sad, stern way in which she looked at him, and so restrained himself with a violent effort "Well?" he said stiffly, and prepared to listen.
What is it you wish to know? she asked in a low voice.
I wish to know what has changed you?
Am I changed?
Very much. This morning when I went to Brighton with Dinah, you were bright and happy; now you are sad, and look as though you had received bad news.
Only you can give me bad news, said Beatrice in an embarrassed manner. "I want you to be plain with me to-night, Vivian. I have promised to marry you. I take that promise back----"
Beatrice--oh Beatrice!
Unless you satisfy me that you really and truly love me.
Oh, my darling, is there any question of that?
There is every question. It is easy for a man to say that he loves a woman; it is not so easy to prove it.
I can prove it, in any way you will.
Good, said Beatrice, leaning forward and placing her arms on the small table between them. "I shall tell you what I have heard to-day; and then you must tell me what you know."
About what? asked Paslow, lighting another cigarette with shaking hands, and not daring to look at her.
In the first place, about my parentage.
This time he did look at her, and in much amazement. "You are the stepdaughter of Alpenny," he said quietly, "and the daughter of Mrs. Hedge, whomsoever she may be."
Is that all you know? she asked, looking at him.
Yes. I have never heard anything else.
But I have. I heard this day, and from Orchard the shepherd, who was your father's servant, that I am the daughter of Colonel Hall.
Vivian dropped his cigarette and jumped up with an exclamation of genuine surprise. "Did Orchard tell you that?" he asked.
He did. Mrs. Hedge, my mother, was really Mrs. Hall, and married Mr. Alpenny because--because---- She hesitated.
Because why? She must have had a strong reason to marry that old rascal.
She had. Alpenny, according to Mrs. Snow----
What does Mrs. Snow know about your affairs? asked Vivian angrily.
A great deal. She was my mother's best friend,--so she says--and her bitterest enemy, as I have found out. Mrs. Snow declared that my mother married Alpenny to prevent Alpenny accusing her of murdering her husband, and my father.
Oh! It is incredible, muttered Vivian, clutching his hair.
Wait till you hear details. I think my mother is innocent myself, but certainly the evidence seems to be against her, and Beatrice, without giving Vivian time to intervene, told him all that she had heard from the old shepherd and from Mrs. Snow. He listened in silence, although his amazement was too profound and too openly expressed, to be anything else than genuine. "What do you think?" said Beatrice, when she had finished.
I don't know what to think, he muttered, glancing sideways at her and then away into the shadowy garden. "I believe Orchard is right, and that you are the daughter of the man who was murdered in this house. But I do not believe what Mrs. Snow says. Your mother--or, indeed, any woman--would never commit a crime in so brutal a manner. I don't believe any woman unless an Amazon would have the strength, for one thing."
So I think, said Beatrice heartily; "and I am glad that you agree with me. However, the discovery of my parentage does not make any difference to my position."
I don't know so much about that, said Paslow, meditatively. "It might be that Colonel Hall left money. As he is dead, and your mother is dead--as Alpenny's wife, any money that there is should come to you."
Well, said Beatrice, watching the effect of her words, "it seems to me that the necklace is mine. I understand that it is valued--so Major Ruck said--at ten thousand pounds. If I can find that, I certainly will be an heiress. But Durban wants me to leave it alone."
For what reason?
He declares that the necklace is accursed.
Pooh! said Vivian, with supreme contempt. "That is his African superstition. You must not forget, Beatrice, that Durban is half a negro. If the necklace can be found, it certainly must be given back to you, for your own sake. Not for mine," he added quickly; "I don't care if you are an heiress or a pauper. I marry you because I love you, my darling."
He offered to take her in his arms, but she drew back. "One moment, Vivian," she said rapidly. "Can you tell me where the necklace is to be found?"
I! He started back in great surprise, and met her gaze frankly but with a puzzled look. "How should I know?"
Mr. Alpenny, I truly believe, was killed for the sake of that necklace, as was my father before him. I do not believe that my father gave it to my mother. He was killed and robbed--so was Alpenny.
Beatrice, do you imply that I know anything of this murder?
I can explain, she said, and came closer. "Alpenny was killed by a man who wore a black patch over his left eye. A black patch was found under the window of the room in which my father, Colonel Hall, was murdered. Both crimes were committed, if not by the same man, as I have hitherto believed, at least by a member of the Black Patch Gang to which Alpenny belonged."
Paslow covered his face with a groan, unable to meet the vivid lightning of her eyes. "What do you know about the Black Patch Gang?" he asked in stifled tones.
All that Jerry Snow could tell me. He was in Whitechapel, and heard many remarks about this gang of thieves which the police are always trying to break up. Now that the gang is concerned in murder as well as in thievery, the police will make every effort to capture the man who heads them. What is his name?
How should I know? demanded Paslow hoarsely. "Because you do know. Alpenny hinted that you had committed crimes."
He lied--he lied, said Vivian passionately. "I am as innocent of evil-doing as you are; folly, perhaps, but never crime."
I believe that. I am certain that the man I love would never descend to sordid crime. But you have been drawn into the toils of this gang. I believe that Alpenny was the head--he decoyed you into his snares; or else Ruck--Major Ruck, his decoy-duck.
There is some truth in what you say, but----
No; you must speak out. I will stand by you to the end, and do all I can to reveal my love more and more. But I refuse--she drew herself upright--"to marry you unless you tell me the whole truth."
Give me time, he panted, and clenched his hands.
No. You must tell me now, or to-night we part for ever.
Paslow uttered a groan, and moved forward two or three steps as though about to seek safety in flight. "Beatrice!" he said brokenly.
Your answer? she demanded, making every effort to appear calm.
But the answer was not to come from Paslow. Even while he opened his mouth to speak, Jerry appeared on the lawn with two ladies. One was Dinah, as they could see by the evening-dress; the other a tall, slim, fair-haired woman, fashionably arrayed in walking-costume. The moonlight was strong, but neither Beatrice nor Paslow could tell who the strange woman was.
Hullo, Vivian! shouted Jerry; "here is Miss Carr, who wants to see you."
He would have said more, but was drawn back by Dinah, who apparently was still jealous of the stranger. Beatrice remembered that this was the woman with whom Jerry had been speaking during the day, the same that had awakened the jealousy of Dinah. Also, she was the daughter of the ex-butler. She advanced with gliding steps, and looked like a beautiful lithe tigress stealing towards her prey.
With Dinah, still jealous, Jerry after that one abrupt introduction disappeared down the avenue, probably to be scolded. But Beatrice did not look at the retreating lovers, nor indeed at the advancing Miss Carr, whose foot was now on the lowest step of the terrace. All her attention was concentrated on Vivian Paslow, who stood at the top of the steps as though frozen into stone. The woman came up the steps, and was now so near that Beatrice could see the smile on her fair face.
You! said Vivian hoarsely, and fell back a pace.
Myself, said Miss Carr, "and no ghost either."
Beatrice rose with a bound, and felt a sudden jealous anger surge in her heart. She looked from one to the other imperiously. "Who is this woman?" she asked the cowering man.
My--my--wife, he said in low, broken tones. "God help me, my wife come back from the dead!"
Miss Carr, or Miss Orchard, or Mrs. Paslow--Beatrice thought of her by all these three names--smiled quietly when her husband made the confession, and sank gracefully into the seat he had vacated. She was certainly a handsome woman, and if not entirely a lady, was an extremely good imitation of the same. Vivian still stood as in a dream, staring at the wife he had believed to be dead and buried, and Beatrice stared alternately at him and at the strange woman. A silence ensued, for each of the three was thinking hard. Beatrice was the first to break silence.
Will you explain? she asked Vivian quietly.
I think, he answered in a harsh, dry tone, "that my wife had better explain. I have the certificate of her death, and----"
And you can consider it so much waste-paper. The woman who was buried was my double, said Mrs. Paslow composedly.
