Beatrice stared. At Vivian's grey drawn face, bereft of youth, and at Durban's savage green countenance, she looked spell-bound. A pause ensued. Beatrice did not know what to make of the men: Paslow's averted looks, and worn paleness; Durban's curse for Lady Watson. Would the fact that she did not inherit the money account for such emotions? She thought not, and so requested information.
"What is it?" she asked, looking from one to the other; but she looked longest at Vivian.
"You have heard, missy," said Durban, recovering himself somewhat. "We have lost the money."
"I can bear that, if I lose nothing else," said Beatrice, her eyes still on Paslow's grey face.
"But that she should get it!" cried Durban, shaking impotent fists in the air, "after all she has done. And I can do nothing to force her to be fair. Who would have thought the foul old thief would have squandered his gold on her silly face? I could----" Here he caught sight of the frightened looks of Beatrice, and let his hands fall. As he walked past Vivian towards the kitchen, he breathed a sentence in the young man's ear. "She may know much," said Durban imperatively, "but not all."
"Great Heaven! Could I tell her all, do you think?" groaned the man.
Beatrice caught the drift, if not the exact words of these whispers, and came towards Vivian. Durban was already within the kitchen, and had shut the door. The two were alone--she eager to know the worst; he silent, and tortured with much that he could not explain. "Vivian, Vivian," she continued, and laid her hand on his arm. He shook it off with a shudder. "My dear!" said Beatrice, shrinking back; "oh! my dear," and she stared with fast-locked hands.
"Not that," whispered the man, with dry lips. "You might have called me so when we stood under the Witches' Oak, but now"--he made a despairing gesture--"that is all at an end."
"Do you take back your proposal of marriage?" asked the girl, colouring.
"I do, because I must." Vivian looked at her hungrily, as though he would have given his life to take her in his arms--as was, indeed, the case. "If I did not love you so much," he said hoarsely, "I would lie; but loving you as I do, I must speak the truth."
"The whole of it?" she asked bitterly.
"So much as I may tell Miss Hedge."
"Miss Hedge?"
"I have no right to call you otherwise now," said Paslow sadly. "I told you of a bar which prevented my asking you to be my wife?"
"Yes; and you said that it had been removed."
"I was wrong. It is not removed. I had no right to speak."
"What is this bar?"
"I cannot tell you, Beatrice." He caught suddenly at her hands. "If I could lie down and die at your dear feet, I would, for my heart is sick within me. I have sinned, and bitterly I am paying for my sin. When I spoke to you under the oak, I was then able to be your true lover, and hoped to be your loving husband. But now"--he flung away her hands--"that barrier which I thought removed, is still between us. I am not a free agent. I dare not ask you to be my wife."
"But you have asked me, and I have consented," she panted, red with shame and anger. "Why are you playing with me like this?"
"Why are the gods playing with both of us, you mean," he said, with a mirthless laugh. "Were you and I on the other side of the world, we might be happy--and yet, even then it would be impossible. I love you, but you have every right to hate me."
"I don't understand one word you are talking about," said Beatrice sharply, and tried to resolve some sense out of his wild words. "Is it that you committed this crime?"
"I!" He started back amazed. "Beatrice, I may be bad, but I am not so evil as that. I hated Alpenny, and had every reason to hate him, but I never laid a finger on the poor wretch. I did not kill him myself, nor can I tell you who killed him. Ah," he went on, half to himself, "Durban said something of this--about the key of the small gate--but he explained."
"Is what he said true?"
"Perfectly true. I am innocent. It is not the murder that is a bar to divide us. I could face that out; but there are other things which prevent my being a free agent."
"Have you a master, then?"
"I have those about me who know too much," said Vivian fiercely, "and if anything would make me stain my hands with blood, it would be the knowledge that I am the sport of thieves and vagabonds. How it will all end I do not know--for me, that is. But for you, my best and dearest"--he made a step forward, but she evaded him.--"for you, I know the end. You must come to Convent Grange and----"
"Go to the Grange, after what you have said?" she flamed out.
"I shall not trouble you. I shall go to town. You can stay with Dinah and with Mrs. Lilly for a time. Then Durban and I will see if we cannot get you some money from Mrs.--that is, from Lady Watson."
"Why should she give it to me?" asked Beatrice, shrugging.
