Shortly after Durban resumed work, Beatrice received a surprise which rather pleased her. This was none other than an invitation to enter the counting-house. She had always desired to do so, being filled with that curiosity which led her grandmother Eve to eat apples, but hitherto Alpenny had declined to admit her. Now the door of the dungeon was open, and Alpenny, standing before it, beckoned that she should come in. In the bright sunshine he looked more decrepit and wicked than usual. He could not have been less than eighty years of age, and his spare figure was bowed with Time. That same Time had also robbed him of every hair on his head, and had even taken away eyebrows and eyelashes. As the old man was clean shaven, his gleaming head and hairless yellow wrinkled face looked rather repulsive. Nor did his dress tend to improve his appearance, for it was a shepherd's-plaid suit cut in the style of the early fifties, when he had been young, and presumably something of a dandy. In spite of the antiquity of the clothes, there was a suggestion of juvenility about them which matched badly with his Methuselah looks. Like an aged ghost he beckoned in the sunshine, and the white-painted erection behind him assumed, in the eyes of Beatrice, the look of a tomb.
Wondering that she should be invited into Mammon's Shrine, the girl walked across the lawn. In her white dress, with her beautiful face shaded by a coarse straw hat, she appeared the embodiment of youth and grace, contrasting markedly with the senile old villain, who croaked out his orders.
"Come in," said Alpenny testily, and with the screech of a peacock, as he pointed to the open door. "I wish to speak to you seriously."
Beatrice, ever sparing of words with crabbed age, nodded and entered the counting-house, glancing comprehensively around to take in her surroundings--as a woman always does--with a single look. The space naturally was limited. All the windows had been boarded up save one, which opened immediately over a rather large desk of mahogany which was piled with papers. The walls were hung with faded red rep. In one corner stood a large green-painted safe; in another stood a pile of tin boxes which reached quite to the roof. A paraffin lamp dangled by brass chains from a somewhat smoky ceiling; and at the far end of the carriage, in front of a dilapidated bookcase, was an oil stove, crudely set on a sheet of galvanised tin. A ragged carpet, disorderly in colour and much faded, covered the floor; and there were only two chairs, one before the desk, and another beside it, probably for the use of clients. The one window was barred, but not covered with any curtain; the others were sheathed in iron and barred strongly outside. From without, as has been said, the carriage looked like a dungeon: within, its appearance suggested the home of a recluse, who cared very little for the pomps and vanities of civilisation. This barren room represented very fairly the bare mind of the miser, who cared more for money itself, than for what money could do.
Motioning Beatrice to the client's chair, Alpenny seated himself before his desk, and from habit presumably, began to fiddle with some legal looking documents. Apparently he had got over the shock caused by Vivian's strange speech, and looked much the same as he always did--cold, unsympathetic, and cunning as an old monkey. In the dungeon Beatrice bloomed like a rose, while Alpenny resembled a cold, clammy toad, uncanny and repulsive. He began to speak almost immediately, and his first words amazed the girl. They were the last she expected to hear from the lips of one who had always treated her with indifference, and almost with hostility.
"Have you ever thought of marriage?" asked the usurer, examining his visitor's face with two small sharp eyes, chilly and grey.
"Marriage!" she gasped, doubting if she had heard aright.
"Yes, marriage. Young girls think of such things, do they not?"
Wishing to find out what he meant, Beatrice fenced. "I have no chance of marrying, father," she observed, regaining her composure.
"I grant that, unless you have fallen in love with Jerry Snow; and I credit you with too much sense, to think you could love a fool."
"Mr. Snow is to marry Miss Paslow," announced Beatrice coldly, and kept her eyes on the wizen face before her.
"Oh," sneered Alpenny, "Hunger wedding Thirst. And how do they intend to live, may I ask?"
"That is their business, and not ours."
"Paslow hasn't a penny to give to his giggling sister, and very soon he won't have a roof over his head."
"What do you mean by that, father?"
"Mean!" The usurer stretched out a skinny hand, which resembled the claw of a bird of preys as he looked like. "Why, I mean, my girl, that I hold Vivian Paslow there," and he tapped his palm.
"Still I don't understand," said Beatrice, her blood running cold at the malignant look on his face.
"There is no need you should," rejoined her stepfather coolly. "He is not for you, and you are not for him. Do you understand that?"
It was unwise for Alpenny to meddle with a maiden's fancies, for the girl's outraged womanhood revolted. "I understand that you mean to be impertinent, Mr. Alpenny," she said, with a flaming colour.
"'Mr. Alpenny'? Why not 'father,' as usual?"
"Because you are no father of mine, and I thank God for it."
He gave her a vindictive look, and rubbed his hands together, with the croak of a hungry raven. "I brought you up, I educated you, I fed you, I housed you, I----"
Beatrice waved her hand impatiently. "I know well what you have done," said she; "as little as you could."
"Here's gratitude!"
"And common sense, Mr. Alpenny. I know nothing, save that you married my mother and promised to look after me when she died."
"I promised nothing," snapped Alpenny.
"Durban says that you did."
"Durban is, what he always was, a fool. I promised nothing to your mother--at all events, concerning you. Why should I? You are not my own flesh and blood."
"Anyone can tell that," said Beatrice disdainfully.
"No impertinence, miss. I have fed and clothed you, and educated you, and housed you----"
"You said that before."
"All at my own expense," went on the miser imperturbably, "and out of the kindness of my heart. This is the return you make, by giving me sauce! But you had better take care," he went on menacingly, and shaking a lean yellow finger, "I am not to be trifled with."
"Neither am I," retorted Beatrice, who felt in a fighting humour. "I am sorry to have been a burden to you, and for what you have done I thank you; but I am weary of stopping here. Give me a small sum of money and let me go."
"Money!" screeched the miser, touched on his tenderest point. "Money to waste?"
"Money to keep me in London until I can obtain a situation as a governess or as a companion. Come, father," she went on coaxingly, "you must be sick of seeing me about here. And I am so tired of this life!"