You cannot deceive me in that way, Maud. I saw you ill in bed.
And so I was. I had a bad attack of influenza, said his wife, with a calm smile. "Oh, my illness was genuine enough; but I did not die,--although I appeared to do so, for reasons connected with a second marriage."
With Mr. Paslow's marriage to me? asked Beatrice, striving to regain her calmness, and emulate the sang-froid of this cold, audacious woman, who appeared to have no feelings.
Well, no, drawled Mrs. Paslow, "not exactly. I never did care to benefit my fellow-creatures to that extent. I refer to a marriage I wished to make with a rich American. However, his mother stopped the marriage, and I found myself without a natural protector. Therefore, as I heard from Major Ruck that Vivian proposed to make you his wife, I came here to save you, and stop him from committing bigamy."
Which you just now proposed to commit yourself? said Beatrice, with cold contempt.
Mrs. Paslow looked at her between half-closed eyelids, and shrugged her finely moulded shoulders. "Quite so," she said politely; "but I have my reasons for risking imprisonment."
Reasons connected with money, sneered Vivian.
Connected with over a million--pounds, not dollars. Well?
Well,--he faced her squarely--"and what do you propose to do now?"
One moment, interposed Beatrice, now perfectly calm, and determined to break down this woman's composure; "I should like to know how you carried out this plot of a feigned death."
There was a case of cigarettes on the table belonging to Vivian: Mrs. Paslow cast a disdainful, and rather amused look on Beatrice, and lighted one of the little rolls of tobacco. When the smoke was wreathing round her fashionable hat, she spoke with great calmness and appeared in no way upset by the imperious tone of the woman whom her husband loved. "Certainly," she replied in a low, sweet voice, which seemed to be one of her greatest charms, and she had many. "As I explained, I wanted to be free of Vivian to marry a richer man than he was, or is likely to be. When I was ill, and he came to see me, the plan suggested itself. I took the doctor into my confidence, and he agreed, for a consideration, to forward my aims. My double was really ill,--oh yes, with consumption; she could not live, so----"
What do you mean by your double? asked Beatrice abruptly.
Vivian can tell you. He knew of my double.
I did,--I do: but I did not think you would pass her off as yourself, Maud.
Mrs. Paslow removed the cigarette from her mouth and smiled. "It was a capital plot," she said musingly; "and but that I want you to be again my husband, would have succeeded."
What about your double? asked Beatrice pertinaciously.
Oh, she was not a twin sister, as you seem to think. I am the only daughter and only child of Joseph Orchard, who was a butler, and is a shepherd. You see, she added, leaning her arms on the table and addressing her rival in an amused tone, "I have no false pride about me. When occasion serves I can say that I am the daughter of an army officer, or of a clergyman, or of anyone with a position. I have done such things in my time. But to you I can be frank, since there is nothing to be gained by telling lies."
Your double--your double, Miss Carr, or Miss Orchard?
Neither name is mine. Mrs. Paslow, if you please. Unless--she glanced contemptuously at Vivian--"my husband denies----"
I deny nothing. I cannot, he said savagely. "Say what you have to say, Maud, and then I shall tell Miss Hall how we met and into what troubles you led me."
Miss Hall! echoed Mrs. Paslow, with a glance at Beatrice. "Then you know that, do you?"
How do you know? asked Beatrice, pointedly.
Oh, my father told me long ago. Later I might have made capital out of the affair, but now---- She shrugged again.
I believe that you are a bad woman, said Beatrice hotly.
I am--what God made me, retorted Mrs. Paslow, in no wise disturbed by the speech. "But about my double. She was a girl on the stage extremely like me: in fact we might have passed for twins. I also went on the stage--I have done most things in my time; and we--that is Miss Arthur my double and myself--appeared in a play as twins. If you knew anything of the theatre, Miss Hall, you would be surprised to hear how successful that play was. The author was unknown and Major Ruck financed the play, and----"
I want to hear nothing about that, Mrs. Paslow. I know now how you carried out the deception, though it seems to me that as you did not let Vivian see the dead body, it was needless to have this double.
Well, admitted Mrs. Paslow apologetically, as though excusing a fault, "it was necessary to make sure. Vivian, after a few visits, never came near me----"
The doctor would not let me, said her husband quickly.
Good old doctor, murmured Mrs. Paslow, selecting a fresh cigarette; "he knew what I wanted. However, to make a long story short, Miss Arthur died in my place and was buried under my name. You have the certificate, my dear Vivian, so all is well. You were so easily deceived that there was no fun in deceiving you. A clever man would have made more certain of his wife's death before arranging to take another one, especially as you were cheated once before."
I did hear that you were dead before Mr. Alpenny was murdered, and I then asked Miss Hall here to be my wife, confessed Vivian; "afterwards, Major Ruck told me that you were alive, but ill. I went to see you, and you really seemed to be dying----"
I am a good actress, Vivian. I was on the stage, remember.
So I thought, when I saw the doctor and got the certificate, that you were really and truly dead. Oh, I shall see that the doctor is punished for this deception.
I think not, said Mrs. Paslow, narrowing her eyes and looking at him very directly. "No doubt he will be punished in time, but not by your will, Vivian dear."
The tone and words were so peculiar and significant that Beatrice looked straight at the woman, who now had a mocking smile on her face, and spoke quietly: "You have some power over Mr. Paslow?"
Why not call him Vivian? sneered the stranger. "He was"--she emphasised the word--"to be your husband, remember."
If you speak like that, said Paslow standing over her and speaking in a low, angry voice, "I shall forget that I am your husband."
His wife glanced slightingly at Beatrice. "It seems to me that you have forgotten," she scoffed.
What the infuriated man would have said or done on the spur of the moment, it is impossible to say; but he was dangerous. Beatrice saw that, and drew him back with an exclamation. "Don't," she said quickly; "let her say what she will. It cannot hurt me. And let me remind you, Mrs. Paslow, that you have not answered my question."
Nor do I intend to, said the woman, rising and throwing aside the cigarette. The contemptuous words of Beatrice stung her not a little. "This is my husband, and I want him to return to town with me."
You are my wife, said Vivian in quiet anger, "and you were willing to commit bigamy after deceiving me by a feigned death. I refuse to have anything more to do with you."
The law will make you! she threatened.
The law will do nothing of the sort. As my wife, I will allow you enough to live on; but no law will ever make me have anything to do with you again.
Then I shall make you!
Ah, interposed Beatrice, "you exercise this power?"
I want my husband, said the woman sullenly.
I refuse to have anything to do with you, retorted Paslow once more. His wife was rapidly losing her temper. She had come prepared for victory; and, meeting with this opposition, all the disdainful certainty of her assumed nature wore away, and the coarser feelings became apparent. Her face flushed a dark red, the expression changed, and instead of a quiet, ladylike person, Beatrice saw before her a virago of the worst. "You shall come!" she shouted, "or rather, I shall stay here. This is my house, and you,"--she turned on Beatrice,--"you shall leave it."
I am here with Mr. Paslow's sister, and I decline to leave it at the word of a disgraced wife.
I! Mrs. Paslow sprang forward with upraised fist. "You dare to say that to me, you----" Before she could strike, Vivian caught her arm, and flung her back with such force that she fell against the balustrade of the terrace. "Do you want me to commit murder?" he said savagely.
Why not another, since you killed Alpenny? she panted, and glared at him like a tigress losing her prey.
That is a lie! cried Beatrice before Vivian could speak. "Mr. Paslow was with me on that night, and about the time the crime was committed."
Oh! sneered the woman, seizing her advantage, "Vivian was with you, indeed? And what would be said were that known, Miss Hall, as you call yourself?"
Be silent, said her husband, catching her arm in an iron grip, and his face whiter than that of the dead; "you shameless creature! Go away at once, and cease your insults."
Leave me alone! cried Mrs. Paslow, wrenching herself free. "I intend to stop in my own house."
My house--not yours.
I am your wife.