"Because"--he began, then ended abruptly--"I cannot tell you."
"Vivian"--Beatrice moved swiftly forward and laid a firm hand on his shoulder--"I do not understand all this. Mr. Alpenny, poor wretch, hinted at crimes on your part."
"Do you believe him?" asked Vivian, turning his haggard young face towards her.
"No," she said firmly. "I love you too well for that."
"God bless you!" A tear dropped on the hand, which he kissed.
She drew it away. "But you are not open with me; you are not honest with me. If you have troubles, I have a right to share them. Tell me of this barrier."
"No," said Vivian firmly. "I cannot. I dare not. All I can say is that the barrier may be removed in time. Only trust me."
"Has the barrier to do with this crime?"
"In some ways."
"And with the death of Colonel Hall?"
"What do you know of that?" asked Paslow, amazed.
"Very little; but Mrs. Snow hinted----"
"That woman! She'll make mischief if she can. Don't trust her. She hates you, Beatrice."
"Why should she? I hardly know her."
"But she knows you--that is, she knows of you. To explain what it all means would be to tell you much that I would rather you did not know--that you must never know."
"I am not a child----"
"You are the woman I love, and therefore I shall not allow your mind to be tainted with--with--with what I could tell you," he ended rather weakly.
Beatrice reflected for a few minutes. Apparently Vivian was in some trouble connected with other people; possibly--as she guessed--with those scoundrels who surrounded Alpenny, and of whom Durban had talked. For some reason, which she could not guess, he was trying to keep from her things which were vile and evil. She could not think how a young country squire could be involved in Alpenny's rogueries--which it seemed he was. And then his--but she gave up trying to solve the problem on such evidence as was before her. It only remained that she should use her own eyes, her own intelligence, and maybe, sooner or later, she would arrive at an understanding of things. Then, perhaps, she would be enabled to remove this barrier which stood between them. Strange though Paslow's conduct was, and open to dire suspicion, she still loved him, and knew in her heart of hearts that she would love him until he died. This being the case, she made up her mind with the swiftness of a woman who is fighting for what she loves best, and looked at him searchingly. He was watching her with anxious eyes, but shifted his gaze to the ground when she looked at him.
"Will you answer me a few questions?" she asked quietly.
"If I can," he replied, hesitating.
Her lip curled in spite of herself. "You need not be afraid. I shall respect your secret, whatever it is--for the present, that is. Meanwhile, perhaps you will tell me if you know who killed Mr. Alpenny?"
"No. I told you before that I did not know."
"Have you any suspicion?"
"Not even a suspicion," he answered frankly, and he looked at her as he spoke, so serenely, that she believed him.
"Will you tell me about Colonel Hall's murder?"
"I know very little about it. I was a child at the time. Mrs. Lilly can tell you anything you wish to know. Why do you ask?"
"Because, from what Mrs. Snow said, I believe that the first murder of Colonel Hall is connected with the second murder of Mr. Alpenny."
"I don't believe that," muttered Vivian, uneasily.
"I do. The murders--both of them--were committed by the man with the black patch. What do you know of that?"
"Nothing, save that I used the words to frighten Alpenny, and found them on the paper laid on my desk."
"Do you know who laid that paper there?"
"I have not the least idea. The desk is near the window, and that was open. Any one could have passed the paper through the window. I asked Dinah and Mrs. Lilly, but neither one of them knew how the paper came to be there."
"If you remember," continued Beatrice slowly, "Mr. Alpenny muttered something about it being the third time. Well, then, I truly believe that the words you used unconsciously were a warning. Twice he was warned, and on the third warning he expected to be killed. That was why, I believe, he arranged to go up to town, when he was struck down. You were used by someone as the unconscious instrument to give him the warning."
"I might have been, but----"
"That is," she added, coming so close to him that he felt her breath on his cheek, "if you really and truly are ignorant of the meaning of the words."
"I swear that I am," stammered Vivian, turning red. "Then your secret has nothing to do with the black patch?"
"No. I am as puzzled as you are over that. Well?"
"Well," said Beatrice, looking over her shoulder--she had moved towards the door of her bedroom as he spoke--"I intend to go to the Grange, and I do not care whether you stop there or not. The worst is over now. I know that you love me----"
"God knows that I do," he said hurriedly.