"It's the wickedness in your blood, Beatrice. Just like your mother--oh, dear me, how very like your mother!"
"Leave my mother's character alone!" said Beatrice impatiently, "she is dead and buried."
"She is--in Hurstable churchyard, under a beautiful tomb I got second-hand at a bargain. See how I loved her."
"You never loved anyone in your life, Mr. Alpenny," said the girl, freezing again.
Alpenny's brow grew black, and he looked at her with glittering eyes. "You are mistaken, child," he said, quietly. "I have loved and lost."
"My mother----?"
"Perhaps," said he enigmatically, and passed his hand over his bald head in a weary manner. Then he burst out unexpectedly: "I wish I had never set eyes on your mother. I wish she had been dead and buried before she crossed my path!"
"She is dead, so----"
"Yes, she is dead, stone dead," he snarled, rising, much agitated, "and don't think you'll ever see her again. If I----" He was about to speak further; then seeing from the wondering look on the girl's face that he was saying more than was wise, he halted, stuttered, and sat down again abruptly, moving the papers with trembling hands. "Leave the past alone," he said hoarsely. "I can't speak of it calmly. It is the past that makes the future," he continued, drumming feverishly on the table with his fingers, "the past that makes the future."
Beatrice wondered what he meant, and noticed how weary and worn and nervous he seemed. The man did not love her; he had not treated her as he should have done; and between them there was no feeling in common. Yet he was old, and, after all, had sheltered her in his own grudging way, so Beatrice laid a light hand on his arm. "Mr. Alpenny, you are not young----"
"Eighty and more, my dear."
The term startled her, and she began to think he must indeed be near the borders of the next world when he spoke so gently.
"Well, then, why don't you go to church, and feed the hungry, and clothe the naked? Remember, you have to answer for what you have done, some day soon."
Alpenny rose vehemently and flung off her arm. "I don't ask you to teach me my duty, girl," he said savagely. "What I have done is done, and was rightly done. Everyone betrayed me, and money is the only thing that did not. Money is power, money is love, money is joy and life and hope and comfort to me. No! I keep my money until I die, and then----" He cast a nervous look round, only to burst out again with greater vehemence. "Why do you talk of death? I am strong; I eat heartily. I drink little. I sleep well. I shall live for many a long day yet. And even if I die," he snapped, "don't expect to benefit by my death. You don't get that!" and he snapped his fingers within an inch of her nose.
"I don't want your money," said Beatrice quietly; "Durban will look after me. Still, you might let me have enough to keep me while I try to find work."
"I won't!"
"But if you die, I'll be a pauper."
"Without a sixpence!" said Alpenny exultingly.
"Have I no relatives who will help me?"
"No. Your mother came from I know not where, and where she has gone I don't exactly know. She married me and then died. I have kept you----"
"Yes--yes. But if my mother was poor and came from where you knew not, why did you marry her?"
"My kind heart----"
"You haven't got one; it's in your money-chest"
"It might be in a woman's keeping, which is a much worse place."
Beatrice grew weary of this futile conversation, and rose. "You asked me to see you," she said, with a fatigued air; "what is it you have to say?"
"Oh yes." He seemed to arouse himself from a fit of musing. "Yes! I have found a husband for you."
Beatrice started. He announced this startling fact as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "You--have--found--a--husband--for--me?" she drawled slowly.
"Yes. You won't have my money, and I may die." He cast a look over his shoulder nervously. "I don't want to, but I may: one never knows, do they? You will be poor, so I think it best to get you married and settled in life."
"Thank you," she returned icily. "It is very good of you to take so much trouble. And my future husband?"
"Ruck! Major Ruck--Major Simon Ruck, a retired army officer, and a handsome man of fifty, very well preserved, and with a fine fortune."
"How alluring! And suppose I refuse?"
"You can't--you daren't!" He grasped her arm entreatingly. "Don't be a fool, my dear. Ruck is handsome and well off. He is coming down on Saturday to see you. This is Wednesday, so you will have time to think over the matter. You must marry him--you must, I tell you!" and he shook her arm in his agitation.
Beatrice removed her arm in a flaming temper. "Must I indeed?" said she, flashing up into righteous anger. "Then I won't!"
"Beatrice!"
"I won't. I have never seen the man, and I don't wish to see him. You have no right to make any arrangements about my marriage without consulting me. You are neither kith nor kin of mine, and I am of age. I deny your right to arrange my future."
"Do you wish to be left to starve?"
"I shall not starve; but I would rather do so, than marry a man of fifty, whom I have never set eyes on."
"If you don't marry Ruck, you'll be a pauper sooner than you expect, my girl. Marry him for my sake?"
"No! You have done as little as you could for me: you have always hated me. I decline."
Alpenny rose in his turn--Beatrice had already risen to her feet--and faced her in a black fury, the more venomous for being quiet. "Youshallmarry him!"
"I shall not."
They faced one another, both angry, both determined, both bent upon gaining the victory. But if Alpenny had an iron will, Beatrice had youth and outraged womanhood on her side, and in the end his small cruel eyes fell before her flashing orbs.
"I want you to marry Ruck--really I do," he whimpered piteously.
"Why?"
"Because"---- he swallowed something, and told what was evidently a lie, so glibly did it slip out. "Because I should be sorry to leave you to starve."
"I shall not starve. I am well educated, and can teach. At the worst I can become a nursery governess, or be a companion."
"Better marry Major Ruck."
"No. It is foolish of you to ask me."
"If you don't marry him I shall be ruined. I shall be killed. No"--he broke off suddenly--"I don't mean that. Who would kill a poor old man such as I am? But"--his voice leaped an octave--"youmustmarry the husband I chose for you."
"I chose for myself."
"Ah!"--the miser was shaking with rage--"it's Vivian Paslow: no denial--I can see he is the man; a penniless scoundrel, who is at my mercy!"
"Don't dare to speak of him like that," flamed out Beatrice. "As to marrying him--he has not asked me yet."