And just now you confessed to a feigned death to commit bigamy? I have a great mind to give my lawyers instructions to apply for a divorce.
Give them to Tuft, then, cried Mrs. Paslow, her fair face convulsed with fury. "He is Alpenny's lawyer, and knows all about me, and all about you. See! see!"--she pointed a mocking finger at Vivian who had turned away with a gesture of despair--"he dare not face the law!"
If you mean that you will denounce him for having killed Mr. Alpenny, said Beatrice in a clear low voice, "you are wrong. I can clear Mr. Paslow's character. I can save him, and I will!"
Indeed! Why?
Because I love him. Why he married you, how he married you, I do not know; but I believe that you trapped him into----
Trapped him, indeed! shouted Mrs. Paslow. "I could have married a dozen better men than he. He is a coward--a milksop--a--a thief! Ah!" she cried as Beatrice recoiled with a shudder, "you know the truth now. This dainty, well-born gentleman--this honourable man--is a thief, who was tried for shoplifting."
And who was acquitted, said Paslow, deadly pale. "It was you who were condemned, and rightly: God forgive me for saying so. After all, bad as you are, you are my wife."
Vivian, said Beatrice, with her face drawn with agony, "is what this woman says true?"
True--quite true. And I'll thank you to speak of me more respectfully, snapped Mrs. Paslow.
Is it true? asked Beatrice again, paying no attention to this spiteful speech.
Quite true, said Vivian, drawing a long breath and prepared to face the worst; "this is the power she has held over me. That she can send me to prison is a lie; but she can disgrace my name, by telling my friends that I was accused of shoplifting."
But was it not in the papers? asked Beatrice anxiously.
No. I was accused under another name, Beatrice. I married that woman--he pointed to Mrs. Paslow, who was still fuming with rage--"when my father was alive. She was the daughter of our old servant, who became a shepherd. Afterwards, when a child, and when I was a child, she came here, and Mrs. Lilly helped her for the sake of her father. I was a boy and foolish. She was clever and unscrupulous. She grew weary of this quiet life, and went to town. I thought that I loved her----"
And you did, panted Mrs. Paslow.
I did not, said Vivian sternly. "I was entrapped, as you know well.--It was a year later that I met her, when in town, and then she was the associate of thieves and rogues. Alpenny had seen her here; he inveigled her into his nets, and used her in the West End as a decoy in the same way as he used Major Ruck. She met me. I believed that she was good--that she was still my old playfellow. I married her under my own name, but in order to save the feelings of my father, I lived with her as my wife under another name."
I wanted to take my own and come down here, said the woman.
I know you did, but I would not allow it, said Vivian, and continued his story rapidly, while Beatrice, perfectly still, listened intently. "It would have broken my father's heart. And then," he added, turning to Beatrice, "I found out how vile she was."
I never deceived you--never, said Mrs. Paslow.
No. You had that redeeming point, said her husband; "as a wife I could find no fault with you in that way. Had you been good and kind, I might have come to love you, as I did when we were children together. But your nature was essentially false and wicked. Under the tuition of Alpenny you developed into an adventuress, and made the worst use of your talents."
But for Alpenny we should have starved, she reminded him.
I did not know that, he retorted. "You said that the money had been left to you by your god-mother; only when it was too late did I learn that Alpenny gave you the money for having stolen things. And then I was dragged into your evil ways."
You did steal, insisted Mrs. Paslow.
I did not. Beatrice, one day we were in a draper's shop in the West End. This woman stole some lace; she was arrested, and I was arrested also as her accomplice.
Oh Vivian!
Oh Vivian! mocked Mrs. Paslow. "You see he is a thief."
You lie, said Paslow angrily. "Beatrice does not believe that."
No! no! I would never believe it, said Beatrice.
You fool! scoffed Mrs. Paslow.
You angel! cried Vivian fervently, and then proceeded rapidly with his nauseous story. "Under my feigned name I was tried--and thus, thank God! I was enabled to save my father from dying of a broken heart. I was accused, but Tuft, Alpenny's lawyer, defended me--not from kindness. No. Alpenny, by this accusation of theft, secured a hold over me, which he used after my father's death to extort the property from me. This is why I am so poor. Alpenny and my wife"--he laid a scornful emphasis on the word--"got all my money."
And we had a right to, said Mrs. Paslow. "I am your wife, and Alpenny, through Tuft, saved you from going to gaol."
For his own ends merely, retorted Vivian. "I had to pay bitterly for his aid.--This woman"--he again pointed to Maud--"was condemned, as it was proved that she was an expert thief, and she was sentenced to a few months' imprisonment."
To five months, said Mrs. Paslow shamelessly.
I was acquitted; but the judge read me a lecture on the kind of society I kept. And Heaven help me! cried Vivian, "then was the first time that I knew what sort of society my marriage had led me into."
You were always a greenhorn, said Mrs. Paslow, patting her hair into shape, and arranging her ruffled plumes.
Vivian turned his back on her. "I left the court without a stain on my character," he said quickly; "and left England for the five months, telling my father that I was going abroad for my health. And my health was bad," he added. "I broke down under the vileness of it all. My father never knew the truth; nor did any of my friends. The case, since I was accused under another name, passed unnoticed. But Maud knew the truth, and so did Alpenny; so did Tuft his creature, and Major Ruck, another of his minions. They tried to make me vile by threats of exposure; but so long as I could bribe Alpenny by giving him money, no action was taken by him or Ruck. Maud I also kept----"
I had a right to the money. I am your wife.
I admit that you had the right, he said. "Wicked as you were, I acknowledged you as my wife."
Not to the world, she said sharply.
Because that would have made the marriage known to my father, and he would have cut me off without a shilling. After his death, when you found that Alpenny had the money, you refused to be acknowledged, although I asked you to come here as my wife. I had not then met with Miss Hall, ended Vivian significantly.
I see. You love her?
With all my heart and soul.
And I love him, acknowledged Beatrice. "From what I have heard, I can see that Vivian is not to blame, you wicked woman."
Here, said Mrs. Paslow, advancing, "get out of my house. I have come here to take up my rightful position. The house is mine."
You will leave this place at once, said Vivian, his face dark with anger; "you can tell what you like and do what you like. Alpenny is dead, and I decline to be under your thumb any longer."
I shall stop here, said Mrs. Paslow, and sat down firmly.
Vivian placed his hand on her shoulder. She jumped up in a fury and struck at him. "You dare to touch me, you thief!" she stormed. "You have spoilt my life--you have--you have!" Her anger choked her, and she tore at the lace round her neck; in doing so, she ripped the dress, and her hand caught unknowingly at something within. To the amazement of Beatrice, a chain of glittering gems was pulled from its hiding-place round her neck, and fell on the pavement. The jewels were diamonds, and they flashed, pools of liquid light, in the moonlight.
Oh! cried Beatrice, guessing at once. "The Obi necklace!"
Almost before the words were out of her mouth, Mrs. Paslow had snatched up the necklace and was flying across the lawn. Vivian would have followed, but Beatrice stopped him.
Let her go, said Beatrice, holding back the angered husband by main force; "only in this way can you keep her out of the house."
But the necklace, said Vivian, pausing, while his wife vanished amongst the shadows of the trees. "Are you sure?"
No. How can I be sure? I have never seen the necklace. But the diamonds were too lovely to be paste. You know I have seen many jewels pass through Alpenny's hands, and sometimes he explained their particular beauties and values to me. I am sure the gems in that necklace are real: they flashed so wonderfully in the moonlight.
Diamond necklaces are rare in the Weald, mused Vivian thoughtfully, "and Maud is not likely to possess such jewels, for she has little money. It must be the famous Obi necklace. Where could she have got it, Beatrice?"
Who knows? she replied, her cheek slightly paling. "Is she one of the members of this Black Patch Gang?"
So far as I know anything of her life, she is, replied Paslow, his eyes averted. Then he turned and seized her hands with vehemence, "Oh! my heart's darling what can you think of me after this revelation?"