"And never will, if I can stop him. I know how to do so--oh yes, I do. He will not dare to go against me. I can ruin him. He----" At this moment there came a sharp rap at the door, which made Alpenny's face turn white and his lips turn blue.
"Who is there?"
"A telegram," said the voice of Durban; and Alpenny, with a smothered ejaculation of pleasure, went to open the door. As he did so, Beatrice noticed on the wall near the desk two keys, one large and one small. The little one she knew to be the key of the postern gate, and without hesitation she took it down and slipped it into her pocket. As Alpenny turned round with the telegram and no very pleasant expression of countenance, she felt that she would at least be able to see Vivian Paslow on that evening without arousing the suspicions of her stepfather. It was unlikely that any one would come that night, and he would not miss the key, which she could get Durban to replace the next day. As this thought flashed into her mind, she saw the face of the servant at the door. He looked puzzled, but probably that was because he beheld her in the sanctum of his master, hitherto forbidden ground both to him and to her. The next moment Alpenny had closed the door, and Durban went away.
"This telegram is from Major Ruck," said Alpenny. "He is coming down on Saturday, so be ready to receive him."
"I shall leave the place if he comes."
"You won't: you'll wait and see him--and accept him also. If you don't, I'll make things hot for Vivian Paslow."
This was, as Beatrice conceived, a game of bluff; so she replied boldly enough, "Mr. Paslow is able to look after himself. I decline to speak to Major Ruck, whosoever he may be, or even to see him."
"Saturday! Saturday!" said Alpenny coldly, and opened the door. "Now you can go. If you leave The Camp, or if you refuse Ruck as your husband, Vivian Paslow will reap the reward of his crimes." And he pushed her out, locking the door after her with a sharp click.
Crimes! Beatrice stood in the sunlight, stunned and dazed. What did Alpenny mean? What crimes could the man she loved have committed? Almost before she could collect her thoughts she felt a light touch on her shoulder, and turned to behold Durban.
"Wasn't master in his counting-house all this afternoon?" asked the servant. "You should know, missy, as the parlour is opposite."
"Yes, he was," she replied with an effort. "I never saw him come out."
Durban wrinkled his dark brows. "Then how did he send the telegram, to which he has just now had an answer?" he demanded.
"How do you know that this wire is an answer, Durban?"
"The reply was prepaid, missy. How did master do it?"
Beatrice was equally puzzled. Alpenny had not been away from The Camp all the afternoon, yet had contrived to send a telegram, and prepay the reply.
It was truly a mystery. So far as Beatrice knew, there were but two ways of getting out of The Camp--by the large gate and the smaller one. Yet she in the parlour-carriage, facing Alpenny's counting-house, had not seen him emerge; nor had Durban, busy in the kitchen, the door of which commanded a view of the postern, beheld his master depart. The telegraph office was at the railway station three miles away, and there was no one in The Camp save Durban and his young mistress to send with a wire. Yet the wire had been sent, and the reply had been received. Beatrice ventured an explanation.
"Perhaps my father sent the telegram yesterday."
"No, missy. I took none, and master did not leave the place. No telegram has been sent from here for the last month."
"Is there a third way out, Durban?"
"Not that I know of, missy, and yet----"
What Durban would have said in the way of explanation it is impossible to say, for at this moment the querulous voice of Alpenny was heard calling snappishly. Durban hastened to the door of the counting-house, and it was opened so that he could speak with his master. But he was not admitted within. Beatrice retired to her bedroom-carriage, which was near the parlour, and had only been there a few minutes when Durban came over with a crest-fallen face.
"We must put off going to Convent Grange, missy," said he rapidly; "master wishes me to go to town. He is writing a letter which I have to take up at once. I shall catch the six train."
"Very well, Durban. We can wait."
The servant looked and hesitated, but before he could speak again Mr. Alpenny interrupted. Appearing at the door of his dungeon he waved a letter. "Come at once!" he cried; "don't lose time. What do you mean by chattering there?"
Durban gave Beatrice a significant look and hastened away. In another ten minutes he had left The Camp by the great gates and was on his way to the railway station. Alpenny saw him off the premises and then crossed over to his stepdaughter.
"What were you saying to Durban?" he asked suspiciously.
"You mean what was Durban saying to me?" she replied quietly; "you can surely guess. He was saying that you wished him to go to town."
"There was no need of him to tell you my business," grumbled the miser, looking ill-tempered. "What are you doing this evening?"
Had he any suspicions of her intention? Beatrice thought not. The question was put in a snarling way, and simply--as she judged--to show his authority.
"I intend to read," she answered simply, "and perhaps I shall take a walk"--in the grounds, she ostensibly meant.
"Better not," warned the usurer, looking up. "Clouds are gathering. I am sure there will be a storm."
"Very well," was her indifferent reply, although she wondered if he had missed the key of the smaller gate. "Will I come and say good-night to you as usual at ten?"
Alpenny nodded in an absent way, and walked into his counting-house with his hands behind him, and his form more bent than usual. Beatrice watched him cross the smooth sward, and then went to sit down in the parlour and meditate. In some way, which she could scarcely define, she scented a mystery. The episode of the telegram, the hasty departure of Durban, the proposal of marriage, all these things hinted--as she thought--at schemes against her peace of mind. And then, again, the words of Vivian Paslow. Those were indeed mysterious, and she was anxious to know what they meant. Finally, the hint that Alpenny had given as to Vivian having committed crimes, alarmed the girl. She felt that Alpenny was trying to inveigle Paslow into some trap, and from his words it was plain that he would stop at nothing to prevent the young man declaring the passion he felt for the girl. Also, from another hint, it would seem that the miser held--as, indeed, he had plainly stated--"Vivian in the hollow of his hand."
These thoughts made Beatrice very uncomfortable, the more so as never before had any mystery come into her life. Hitherto it had been serene and uneventful, one day being exactly the same as another. But with the visit of Vivian on that afternoon everything had changed, for since he had heard those mysterious words, Alpenny had not been himself. In some queer way he had forwarded a telegram, and in a hurry he had sent Durban to London, which he had not done for months past. Undoubtedly something sinister was in the wind, and Beatrice shivered with a vague apprehension of dread.
It certainly might have been the weather which made her feel so ill at ease, for the hot day had ended in an even hotter evening. The air was close, the sky was clouded, and there was not a breath of wind to stir the leaves of the surrounding trees. Ever and again a flicker of lightning would leap across the sky--summer lightning which portended storm and rain. Beatrice, trying to breathe freely in the suffocating air, wished that the storm would come to clear the atmosphere. There was electricity in the dry air, and she felt as uncomfortable as a cat which has its hair smoothed the wrong way. On some such night as this must Lady Macbeth have received Duncan, and Nature hinted at a repetition of the storm which took place when the guileless king was done to death in the shambles.
Beatrice could not rest within doors. She put on a hat, and draped a long black cloak over her white dress. Attired thus, she walked up and down on the dry grass, trying to compose herself. Around gloomed the girdle of trees, without even a leaf stirring. The colours of the flowers were vague in the hot twilight, and the white forms of the seven railway carriages stood here and there like tombs in a cemetery. As she lingered near the sundial, she cast a look upward at the Downs, which rose vast and shadowy to be defined clearly against a clear sky. The foot of them was but a stone-throw away from The Camp, and almost it was in her mind to climb their heights in order to get a breath of fresh air. Here in the hollow, embosomed in woods, she felt stifling; but up there surely a sweet, fresh wind must be blowing, full of moisture from the Channel. Then the thought of a possible walk recalled her to a remembrance of her appointment: she intended to keep it, even though Durban had gone away. The key was in her pocket, and she could slip out of the small gate for an hour, and get back again without Alpenny being any the wiser. Already a light gleamed from the solitary window of the dungeon, as it had gleamed ever since she could remember when the darkness came on. Behind the discoloured blind the miser laboured at his books, and counted his gains. So far as she knew all his money was banked and invested, and he kept no gold in the dungeon. Perhaps he feared robbery; and it really was remarkable that, seeing he was supposed to be a millionaire, The Camp had never been marked by the fraternity of London thieves. A visit there would surely have proved successful, if all the tales of Alpenny were to be believed. But perhaps the thieves had heard, as the miser had vaguely hinted, of his cleverness in keeping no specie in his retirement. But be this as it may, Alpenny, all these years, had never hinted at a possible burglary.
After a glance at the Downs and at Alpenny's lighted window, behind which he would sit until midnight, Beatrice entered one of the winding paths in the little wood and took her way to the gate. The large gates were locked, and Alpenny alone possessed the key; but she could open the smaller gate, and now proceeded to do so.
The lock was freshly oiled, and the postern swung open noiselessly. Standing on the threshold within The Camp, Beatrice paused for a moment. Some feeling seemed to hold her back. Into her mind flashed the sudden thought that if she went out, she would leave behind her not only The Camp, but the old serene life. It was like crossing the Rubicon; but with an impatient ejaculation at her own weakness, she shook herself and passed out, leaving the gate locked behind her. Then she stole through the glimmering wood, fully committed to the adventure. As she did so, a distant growl of thunder seemed to her agitated mind like the voice of the angel thrusting her out of Paradise. Truly, she had never before felt in this strange mood.
By a narrow path she gained the lane, and here the light was a trifle stronger, although it was rapidly dying out of the hot, close sky. It was close upon half-past six, so Beatrice knew that if she walked quickly she could arrive at the Witches' Oak almost at the time appointed. Owing to the late hour of starting she had quite given up the idea of going to Convent Grange, which was two miles away. She would meet Vivian, as she now arranged in her own mind, at the Witches' Oak, and would ask for an explanation. When he gave it, she could return rapidly to The Camp escorted by him; then slipping in, she would be able to say good-night to Alpenny at ten o'clock, and go to bed. For a moment, she wondered if Durban would return that night, or stop in town. If he came back, he would be angry if he found that she had left The Camp unattended and in the twilight. But she would be in bed even if Durban did return, and then she could decide whether to tell him or not. Also, the chances were that as he had gone to town so late he would remain there till the next morning to execute Alpenny's business, whatever that might be.
Passing along the lane, Beatrice had to run by the great gates, which were locked securely. In the twilight she thought she saw a small figure crouching before them, but in the semi-darkness could not be certain. However, the sight of the figure, if figure it was, troubled her very little. Probably it was that of some tramp, as there were many in the Weald of Sussex. But if the tramp was waiting at the gates in the hope of getting a crust or penny from the miser, he would be woefully disappointed. Beatrice, passing swiftly, hardly gave the matter a thought, but sped rapidly along under the deep shadows of the trees, and along the white dusty lane, between the wilted hedges, dry with summer heat. A quarter of a mile brought her to a side path, and down this she went calmly, congratulating herself that she had met neither tramp, nor neighbour on the road. The path wound deviously through ancient trees, and at length emerged into a rather large glade in the centre of which was a pond, green with duckweed. Over this spread the branches of the Witches' Oak, an old old tree, which must have been growing in the time of the Druids, and which had probably played its part in their mystic rites. A fitful moonlight gleamed occasionally on this, as the planet showed her haggard face, and under the tree Beatrice saw a tall figure waiting patiently. She crossed the glade in the moonlight, but the clouds swept over the face of the orb, as Beatrice paused under the oak. Then again came a growl of distant thunder, as if in warning.
"I knew you would come," said Paslow, stepping forward, and for the moment it seemed as though he would take her in his arms.
In the darkness the cheeks of the girl flushed, and she stepped lightly aside, evading his clasp. Her heart told her to throw herself into those strong arms and be protected for ever from the coming storms of life, but a sense of modesty prevented such speedy surrender. When she spoke, her voice was steady and cool. There was no time to be lost, and she began hurriedly in the middle of things.