Beatrice did not pause an instant in making reply. "I think you were very foolish to keep the truth from me."
But how could I tell you of my sinful folly? he pleaded, and his voice was very sweet in her ears. "See what a sordid tale it is: a foolish boy, and a clever woman! Yet God knows"--he broke off and cast away her hands--"it is not right that I should blame the woman, as men usually do. After all, Maud has some good points about her."
I did not see them, responded Beatrice, with the bitterness with which one woman will always talk about another she hates.
But, believe me, she has, insisted Vivian quickly. "She has been a burden to me; she did her best to drag me down to her level of thievery and roguery; but I cannot forget that I knew her here, as a child--when she really was good and kind. And, Beatrice," he added, with a flush, "on my soul I believe that in some things she is not what one might think her. You heard her say that she had been a true wife to me?"
Yes, answered the girl, not to be outdone in justice even to a rival; "and I believe what she said. But if you love her----"
Don't say that. He sprang towards her, all his heart in his eyes and passion in every note of his voice. "I love you and you only; no other woman has ever made me feel what you have. I met Maud in London, and even before, I had a kind of boy and girl passion for her. Then we were playmates, remember, in spite of the difference of our position. I was sorry when she told me how lonely she was in London. I did not know that she lied in saying so. I was young and inexperienced, and she caught me with a tearful eye and a quivering voice and a tale of woe. I married at haste to repent at leisure. But, oh Heavens!"--he broke off, pressing his hands against his aching brow--"when I think of that horrible police-court, and the way in which I was accused of what I never did, I hardly dare to look you in the face. I am soiled with the mire of criminality. I must be an outcast, a scoundrel in your eyes."
You are in my eyes what you always have been, replied Beatrice in a soft tone--"the man I love."
Still, still--you--you love lie? he stammered.
Yes. No, do not touch me, she added hastily, as Vivian flung himself forward. "You had a right before she came, as you were ignorant, and I see from her own confession how you were deceived; but now, she is your wife--she is alive. Until that barrier is removed, we can be nothing but friends to one another. I cannot stay here."
Beatrice! Beatrice!
I cannot, she answered steadily. "I love you, and I cannot see you day after day with calmness."
You can remain as Dinah's companion, he said entreatingly. "I shall pay you a salary, and then you will be independent."
No. Dinah has Jerry; she wants no companion. I will go to town, and to Lady Watson. She was my mother's friend, and will be able to help me.
You will go as her companion?
Oh no. I don't like her sufficiently for that. But she may be able to get me a position as a governess or something else. And also, I wish to ask her about my mother, whom she knew. Mrs. Snow gives a cruel version of what my mother was. Lady Watson may be more truthful. And some day, she added, drawing so near to Vivian that it took him all his powers of self-repression to refrain from taking her in his arms--"some day, when the barrier is removed, we may come together."
Vivian shook his head. "Maud will never give me a chance of divorce, my dear," said he bitterly. "She is too clever and--I may say it to you--too passionless."
Never mind, we can remain friends.
Paslow groaned aloud with anguish. "Can there be friendship between us after all that has come and gone?"
Yes, said Beatrice quietly, "because we are soul friends, and do not love entirely after the physical. Come, Vivian,"--she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder--"let us commence our friendship by talking sensibly of these matters."
What matters? he asked listlessly, for the man was worn out with the struggle which was going on in his breast.
About the murders of my father and of Alpenny. We must learn who committed them.
What good will that do?
This much: it will destroy the power which this gang holds over your head. Major Ruck knows that you were accused of theft, so does Tuft the lawyer and your wife. For their own ends they will hold this in terrorem over you.
They have always done so, said Vivian sadly. "They cannot hurt me so far as the police are concerned, as I left the court without a stain on my character. But socially, if they told my friends----"
If your friends turn their backs on you, they are not worthy to be called friends, said Beatrice quickly. "You must face this gang of people. Do you not know their secrets, and thus may be able to counterplot them?"
I know nothing about them; but Durban may. The paper which was on my desk, and which told me to threaten Alpenny with the black patch, was--now I feel sure--in Durban's handwriting.
It probably was, said Beatrice thoughtfully. "I shall see Durban and ask him to be open with me. But did you not know anything about the Black Patch Gang, Vivian?"
No, he said earnestly; "I swear I did not. I fancied from what Maud let drop at times that Alpenny and herself and Ruck were all connected with some criminal organisation; but I never knew anything about the black patch, which seems to be their badge. I used the words on Durban's paper--if Durban did write them--quite unknowingly. And now when I remember their effect, and remember also how your father was murdered, and how you also saw a man issuing from The Camp with a black patch over his eye, I feel sure that there is such a gang, and that Alpenny was connected with it. Probably I was used to warn him that he would be killed, for some reason. He may have betrayed them, or made personal use of the goods he received. But whatever it was, I certainly unconsciously gave him the warning; and he was killed--I am convinced of this--by a member of the gang."
I agree with you, said Beatrice promptly. "Well, I shall see Durban to-morrow, and he may speak out. I shall insist on his doing so. Also, I shall see old Orchard."
Why?
Because I believe she got that necklace from him--your wife, I mean. That was why she came down, and why she acknowledged the relationship to Orchard.
You don't think he killed Alpenny, Beatrice?
No. The man is too old, and, moreover, would not have the courage. But he may know something of the murder. In any case, if the necklace was in his possession, he will have to account for having it. Major Ruck insisted that my mother had it and left it to Alpenny, who should have given it to me. And he would have done so, in order to close Major Ruck's mouth.
But how could he do that if he gave you the necklace?
Oh, said Beatrice calmly, "it was to be my dowry, and I was to be made to marry Major Ruck. You heard yourself; Vivian, how the Major confessed that it was the Obi necklace he wanted. Perhaps he will make your wife give it up to him."
He will indeed be clever if he can manage that, said Vivian, grimly. "My wife will not readily part with diamonds like that, and I fancy she knows enough about the Major to keep him silent. Well, Beatrice, let it be as you say: see Durban in the morning, and then Orchard. But I wish you would stay here."
No, you do not, Vivian, said the girl, determinedly. "You love me too well for that."
Perhaps I do. I shall always love you. Oh Beatrice, if you can only get at the truth of these murders and bring home the crime to the Black Patch Gang, you will lift from my shoulders the burden of years. I will work also. I have been a weak fool, allowing myself to be blackmailed and humbled by these rogues. But you have put fresh life into me, my darling. I shall now assert my manhood.
I quite understand how you shrank from publicity, she said in a soothing tone. "You are brave and manly, I know: but a man who would face a cannon's mouth would, in a case like this, be fearful for his good name. Let me search out the matter."
But you will allow me to help?
When I want your help I shall ask it of you, she replied. "And now, as our relations are changed,--for the present, at all events,--let us shake hands on the bargain of being friends."
Vivian did so without a sigh. The position was a hard one for him, but he recognised that it was harder for the girl. And when he saw how bravely she faced these difficult matters, he cursed himself for the moral cowardice which had made him submit for long years to extortion and concealment. "You put new heart into me," he said again, and they shook hands as friends, as Dinah came up with Jerry.
Jerry and I have been talking about our new flat in London, cried Dinah, long before she arrived on the terrace. "And we will live in West Kensington. I shall keep a saloon, and be a literary woman."
A drinking saloon? asked Vivian, glad of the diversion.
No, you stupid! A thing like Madame de Rambouillet--collecting all the wits of London, you know.
Goodness knows where you'll find them, said Jerry bluffly; "wit is an extinct art.--I say, Vivian, where is Miss Carr?"
That horrid girl! interpolated Dinah.
You didn't think her horrid once, Dinah, when you played with her.
I never did, said Dinah, opening her eyes and following her brother into the well-lighted drawing-room; "a painted----"
She was not painted then, interrupted Vivian impatiently. "And what Jerry told you about Orchard being her father ought to have----"
Oh! cried Dinah, starting, "now I remember, Maud Orchard of course. She was a housemaid or something."