"Yes, I have come," she said quickly; "because I want to know the meaning of the words you used to my father to-day."
"I don't know what they mean," confessed Paslow calmly.
"Then why did you use them?"
"I received a hint to do so."
"From whom?"
"I can't tell you that. Miss Hedge--Beatrice--I asked you to meet me here, so that no one should interrupt our conversation. If you came to the Grange, Dinah would have prevented my speaking; and now that Mr. Alpenny is angry with me, I cannot come to The Camp. You must forgive me for having asked you to meet me here at this hour, and in so ill-omened a spot, but I have something to say to you which must be said at once."
"What is it?" Her heart beat rapidly as she spoke, for although she could not see his face in the darkness, she guessed from the tones of his voice that he was about to say all which she desired to hear.
"Can't you guess?" He came a step nearer and spoke softly.
Beatrice, feeling strange, as was natural considering the circumstance, laughed in an embarrassed manner. "How can I guess?"
"Because you must have seen what I meant in my eyes, Beatrice. I want you to be my wife."
Her heart beat loudly as though it would give Vivian its answer without speech.
"I don't understand," she said abruptly.
"Surely you must have seen----"
"Oh yes, I saw," she interrupted rapidly, "I saw that you loved me. I also saw that you held back from asking me to marry you."
"I had a reason," he said, after a pause; "that reason is now removed, and I can ask you, as I do with all my heart and soul, to be my wife. Dearest, I love you."
"Can I believe that?"
"I swear it!" he breathed passionately.
"But the reason?"
Paslow hesitated. "It was connected with money," he confessed at last. "Your father--or, rather, your stepfather--had a mortgage on nearly the whole of my property. I have lately inherited a small sum of money, and went to-day to ask Mr. Alpenny to arrange about paying off part of the mortgage. He accused me of wishing to rob him."
"But why, when you desired to pay off the mortgage?"
"I can't say. I think"--Vivian hesitated--"I think that he wishes to get possession of the Grange."
"And his reason?"
"I can't tell you that. But the moment I offered to pay the money he burst out into a rage and said that I wanted to rob him. Then I warned him as to something I had heard against him in London."
"What is that?" she asked in startled tones.
"I dare not tell you just now."
"Is it connected with the Black Patch?"
"Not that I know of. And what do you know of the Black Patch?"
"I know nothing. I heard it mentioned--whatever it is--for the first time to-day, and by you. The effect on Mr. Alpenny was so strange that I wish to know what the Black Patch means."
"I do not know myself," said Vivian earnestly. "Listen, my dear girl. The other night I found on my desk a scrap of paper, and on it was written--or, rather, I should say printed, for the person who wrote printed the letters--'If Alpenny objects, say "Remember the Black Patch."'"
Beatrice listened, bewildered. "What does that mean?"
"I can't say. But when driven into a corner by his language I used the very words on the scrap of paper. You saw their effect."
"It is strange," said Beatrice; then remembering what the miser had said to her, she grasped her lover's arm. "Vivian, he told me that you had committed crimes."
"What a liar! I have committed no crimes, save that I have indulged in the usual follies of a young man whose parents died before they could guide him properly. What does he mean?"
"I can't say. But I think he wished to make me mistrust you."
"I can guess that, for I asked him to-day if I could marry you. He refused, and raged worse than ever. It was then that he turned me out of his counting-house, and--well, you saw what happened. I suppose he wants you to marry someone else?"
"Yes. He told me so to-day. Major Ruck."
"Who is he?" demanded Paslow in a tone of anger.
"I don't know. Major Simon Ruck, a retired army officer with a fine fortune, and who is fifty years of age, and----"
Here there came a flash of blue lightning, and then a loud crash of thunder. Afterwards the strong wind hurtled towards them, bearing on its wings the drenching rain. Vivian was startled, and caught Beatrice to his breast in the darkness.
"Darling, will you marry me?" he asked, although she was scarcely mistress yet of her emotions in the storm and gloom.
Before she could answer, the pent-up feelings of the day found relief in a burst of hysterical tears. Pulling out her handkerchief she pressed it to her eyes, and at the moment felt the key, entangled in the handkerchief, fall out.
"Oh," she gasped, "the key! it has fallen out of my pocket!"
"I'll find it!" and Paslow dropped on to the grass, now wet, while the rain came down in torrents. "I have it!" he said, wondering at this queer disconnected wooing, and rose with the key in his hand. "My dear, let us stand further under the tree, and then we can talk."
"No! no!" Beatrice was quite unstrung by this time. "I must go home at once. It is late, and my father--my--ah! who is that?"
Flash after flash of lightning, blue and vivid, illuminated the haunted tree, as though once again the witches were holding their demoniac revels. A short distance away stood a small man. Neither of the lovers could see his features in the fitful illumination. Vivian, with a cry of anger, ran straight towards the figure, and it disappeared. Tales of the spectres said to haunt the tree occurred to the mind of Beatrice, and, unstrung, and not mistress of herself, she left the oak and hurried across the glade. The lightning was flashing incessantly, and the thunder roared like artillery, while the steady rain spattered through the trees' tops. Trying to find the path which led to the lane, Beatrice ran on. She fancied she heard the voice of Paslow shouting, but again pealed the thunder to drown what he said. Losing her head--and small wonder, so terrific was the storm--Beatrice scrambled on through many paths, and finally, when there came an unusually vivid flash, she sank with a cry of terror under some bushes, and fainted on the streaming ground. How long she remained unconscious she did not know.
When she did regain her senses, a mighty wind was blowing through the woods, bending the stoutest trees like saplings. Through the swaying boughs, the girl could see the flicker of lightning racing across the sky; and every now and then boomed sullen thunder, loud and menacing. With an effort she gathered her aching limbs together and staggered forward blindly through the wood. She could not tell what the hour was, or guess where she was going, but by some miracle she managed to arrive at the lane. Even then, she did not recognise where she was, but ran blindly along in the hope of finding The Camp. There was no sign of Vivian, or of the man who had been watching them under the Witches' Oak. All around was the roaring darkness, laced with vivid lightning and alive with furious rain and wind. Like a demented creature, Beatrice sped along in mud and slush, kilting up her petticoats to run the faster. And ever overhead screamed the storm, while the wild winds tore and buffeted the tormented trees.