Not quite that. She attended on Mrs. Lilly, who behaved like a mother to her.
Yes, yes. And then she went to London, and Mrs. Lilly was very angry. So that was her! Why did she call herself Carr?
It's a journalistic name, said Jerry.
Oh! said Dinah again. "I hope Snow is your real name?"
My very own, said Jerry, with a grimace. "I would certainly have chosen a different name had I selected one. But I am born a Snow, and have to put up with it."
Where has Maud Orchard gone? asked Dinah, irrelevantly.
She had to see after some business and went away, said Beatrice, as Vivian found it difficult to answer this question. "She only came here to see your brother and remind him who she was."
Well, I am stupid, said Dinah, swallowing this white fib; "but I have such a bad memory for faces. I can only remember Jerry's because it is so very plain."
I call that hard, said Jerry plaintively.
I call it silly, retorted Dinah, tapping him on the face with her fan. "Now have a whisky and soda with Vivian, and go home. Beatrice and I are going to bed. And I am sure you want to sleep," she said, glancing at her friend's pale face; "you look quite worn out."
I am all right, said Beatrice somewhat impatiently.
Good night, Jerry--good night, Vivian, and the two girls went up to their rooms; while Vivian played host to Jerry, and got rid of him as speedily as he could. He was in no mood for the young journalist's aimless chatter.
Next morning Beatrice awoke at five o'clock. She could not sleep longer, although, owing to being worn out on the previous night, she had slumbered very soundly. It was a lovely fresh morning, and she felt inclined for a walk. It was too early to see Durban, as he would not yet be up, early riser though he was. After a few minutes' thought, Beatrice decided to walk up to the Downs and see if old Orchard was about. She would get there about the time he was starting off with his flock, and in any event would be certain to find him in his hut at the morning meal. Hastily scribbling a note that she would return to breakfast and had gone for a stroll, Beatrice dressed herself and stole downstairs. Leaving the note on the dining-room table where it would certainly be found by Mrs. Lilly, the girl went out of the back door. The house-dog in the yard barked joyously at her coming, as she was a favourite of his. Beatrice, for the sake of company, let him loose, and took him with her.
She literally danced along the road in spite of the troubles which environed her. She was young, and the morning air was like champagne. Also she felt a conviction that things would surely come right, and that she and Vivian would become man and wife. She did not wish for the death of Mrs. Paslow, wicked as the woman was, nor did she wish Vivian to divorce her, which--as he had said--he could not do. But she felt that in some way the barrier would be removed, and that its removal lay in her own hands. Thus her heart began to grow light, and as she climbed the Downs amidst the glory of the dawn, she breathed a prayer to God that He would take all these troubles out of her life, and bring her to a safe haven.
Orchard was at the door of his hut as usual, and also he was eating, just as he had been when she saw him last. He might have been seated there all the time, for all she knew. The sheep were nibbling the dewy grass, and the sun was rising in splendour, when the old shepherd beheld her. He turned his mild eyes on her, and greeted her quietly.
You're the young lady as called to see me the other day? he said.
Colonel Hall's daughter, explained Beatrice, taking the stool he offered, "and I have come to see you about yours."
About my what? asked Orchard quietly.
About your daughter Maud. She came last night to see Mr. Paslow.
Ah yes, said Orchard, with such composure that Beatrice was certain that he knew nothing about the marriage, or his daughter's life. "Maud and Master Vivian were playmates together. She's a pretty girl."
She is, assented Beatrice cordially; for no one could deny the beauty of Maud Paslow, marred as it was by artificial aids.
And a good girl, said the old man, slightly warming. "She ain't ashamed of her old father, although she writes books and lives like a fine lady in London."
Yes, I hear she is a journalist, said Beatrice, and then abruptly added: "She must make a lot of money to have so fine a diamond necklace as she showed Mr. Paslow and myself."
Did she show that? said Orchard, with a slight cloud on his brow. "It was foolish of her. It is a necklace like one that Colonel Hall had years and years ago. Durban said that there was some witchcraft about that necklace, else why should it have been missing for so long, only to turn up here two days ago on the neck of a sheep?"
What? asked Beatrice, amazed.
And now I come to think of it, said Orchard, whose memory was apparently going, "Colonel Hall was murdered by Alpenny for that necklace."
It is the same?
Of course it is, miss. I recognised the setting when I took it off the sheep's neck.
But how could such a set of jewels get on a sheep's neck?
Ah! said old Orchard, with great mildness, "that's what I want to find out. Mr. Alpenny had the necklace, I am sure. Perhaps, as Durban said, there was bad luck about it, and Mr. Alpenny put it on a sheep's neck to get rid of the spell."
What rubbish! said Beatrice impatiently.
Rubbish or not, miss, I found that necklace on the neck of one of my sheep. The poor thing had broken its leg, and I went to put it out of its pain. The diamond necklace was round its neck, and I gave it to Maud, as it was no use to me. I hope it won't bring her bad luck, since it is the Obi necklace.
Beatrice did not remain long with Orchard, after she had learned how Maud Paslow became possessed of the Obi necklace. She was convinced that the old shepherd was speaking the truth, as he did not appear to have sufficient brains to be inventive, and, moreover, was rapidly growing senile. But on her way down to the Weald she thought it strange that the necklace should have been discovered by the man, round the neck of a sheep. Who had placed the gems there? and why had they been attached to the animal? An attempt to solve this problem lasted Beatrice all the way to The Camp.
It was now nearly ten o'clock, but Beatrice was too excited to think about breakfast. She found the great gates of The Camp wide open, and indeed since Alpenny's death they had been rarely closed. The gardens looked as beautiful as ever, but the railway carriages appeared a little deserted and forlorn. Beatrice walked at once towards the kitchen carriage, where she hoped to find Durban preparing his morning meal. He certainly was there, and with him was a red-headed, dirty little man in whom she recognised Waterloo.
Oh! said Beatrice, recoiling from the door, for the mere sight of that evil face made her sick.
Blimme! cried Waterloo, turning his rat-like eyes on her, "if it ain't old Alpenny's gal!"
Hold your tongue, said Durban in a low, fierce voice.--"What is it, missy?"
I have come to ask you for some breakfast, said Beatrice, retreating still further, so as to get away from Waterloo, "and to have a chat."
We'll all have a jaw, cried Waterloo enthusiastically; "we're all pals in the same boat."
What does this horrible creature mean? asked Beatrice, looking appealingly at her old servant.
'Orrible critture! yelped Waterloo. "Well, I likes that, I does. Oh yuss, not at all, by no means. Why, me an' your par were old pals."
Are you talking of Colonel Hall or of Mr. Alpenny? asked Beatrice, taking a sudden step towards the man.
The result of her remark and action surprised her not a little, and indeed seemed to surprise Durban also. "Colonel 'All!" muttered Waterloo, and his red hair rose on end over a rapidly paling face. "Oh! my stars, if you knows about him, it's time fur me to cut my lucky."
You know something? cried Beatrice.
I know as old Alpenny murdered--murdered---- Here! cried Waterloo, with a snarl, "you lemme out!" and before Beatrice could stop him--she was blocking the doorway--he had darted under her arm, and was running noiselessly out of The Camp. Apparently he was frightened out of his wits. Yet the girl wondered that so bold a thief, and a man accustomed to being in tight places, should be seized by so sudden an access of genuine terror.
What does it mean? she asked Durban, but making no attempt to follow the man.
I know no more than you do, missy.
Durban, said Beatrice, entering the kitchen and taking a seat, "you have kept me in the dark long enough. You ran away just as this man has done, when I asked you about the Obi necklace. Now you must speak out, as I am leaving Hurstable."
Leaving this place, missy? said Durban, startled. "Are you not to marry Mr. Paslow?"
How can I marry him when he has a wife living?