She bitterly regretted having kept the appointment She had learned little save that Vivian loved her, which she had known long ago. And now she had lost the key: Paslow possessed it, since he had not given it back to her before he ran after the watcher. So how was she to re-enter the jealously-guarded Camp? Alpenny would know that she had been out, that she had met Vivian, and there would be great trouble. These thoughts made the head of the girl reel as she ran along blind and breathless.
Then came several flashes, and before her, unexpectedly, she beheld the gate of The Camp. It was wide open, but, without thinking, she ran in at once, only too thankful to arrive home. As she passed the posts, she sprang unseeingly into the arms of a man. With a cry she tore herself away, and stared. In a flash of lightning she saw that he was tall, lean, clothed in black, and--the sight made her shriek--over his left eye he wore a Black Patch. Then the darkness closed down and she heard him brush past into gloom, running swiftly out of the gate, which he closed after him. She heard the click, and in some way managed to scramble across the wet lawn to her own bedroom-carriage. As she dropped on the threshold she saw that the light in the counting-house was extinguished. What did it all mean? she asked herself; and who was the tall man with the dark patch over his left eye?
After a few minutes' lying on the threshold of her carriage-bedroom with the rain beating upon her soaking dress, Beatrice rose with an effort and opened the door. It was never locked, as no one would be likely to enter. The matches and a candle were on a table by the bed, where she had left them, and soon she had a light. Beside the candlestick lay a folded piece of paper, and opening this, she read a line or two in Alpenny's crabbed handwriting.
"I find you have gone out. I am going also, and will not be back for three days. Durban will return to-morrow and look after you."
There was no signature, but of course she recognised the calligraphy easily, as it had a distinctive character of its own. The contents of the note rather surprised the girl. In the first place, Alpenny made no remark as to her having taken the key; and in the second, it was strange that he should depart thus unexpectedly, leaving The Camp absolutely unguarded, even by a dog. Beatrice knew well enough that her stepfather frequently went away on business, and at times very unexpectedly, but she had never known him to take so hasty a departure. However, after a glance at the note, she determined to go to bed, being too weary to think of anything; too weary even to reflect that she was alone in that lonely Camp, and that the gate had been open when she arrived. A memory of the stranger with the black patch over his eye certainly made her lock her door, and see that the windows were well fastened; but when she had accomplished this for her own safety, she had only sufficient strength remaining to throw off her wet clothes and get into bed. And there she speedily fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, while the storm raged louder than ever. Her last thought was a hope, that Vivian had reached the Grange in safety.
When she awoke next morning it was ten, as the tiny cuckoo clock on the wall told her, and the sun was streaming in through the chinks of the window-shutters. She still felt weary, and her limbs ached a trifle, but for a moment or so she could not think how she came to be so tired. Then the memory of all that had happened rushed in on her brain, and she sprang from bed to open the door and windows. In a minute the sunlight was pouring cheerfully into the bedroom, and Beatrice was rapidly dressed, feeling hungry, yet at the same time anxious.
And much need she had to be. Her stepfather knew that she had gone out, and must have known that she had taken the key of the smaller gate, for which he would immediately look. He would certainly make himself most unpleasant, and she anticipated a bad quarter of an hour when he returned. Also, Vivian might have got into trouble with the man who had watched them meet under the Witches' Oak. Then, again, the gate of The Camp had been open when she returned, and a stranger had left the place hurriedly. All these things were very strange and disquieting, and Beatrice ardently wished that Durban was back, so that she might speak to him and be reassured. But it was probable that Vivian would come to The Camp that morning in order to learn if she had arrived safely; then they could renew the interrupted conversation, and come to an understanding.
The interview with Paslow perplexed Beatrice when she thought over it. Vivian's talk had been disjointed, and he had given her no satisfaction, answering her questions in a vague manner. That he should have proposed at so awkward a moment, and in so awkward a manner, also puzzled the girl. From what she could recall of the scrappy conversation it had been like one in a nightmare; and, indeed, the whole episode was far removed from the commonplace. The meeting-place under the ill-omened tree--the few hurried words--the rush of Vivian towards the strange man--and then her own headlong flight through the damp, dark woods--these thoughts made her very uncomfortable. It was more like romance than real life, and Beatrice did not care for such sensational events.
When dressed, she said her prayers and felt more composed; then stepped out into the broad, bright sunshine. After the storm everything looked fresh and vividly green: the world had a newly washed look, and the air seemed to be filled with vital energy, as though it were indeed the breath of life. But Beatrice soon saw evidence of the storm's fury. Huge boughs were stripped from the trees round The Camp, the flower-beds presented a draggled appearance, and the sundial had been blown down. For the rest, everything looked the same at usual. When she glanced at the dungeon, she saw that the door was closed and the blind was down, although this latter was a trifle askew. Beatrice could have gratified her curiosity by looking into the counting-house through the twisted blind; but she had seen sufficient of it on the previous day, and felt more inclined to eat than to waste her time peering into Alpenny's sanctum. With the idea of getting breakfast, she went to the kitchen, and speedily had the fire alight. Durban never locked the door of the kitchen carriage, so there was no difficulty in entering.
Beatrice found plenty of food in the cupboard, and made herself some strong coffee and an appetising dish of bacon and eggs. It was too much trouble to take the food to the dining-car, so she spread a cloth on the kitchen table, and made a very good meal. When she had finished, she washed the dishes and put them away; then went out again, feeling much better, and all signs of fatigue disappeared from her young and elastic frame. But for the evidences of the storm, she would have thought the past events of the night, those of a dream.
To pass the time, Beatrice swept out her bedroom and made the bed, then attended to the garden. Every now and then she would glance at the gate, expecting that Vivian Paslow would enter. But by twelve o'clock he had not come, and she felt very disappointed. Then she began to feel alarmed. What if he had met the man and had fought with him? What if the man had hurt him? She asked herself these questions, and half determined to go over to Convent Grange in order to get answers. But she did not wish to leave The Camp until Durban came back, since Alpenny was absent. Still the desire to hear and see Paslow was overwhelming, and she was just about to yield to her curiosity and leave The Camp to look after itself when she heard the rapid vibration of the electric bell, and knew that someone was at the gate. In a moment she was flying across the lawn, her heart beating and her colour rising.
"Vivian! Vivian!" sang her heart, and she threw open the gate, which was still unlocked. To her surprise, she beheld outside no less a person than Mrs. Snow!
The vicar's wife looked more amiable than usual and less grim. She was not very tall, and was dressed in dull slate-coloured garments very ugly and inexpensive, and likely to wear well. A straw hat trimmed with ribbons of the same sad hue surmounted her sharp, thin face, which was that of the miser species, hard and sour. Mrs. Snow had never been a pretty woman, and never an agreeable one, and as she faced Beatrice with what was meant to be a smile, she looked like a disappointed spinster. Yet she was the wife of the vicar, and the mother of Jerry, so she certainly should have looked more pleasant. But Mrs. Snow was a woman who took life hard, and made it hard for others also. If she could not enjoy herself, she was determined that no one else should. Whatever sins the vicar had committed--if any--the poor man was bitterly punished by having such a household fairy at his fireside.
"Mrs. Snow!" gasped Beatrice, who was immensely astonished, as well she might be, seeing that the vicaress had never before deigned to pay The Camp a visit.
"Yes, my dear Miss Hedge," said the lady, with a suavity she was far from feeling, as the girl's fresh beauty annoyed her. "You are no doubt surprised to see me. But I have come to see Mr. Alpenny as my husband's richest parishioner. Last night's storm has damaged the spire of our church, so I have started out at once to collect subscriptions for its repair. There is nothing like taking Time by the forelock, Miss Hedge."
"My father is out," said Beatrice coldly, "and will not be back for a few days. Then you can ask him, Mrs. Snow."
"May I not put you down for a trifle?"
"I have no money," replied Beatrice, annoyed by the greed and persistence of her visitor. "Will you come in?"
She did not wish to invite the lady in, but Mrs. Snow showed so very plainly that she intended to enter, that Beatrice could do no less. In silence she led the way to the Snow Parlour, and the vicar's wife was presently seated on the linen-covered sofa, glancing with sharp eyes round the pretty place. It need hardly be said that she glanced with inward disapproval and outward praise. She wanted money for the spire, and therefore had to be polite; but that did not withhold her from inwardly finding all the fault she could.
"A most charming place," said Mrs. Snow, still trying to make herself agreeable.
"I am glad you think so," replied Beatrice, wondering why her unexpected visitor was so very polite; and mindful of Mrs. Snow's past behaviour, the girl could not think that the vicaress was making herself thus pleasant in order to get money for the spire. Besides, the spire had only been damaged on the previous night, and it seemed strange that the woman should begin to hunt for subscriptions for its restoration already. No! Beatrice came to the conclusion, and very rightly, that Mrs. Snow had another motive in paying attention to the girl she had so severely snubbed.
"I have intended to call ever so many times," went on Mrs. Snow, not to be daunted by the frosty manner of her hostess, "but my husband, poor man, is not very well, and I have to attend to a great deal of the parish work."
"There is no need to apologise, Mrs. Snow. I see very few people."
"But those you see are really charming!" gushed the vicaress. "I, of course, allude to Mr. and Miss Paslow."
"They are friends of mine."
"And of mine also, Miss Hedge. Though I will say that this engagement of my son to Miss Paslow does not please me. I really thought"--here Mrs. Snow cast a searching look on the girl's face--"that my son admired you."
"Oh no. He has always been devoted to Miss Paslow."
"His devotion is misplaced," snapped Mrs. Snow, some of the veneer of her gracious manner wearing away. "I shall never consent to such a marriage."
"You must tell that to Miss Paslow and to your son," said Beatrice coldly; "I have nothing to do with it."
"Well"--Mrs. Snow hesitated--"I thought that you, being a friend of Miss Paslow's, might point out how foolish her conduct is."
"It is not my place to interfere," said Miss Hedge in a frosty manner, and beginning to gain an inkling as to why the vicaress had paid this unforeseen visit.
"Of course not. I should never ask you to do anything disagreeable, Miss Hedge. I hope you will come and see me at the Vicarage. Now that I have found you out, I really must see more of you."
"It is very kind of you, Mrs. Snow; but I never go out. My father does not wish me to."
"So eccentric dear Mr. Alpenny is!" murmured the vicaress. "I was in town only two weeks ago, and Lady Watson mentioned how strange he was. You know Lady Watson, of course?"
"I never set eyes on her. I don't even know the name."
"That is strange," and Mrs. Snow really did look puzzled; "she knew all about you."
Beatrice started. "What is there to know about me?"
"Oh, nothing--really and truly nothing. Only that Mr. Alpenny married your mother and adopted you when she died. I was not here when Mrs. Alpenny died, but I believe she is buried in our churchyard."
"I have seen the tombstone," said Beatrice coldly. "And how does this Lady Watson come to know about me?"
"She was a school friend of your mother's--so she said."
"Oh!" Beatrice felt her face flush. Here was a chance of learning something that neither Durban nor Alpenny would tell her. "I should like to meet Lady Watson."
"You shall, my dear Miss Hedge. She is coming in a few weeks to stop at the Vicarage."