Durban did not seem to be so surprised at this news as she expected. "So you have found that out, missy?" he said slowly.
You knew about it?
Yes, I knew; but I thought--I thought that she was dead.
No. She pretended to die, for her own purposes. In fact she intended, in that way, to get rid of Vivian, and marry an American millionaire. But she is alive,--her double was buried.
Miss Arthur! cried the servant quickly.
You know that also?
I know everything. But I thought that Mrs. Paslow was dead, and so I wanted you to marry Mr. Paslow and be happy.
Durban, said the girl quietly, "the discovery of this, which you should have told me, alters the position of myself and Mr. Paslow. I can no longer remain at Convent Grange. To-morrow I go up to town to see Lady Watson."
Durban's face took on its greenish pallor. He made one stride forward and spoke to Beatrice with dry lips. "You must not; you dare not. Do not go, missy."
Take your hand from my arm, Durban, said Beatrice sharply; and when he did so she resumed in hard tones, "Why should I not go?"
Oh! how can I tell you? Durban clapped his hands together in a helpless sort of way, like a great child. "She is bad: she will do you harm. She has got Alpenny's money, which ought to be yours. For all I know, she may have the Obi necklace also. I hope she has, for its possession will bring her the worst of luck."
She has not got the necklace, Durban. Mrs. Paslow has it. Yes, you may well look surprised, Durban. Mr. Paslow and myself saw it on her neck last night, when she came to see him and prevent our marriage.
How could she have got it? murmured Durban, but more to himself than to his mistress.
She obtained it from her father.
Old Orchard the butler?
Old Orchard the shepherd. I saw him this morning. He recognised the necklace as having belonged to my father--to Colonel Hall; it seems the setting is peculiar.
But how did it come into his possession, missy?
He found it on the neck of a sheep.
Durban did not look at all surprised. "I thought he would," was his strange reply.
You thought he would what?
I thought he would find it there.
Durban, did you know it was on a sheep's neck?
Yes. I--well, missy, I may as well make a clean breast of it--I placed it on the sheep's neck myself.
You? And where did you get it?
Come with me, missy, and I'll show you.
In silent amazement Beatrice followed the stout man out of the kitchen. He led the way across the lawn to the counting-house, and opened the door with a key which he took from the pocket of his white suit. She beheld the counting-house in exactly the same state as she had seen it when Alpenny had insisted on the marriage with Major Ruck. But much water had flowed under Westminster Bridge since that time, which now seemed so far away.
Missy, said Durban, pointing to the seat in front of the mahogany desk, "sit down and let us talk. I have much to tell you, for the time has come when you must know what I know."
Why have you kept information from me all this time? said Beatrice, sitting down, while Durban stood at the door, his bulky form blocking up all exit.
Why? Missy, I ask you, would it have been right for me, who love you, to overshadow your young life by telling you of the murder of your father, of the rascality of Alpenny, and of the terrible position in which Mr. Paslow was placed? Durban spoke vehemently, and with the very greatest earnestness.
I am not a child, said Beatrice. "I should have been told."
You were a child for a long time, and I loved you, said Durban with exquisite sadness. "I wished to keep you in ignorance of the evil that surrounded you. I wished you to marry Mr. Paslow, and go away, never to learn what the evil was. But, I knew--for I learned it from Major Ruck, who wished to marry you and get the Obi necklace--that Mr. Paslow had married Maud Orchard (or Maud Carr, as she calls herself in town). When she died--or pretended to die--I thought that all would be well, and so kept silence. But you were determined to search out these matters for yourself. I placed no bar in the way of your doing so, as I thought that perhaps you were the chosen instrument to put all right. Since, unaided, you have found out so much, I think you are that instrument, so I am now going to make much plain, which has hitherto puzzled you."
Beatrice crossed her feet and hands. "I shall be glad to hear what you have to say," she said coldly.
Ah, missy, do not be angry, said Durban caressingly; "it was love that made me keep you in the dark."
He was so genuinely moved that a large tear rolled down his dark face, and a profound emotion stirred him to the depths of his being. Beatrice was annoyed at the way in which she had been treated, but she was just enough to recognise that the man had kept silence out of pure affection. Impulsively stretching out her hand, she caught his, which hung listlessly by his side, and shook it heartily. "I believe you love me, Durban, and that you acted for the best."
Oh! missy--missy!
Hush! Be quiet, and tell me what you know.
Durban wiped his face with the duster which he carried, and, leaning against the door, spoke slowly and to the point. Indeed, he seemed glad that after his years of silence he was at last able to confess freely, and to a sympathetic listener.
I was born in the West Indies, missy, he said, "and knew your mother and father----"
You told me that you were born on my mother's estate. Begin from the time you came to Convent Grange.
Very well, missy. I came to Convent Grange with my master to see Mr. Paslow's father, who was an old friend of the Colonel's. Master and your mother had quarrelled. He was severe, and kept your mother too quiet. She liked gaiety and pleasure, yet so severely had he trained her that she was always silent and demure. She came down with you and your nurse for one night. Then my master was murdered, as you know.
Can you tell who murdered him?
No, missy. Durban spoke very earnestly. "I swear that I do not know who did that. But your mother was suspected. She cleared herself; but people still looked at her askance, so she changed her name to Hedge and married Mr. Alpenny. Here"--Durban glanced out of doors"--in this quiet place she was safe, and here she lived until she died, worn out with grief, a few months later. Mr. Alpenny then sent you to Miss Shallow at Brighton, and you know all your life since then."
Why did my mother marry Mr. Alpenny?
Because she had the Obi necklace. Your father gave it to her, she told me.
And Major Ruck said the same thing.
It must be true, then, muttered Durban, half to himself, "although I was never sure. But Alpenny said that he would accuse your mother of the murder unless she married him. She did so, and then died. Alpenny kept the necklace, and, being fond of jewels, he could not make up his mind to part with it even for money, of which he was equally fond. He kept it by him in this place."
In the safe?
No, missy. The safe--as Mr. Alpenny, an associate of thieves, knew very well--was the first place where thieves would look. See here, missy--Durban advanced to the wall, and pulled aside the faded red rep which hung there as a kind of arras--"here is a pocket behind this, made in the rep. The necklace was kept here, for no one would think of feeling the hangings. It was safer here than in the safe."
Beatrice examined the pocket, and admired the ingenuity of the hiding-place, which--so to speak--was so public that even the most expert thief would never think of looking here for a valuable necklace of gems. An ordinary man would have kept the jewels in the safe; but Mr. Alpenny, who must have got the hint from Poe's story of "The Purloined Letter," chose the least likely place to be searched.
And you found the necklace here, Durban?
Yes, missy. I will tell you how I did. Mr. Alpenny was a member, and the chief one, of the Black Patch Gang.
Durban! Then you wrote that paper which was on Mr. Paslow's desk?
I did, missy, he admitted quietly. "Mr. Alpenny, wanting all the money to himself, had several times played the Gang false. Twice he was warned, and was told that at the third warning he would be killed."
I remember how Mr. Alpenny shivered when Vivian spoke, said Beatrice, recalling the scene; "and he spoke of the third warning."
I was told to give him the warning, said Durban calmly; "and I wanted to make Mr. Paslow use it, in the hope that Mr. Alpenny would be frightened into consenting to your marriage with Mr. Paslow."
But you knew that Maud Paslow was alive?
She pretended to die twice, said Durban, "and I was equally deceived along with Mr. Paslow. He did not know what the warning of the Black Patch Gang meant; but I did, and made Mr. Paslow unconsciously use it. But it proved useless."
Not to Mr. Alpenny. He was murdered.
Yes, missy, and I believe by a member of the Black Patch Gang; but I do not know who. Listen, missy. I am about to place my life in your hands! and the man looked cautiously round.
Durban! she exclaimed, frightened, "are you going to tell me that you were a member of the Gang?"
No, missy, I was not. They tried to get me to join, but being an honest man, I refused. But I held my tongue for your sake. I loved you, and the Gang declared if I told the police about them, that they would kidnap you. Therefore I was silent.