"I shall be happy to see her." Beatrice had to swallow her pride before she could say this, as Mrs. Snow had really treated her very badly. But she was anxious to learn something of her mother, and to find out if she had any relatives, as she was determined not to marry Ruck, and knew that if she did not, Alpenny was quite capable of turning her out of doors. Of course Durban would always look after her, but Beatrice wished to be independent even of Durban. At the moment she never thought of Vivian and his hasty proposal, but it came back to her memory when Mrs. Snow introduced his name.
"I hear that Mr. Paslow is thinking of moving from this place," said Mrs. Snow. "Such a pity! so old a family. The Paslows have been in the Grange since the reign of Henry VIII. It was originally a convent, you know, and the Paslow of those days was presented with it, by the king--so shocking, wasn't it? He turned out the nuns and lived in the place himself. That is why it is called Convent Grange."
"So Miss Paslow told me," responded Beatrice, rather weary of this small-talk, and wondering why it was being manufactured.
"But Mr. Paslow is poor," pursued Mrs. Snow, "and can't keep the place up. I expect he'll go to the colonies, or some such place. So you can easily see why I don't want my son to marry his sister."
Beatrice felt very much inclined to tell her garrulous visitor that Vivian had inherited money, and would probably clear off the mortgages and live in the style of his forefathers. But she restrained her inclination, as it was none of her business, and rose to intimate that the interview was at an end. But Mrs. Snow still sat on.
"Really a lovely place, Convent Grange," she chattered, "although sadly out of repair. Haunted, too, they say, although I don't believe in ghosts myself. But I hear an Indian colonel was murdered there some twenty-four years ago, and his ghost is said to haunt the room he was killed in."
"I never heard that," said Beatrice, wondering why Dinah had never imparted so comparatively modern a tragedy to her.
"I dare say not," said Mrs. Snow tartly; "the Paslows don't like talking about the matter. I heard about it from an old shepherd who keeps sheep on the Downs. Orchard is his name, and he was the butler of Mr. Paslow's father, who was alive when Colonel Hall was murdered."
"I never heard of a shepherd being a butler."
"You mean that you never heard of a butler turning a shepherd," said Mrs. Snow; "neither did I. But I understand that the poor man's nerves were so wrecked by the sight of the dead body that the doctors of those days ordered him to take the open-air cure. So he became a shepherd. A most superior man."
"Who murdered Colonel Hall?"
"No one ever found out. His throat was cut, and he was discovered dead in his bed. I believe a casket of jewels was stolen at the time, and was never found. But even if the Paslows didn't tell you about this, I wonder your father did not, dear Miss Hedge, as he was here at the time, and a visitor at the Grange."
"My stepfather never tells me anything."
"How dull you must be. He really is so eccentric. Lady Watson knew him years and years ago, and says that he is quite a gentleman. He was at Rugby with her husband, Sir Reginald, who is dead. But he took up this money-lending business, which really is not respectable, besides which, it is quite forbidden by the Mosaic law. Well, I must be going." Mrs. Snow rose, still smiling. "But you really must come over to the Vicarage, and let me make your life more gay. I shall also try and induce your father--no, stepfather--to come over."
"I don't think you'll be able to manage that," said Beatrice dryly, and wondering what all this alarming sweetness meant; "my stepfather never goes out."
"He did over twenty years ago. Ask him about his visit to Convent Grange, and about Colonel Hall's murder. It caused a great sensation, although the criminal was never found. But who is this?" Mrs. Snow stepped out into the sunshine as she spoke, and pointed her slate-coloured parasol towards Durban, who was standing near. He must have approached very softly, and must have heard every word the vicaress said for the last few minutes. His dark face looked unnaturally white, and he cast a nervous glance at the visitor. Beatrice noticed nothing, however, and ran to him at once.
"Oh, Durban, I am so pleased to see you. Father has gone away. See, he left this note, and----"
"I'll take my leave, so as not to interrupt you," said Mrs. Snow graciously; "then you can talk to the man. What a charming place!" She looked round severely and walked from one carriage to another. "Your bedroom, a dining-room, another bedroom"; then she stopped at the dungeon and tried the door. "Oh, Bluebeard's chamber! I must not look in here."
"It is the master's counting-house, lady," said Durban, who was close at her heels and seemed anxious for her to go.
"How delightful! A counting-house in a dark wood--just like 'Alice in Wonderland.' May I look in at the window? Mr. Alpenny is from home, so he can't object," and before any one could stop her she was peeping through the window, where the blind was askew. Then she gave a cry of alarm. "Miss Hedge, your father is within. He is lying on the floor." She stood on tiptoe. "Oh! he is dead. I see blood!"
"Impossible!" cried Beatrice, rushing forward and pushing the meddling woman aside.--"Yes Durban!--Oh, great Heavens!"
The servant came running up and also glanced in. Then, with an exclamation of horror, he ran into the kitchen and came out with a bunch of skeleton keys. Both the women, pale and terrified, stood beside him while he fitted these into the lock. None would open the door, and he flung them away with a smothered oath. For a moment he paused, then ran into the wood. Mrs. Snow turned to Beatrice.
"Your father has been murdered. I shall tell the police."
"Yes, do!" said Beatrice, clasping her hands. "I never knew. When I came home last night, he left a note saying that he would go away for a few days, and----"
"Here is the man with a log," interrupted Mrs. Snow.
Indeed, it was Durban who came, dragging after him a large beam. With a strength of which Beatrice had never thought so stout a man was capable, he caught this in the middle, and, retiring for a few paces, made a run at the door. It burst open with the shock, and, dropping the beam, Durban went inside. Mrs. Snow drew Beatrice back.
"It is not for you to see," she said sharply.
"How dare you stop me!" said the girl, angry at the liberty, and pushing Mrs. Snow away, she ran forward.
Durban tried to keep her out, but she managed to gain a glimpse of a stiff figure lying on the floor under the mahogany desk.
"Oh, good Heavens!" shrieked the girl; "his throat has been cut!"
"So was Colonel Hall's!" muttered Mrs. Snow, and stole a glance at Durban, which made the man turn even greyer than he already was.