Kidnap me! cried Beatrice indignantly. "How could they?"
The Gang are very clever, and could do what they wanted to, said Durban drily; "and as Alpenny hated you, he certainly would have put no bar in the way of your being carried off. It was only I who stood between you and this danger."
Oh, Durban, how much I owe you!
Missy--he kissed her hand--"you do not owe me so much as I owed your good father, who saved me from being lynched in the States. But we can talk of that afterwards," he added hastily. "Let me go on. I was here on the night of the murder."
You! Why, you went to town?
I pretended to. But after the warning, Mr. Alpenny intended to bolt, as he feared for his life--that was why he left the note on your table. But I came back here before you returned in the wind and the rain, and looked through the window of the counting-house, in which a light burned. I saw Alpenny lying dead, and knew that the Black Patch Gang had accomplished their vengeance.
Did you meet any one?
No, I saw no one. Then I entered the counting-house by the secret way, missy.
Is there a secret way, Durban?
Yes. I found it by chance. See! Durban advanced to the end of the carriage and touched a spring which was concealed behind the rep hangings. At once there was a creaking noise, and the sheet of galvanised tin, upon which rested the stove, swung aside, to reveal a narrow flight of stone steps. "These," said Durban, "lead along an underground passage into the shrubbery, and from there one can go out by the great gates, or the small one. I entered by this way, as I had a duplicate key of the great gates. I searched for the Obi necklace, and found it by looking everywhere for it. I felt the hangings, and so discovered the pocket. Then I left The Camp and climbed the Downs. On to the neck of the first sheep I could catch, I tied the necklace, and let it stray away."
But why did you do that? asked Beatrice, astonished.
Because there was a curse on the necklace, said Durban with all the intensity of his negro nature. "And I did not want that curse to come upon you. You might have got the necklace, and then you would have had nothing but misery. Therefore, instead of throwing it away, for there was always the chance that it might be found, I bound it on the neck of the sheep, and lightly, thinking that the animal might lose it on the pathless Downs. I did it, missy, to save you from the curse. Well," said Durban, throwing out his hands, "old Orchard found it, and has given it to his daughter. She will be unlucky for evermore, unless she gives it to another person. And I hope," finished the half-caste vindictively, "that she will give it to Major Ruck in order that he may come to the gallows, as he has long deserved them."
What a strange story! And you do not know who killed Alpenny?
No more than I know who killed Colonel Hall. But, missy, now that I have told you this, you will not go to Lady Watson?
I must, Durban. I have to earn my living.
Then go to any one, but not to that woman; and Durban fell on his knees. "I implore you!"
But the more he implored the more Beatrice was determined to go, and learn, if possible, why Durban feared Lady Watson so much. "I go to-morrow," she said quietly, and twitched her dress from his grasp.
It is Fate! Fate! Fate! muttered Durban gloomily.
Beatrice kept her word in spite of all Durban's protestation that her visit to Lady Watson would lead to trouble. Frank as the old servant had apparently been, Beatrice could not rid herself of the idea than even now he had not told everything. There was some mystery concerning Lady Watson which had a bearing on the other mysteries, and this she was determined to find out. Only by knowing everything would her mind be set at rest.
The girl was sufficiently unhappy in these days. The discovery of the evil by which she was surrounded made her recoil from everyone in terror. All people seemed to have skeletons in their various cupboards, and Beatrice dreaded the chance of becoming friendly with any one else who had a secret. Also, it was pain and anguish to her to stand aside, and know that Maud Orchard possessed Vivian. Of course Maud had returned to London, and Vivian--so he said--had heard nothing about her from the time she had fled with the Obi necklace. All the same this woman, wicked and lawless, was his wife, and, while she lived, Beatrice knew that Vivian could never be anything to her but a friend. Loving him as she did, and in spite of his manifold weaknesses, her heart ached as she thought of the long, dreary, desolate life that necessarily was before her when deprived, by a prior claim, of his society. But recent events had hardened the girl's character, and she grasped her nettle firmly. In other words, she made all arrangements to go to London and see Lady Watson, on the chance of obtaining work. So long as she could earn her living, nothing else seemed to matter. Beatrice felt very unhappy and lonely.
What she greatly desired was a confidant. Dinah, being a scatter-brain, and wrapped up in Jerry, was useless, while, owing to the changed circumstances, she could not feel easy in the company of Vivian. Durban, after the short interview she had with him in The Camp, had vanished; for when Beatrice went again to question him still further, she found the place deserted and locked up. Where Durban had gone she did not know, and, needing him as she did, her state of mind was one of wretchedness and foreboding. However, as she greatly desired advice and comfort, she induced Vivian to come to the lonely Camp, and there told him all that Durban had told her.
Vivian heard her in silence, and wondered at the queer story. Durban, he thought, was deeper implicated in the doings of the Black Patch Gang than he chose to acknowledge, and he said this to Beatrice after some thought. The girl vigorously refused to believe in the guilt of the man.
Durban has always been my best friend, Vivian, she said, with a look of pain. "How can you accuse him, without evidence?"
It seems to me that there is a great deal of evidence upon which to accuse him, said Paslow grimly. "He had the necklace, and the crime was committed for the sake of the necklace."
No. It was a case of revenge. Alpenny evidently betrayed the Gang in some way, or took more than his fair share of the plunder, therefore he was sentenced to death; and you were used by Durban as the unconscious instrument to give him warning. You saw how terrified old Alpenny was, and how he muttered about the third time. Also, the note he wrote to me was a trick, to give him time to get away. He would have fled, but that he was killed.
Had he fled, said Vivian judiciously, "or had he intended to fly, he would have taken his jewels with him. According to Major Ruck, he had a great many jewels."
I saw some, replied Beatrice. "Well, perhaps he did make up a parcel of jewels, and these were stolen by the thief who killed him."
No, insisted Vivian. "The necklace was left behind, or would have been. Had Alpenny intended to fly to the Continent with his plunder in order to escape death he certainly would have packed up the Obi necklace at once. As it was, he left it in its hiding-place, and Durban--as he says--found it there."
How do you mean--as he says? questioned Beatrice, struck by the peculiar tone in which Paslow uttered the words.
I mean that Durban may be telling a lie. Alpenny may have got the necklace ready to go away. Durban, coming back, as he confessed to you he did, probably killed him, and stole the necklace.
Nonsense! said Beatrice quickly. "For what reason should he steal the necklace, and then hang it on the neck of a sheep?"
Ah, that is Orchard's story. You told it to Durban, and he seized the idea. Orchard's daughter is connected with the Gang--my wife, that is, added Vivian, with a grimace, "so it is probable that Orchard also is a member. Probably Durban, after killing Alpenny, went up the Downs and gave the necklace to Orchard for safe keeping. No one would expect to find it in the possession of the old man. I think that Orchard was to have returned it to Durban, so that money could be made; only his daughter--my wife--saw it and wheedled it out of him for herself. But I don't think she'll keep it long if Major Ruck sees it."
I don't agree with you at all, said Beatrice, defending Durban. "As Durban was supposed to be in town, he could have come back."
Which he did, remember.
Yes, but only to find Alpenny dead. Had he killed Alpenny for the sake of the necklace, he could have slipped it into his pocket and have gone away in safety. No, Vivian, I believe that Durban really believes that there is some spell attached to the necklace, and placed it on the neck of the sheep to prevent its doing further harm to anyone, especially to me. Had I found it, I certainly should have claimed it.
Lady Watson would have claimed it.
I know that, since she inherits all under the will. And that is one of the reasons why I go up to town to see her. I'll tell her all that we know, and she will get the necklace from your wife.
That is if Major Ruck doesn't get it in the meantime, said Vivian coolly. "Maud is a clever woman, but she won't be able to get the better of Major Ruck. Let us have a look at the secret passage."
We cannot open the door, objected Beatrice.
Durban opened it with a beam when the body was found dead, said the young man, "and here is the beam left near the carriage all the time." He picked up the heavy log of wood, and poised it against the door. The lock, mended but lightly, gave way at once, and the two had little difficulty in entering.
Here is the spring, explained Beatrice, and walked to the end of the carriage, followed closely by Vivian. In another minute the galvanised tin upon which the stove stood, slipped aside, and disclosed the damp steps. "Isn't it ingenious?" said she, admiringly.
Very, assented Vivian. "Let us go down. Come on!"
But a light. Oh--she caught sight of a candle on the table--"here is one. You lead, Vivian."
With the lighted candle the pair went down into the unwholesome passage. It descended by means of the steps for some distance, and then there was a trend to the right. The passage was perfectly straight, and had been dug out of the soft earth. Part of it was roofed with brick, but the whole was much dilapidated, and showed signs of collapse. Vivian, seeing this, and fearing a fall of earth, wished the girl to return, but this she refused to do. "I want to see where it leads to," she said. "Go on, Vivian."
Thus urged, he cautiously felt his way by the feeble glimmer of the candle. In a shorter time than either expected, they came to a second flight of steps, and scrambled upward. The steps ended at a kind of trap-door. Vivian placed his shoulder beneath this, and with a vigorous push, forced it outward and upward. The next moment he had leaped lightly on to the surface of the earth, and found himself in the wood, just outside the walls of The Camp.
Oh, said Beatrice, when she was assisted out of the bole, and began to recognise her surroundings, "Durban said that the exit was within The Camp."
Ah, replied Vivian, with much significance, "Durban has told another lie. He is not to be trusted, Beatrice."
I am certain he is, although appearances are against him, declared the girl impetuously. "He is cautious in speaking even to me, as he fears the vengeance of the Gang. Close the trap-door, Vivian. See!" she added, when he did this, "the surface is masked with moss."
And so it was. The wood was ingeniously covered with ragged moss; and when the trap was down and a few leaves fell on the moss, no one could have told that a passage lay underneath. It was a most clever arrangement, and doubtless had been often used by the scoundrelly gang of which Alpenny, undoubtedly, had been a prominent member. The respectable clients, however, who had come to borrow money and be swindled by the old rascal, had always entered by the great gates, or, if they wished for especial privacy, by the smaller one.
What a dangerous lot of people I have lived amongst, said Beatrice, who was rather pale when they reclosed the door of the counting-house and left The Camp.
Undoubtedly, assented Vivian rather grimly; "it is a mercy that the police never came down here. You might have been implicated."
I can see that, and for the same reason I refuse to believe that Durban is mixed up with these rascalities. He served Mr. Alpenny for my sake, and for my sake he held his tongue about the roguery which he must have known went on. But I do not believe that he took any part in the same, Vivian.
Well, said Paslow, after a pause, "you may learn more when you see Lady Watson."
But she can have nothing to do with these things. She is a lady of rank and fashion.
She was a friend of Alpenny's, or he would not have left her his money, said Vivian, "and is the friend of Major Ruck. I don't know a bigger blackguard in London."
Beatrice said nothing more. She quite agreed with her lover, and began to be afraid as to what she might discover when she was in the presence of Lady Watson. All the same, as she was determined to learn everything, and if possible, to so get to know the doings of the Gang that Vivian would be safe from their threats, she left early the next morning for town. Vivian accompanied her to the local station, and took a formal farewell of her. It had to be formal, because of the publicity of the platform, and also because their relations with one another, since the appearance of the supposed dead wife, were so very difficult. So Vivian coldly shook hands, although his face belied the formal action, and Beatrice watched him through tearful eyes as the train steamed towards Brighton.
Dinah had given her a couple of pounds, or rather Beatrice had borrowed these from her, with the intention of repaying her out of the first instalment of a possible salary. This was all the money she had in the world, and she prayed on the way to London, that Heaven would see fit to make Lady Watson well-disposed towards her. At Victoria Station the girl sent a wire to the address which she had procured from Dinah, who got it from Mrs. Snow. This telegram intimated that Miss Hedge,--she thought it best to keep to the name,--was coming to see Lady Watson on business. It was rather a strange thing to do; but Beatrice was new to social ways, and, moreover, could not, by reason of her scanty purse, run the risk of having to wait long in town without seeing her probable patroness.
Lady Watson lived in Kensington, and there Beatrice, not knowing the intricacies of the underground railway, drove all the way in a four-wheeler. But first, she went to a small and quiet hotel which was kept by a sister of Mrs. Lilly's. Here, thanks to the housekeeper's letter, Beatrice was received by the counterpart of Mrs. Lilly, and felt quite at home.
You can stay here as long as you like, miss, said the landlady, when Beatrice asked for cheap apartments. "My sister has told me all about you, miss. A bedroom and sitting-room are waiting for you, miss; and we'll talk of payment on some future occasion."
Beatrice, worn out and feeling intensely lonely, could have wept because of the kindness of this reception. But she restrained her tears, as she had no desire to make her eyes red for the meeting with Lady Watson. She had some luncheon, and then dressed herself in her best mourning and took her way to the great lady's house, which was not very far away in a quiet square. Mrs. Quail, the landlady, sent a small servant to show Beatrice where the square was, and once there, the girl soon found the house by its number. But when she rang the bell, and stood alone on the doorstep, she felt very nervous. All the same her courage did not give way. The interview meant much to her, and she was determined to carry it through, cost what it might.
The footman who opened the door said that his mistress was within, and conducted Beatrice up a well-carpeted flight of wide, shallow stairs into the drawing-room. The house was well furnished, and in a rather frivolous way, which reflected the spirit of its mistress. On all hands in the drawing-room Beatrice saw evidence of waste of money in little things. Lady Watson apparently liked comfort, and spent with a lavish hand. In the midst of this modern splendour the girl felt lost, accustomed as she was to the plainest of houses. (And, indeed, as a carping critic might have said, she was not accustomed even to houses, seeing that she lived in a disused railway carriage!) However, Beatrice had little time for thought. Hardly had she cast a glance round the apartment when Lady Watson entered with a rush. She looked as young and wrinkled as ever, and was dressed in a soft tea-gown exquisitely made. At the distance she looked twenty, but when near, and in spite of the blinds being down, she looked nearly forty. However her eyes, brown and bright, twinkled as merrily as ever, and, to Beatrice's surprise, she flung her arms round her visitor's neck.
My dear child, she rattled on, "I am glad to see you. I received your telegram, and stopped in, on purpose to see you. Of course you have come to be my companion? Your room is ready, and we will be such friends. Ah, you don't know how I love you!"
Why should you? asked Beatrice, rather surprised by this gushing reception, and mistrusting its truth.
Oh, there are a thousand reasons. I'll tell you them later. Come, my dearest child, take off your jacket and hat, and----
No, Lady Watson. I have only come for a short visit I want you to get me a situation as a governess, and----
A governess with your beauty! cried the little woman; "what nonsense! Let me look at you, dearest"; and she pulled up the near blind to let in the sunlight on the girl. It made Beatrice look like an angel, and Lady Watson aged in the golden splendour at least a dozen years.
Oh, you are lovely, lovely! Why, what are you looking at? Oh, at my necklace! Beautiful diamonds are they not?
Yes. Beatrice, with white lips, recognised the necklace at once as that stolen by Maud Paslow. "But where did you get it?"
Why do you ask that? questioned Lady Watson sharply.
It is the Obi necklace. You got it from Maud Orchard--from Vivian's wife.
I--that is--what do you mean? stammered Lady Watson, growing pale under her rouge. "It is mine--mine. Mr. Alpenny gave it to me."
No. You are in this plot too. You know about the murder. I shall tell the police, I shall---- Beatrice, hardly knowing what she did, was about to rush from the room when Lady Watson stopped her.
Wait, she said in a cracked scream; "if you denounce me, you ruin--your mother!"