"And He knows that I love you," she went on steadily. "I don't care what crimes you have committed, or what stops you from again asking me to be your wife. I love you, and I intend to marry you----"
"Beatrice!"
She threw up her hand to keep him at his distance. "Wait! I intend to solve the mystery of these murders myself. The two are connected; and when I find out who killed these two men, I shall be able to marry you. Is that not so?"
"Possibly--that is----"
"You need say no more. Tell Dinah that I shall come to the Grange this evening. For the present, good-day." And she went in and shut the door.
Paslow stood where he was for a moment, then flung himself forward to kiss the wood of the door. "Oh! my love--my love--my heart!" he murmured; "what a dreary, weary way you have marked out for yourself. But I shall follow you along the path of shadows, and perhaps we two will emerge at length into the sunshine."
He turned away, and, passing the kitchen carriage, knocked at the door sharply. Durban appeared. "I heard everything," said the servant, who was now more composed.
"And what do you say, knowing what you do know?"
"I say, let missy go on. It may be that God intends her to learn the truth, and right matters."
"But Lady Watson has the money," Vivian reminded him.
"She has everything," said Durban bitterly; "she always did have everything." Then, with an afterthought, "But what she really wanted, she never got, Mr. Paslow."
"And what was that?"
"Never mind. Least said, soonest mended. I will tell missy nothing, and you must hold your tongue also. Only let us guard her from danger."
"I don't think there is danger for her, Durban."
"Ah--hum--one never knows. There are those--but no matter. Let her go her ways. It may be that she may learn the truth, and put things straight."
"She can never put them straight for me," said Vivian bitterly.
"I can do that," said Durban. "Let missy go to the Grange. I go to London. You will have news from me."
Paslow caught his arm as he turned to go. "You will not----"
"I am too fond of my neck for that," said Durban, and went into his kitchen, while Vivian, full of sore thoughts and yet with a certain glimmer of hope, now that Beatrice was to take a hand in the game, went home to Dinah.
Beatrice packed her boxes and got ready to go. By five o'clock she was hatted and cloaked, and a trap was waiting at the gates to take her to Convent Grange along with her luggage. Alpenny was to be buried on the morrow, but it was just as well that Miss Hedge should leave The Camp to-night. But she was not to go yet for an hour, for scarcely had she reached the open gates, when a small lady, fashionably dressed, entered, and came straight towards her. When Durban saw her, he frowned. "Lady Watson!" he breathed in the ear of his young mistress.
"She seems anxious to take possession of her property," said the girl bitterly, and looked carefully at the woman who had supplanted her in the race for Alpenny's wealth.
Lady Watson looked--in the distance--like a child, so small and delicate and slender did she appear. But when she came close, which she did, with an engaging smile, Beatrice saw that her face was covered with innumerable fine wrinkles, and that she was painted and powdered, and made up--as the saying is--to within an inch of her life. Her hair was dyed a golden colour; she wore a veil to hide the too obvious make-up of her face; and the only young thing about her were a pair of sparkling eyes, of a bright brown. At one time she had been--without the aid of art--an extremely pretty woman: even now--with the aid of art--she looked attractive and youthful, providing she was looked at from a safe distance, like an oil-painting. Her dress was ultra-fashionable, and she wore it with the air of a woman accustomed to spend no end of money in drapers' shops. Her teeth were good, but probably were false, as was her smile. Beatrice, a straightforward person herself, took an instinctive dislike to this gushing little mass of affectation, which came mincing towards her. She had no wish to cultivate the acquaintance. But Lady Watson gave her no time to express her dislike, either by looks or in words.
"My dear child--my sweet Beatrice," she cried, in a rather shrill voice, and sailing forward with eager, outstretched hands, "how glad I am to see you at last! That dreadful Mr. Alpenny--he never would allow me to come and see you, although I was your mother's dearest--very dearest and closest friend. But then the poor creature is dead; and he really wasn't a nice person, when all is said and done."
"Mrs. Snow told me that you were my mother's friend," replied Beatrice gravely, and surrendering her hands to the eager grasp. "I am glad to see you, as I wish to talk about my mother."
"Oh!" Lady Watson started, and cast a suspicious look on the grave young face. "Then you are not glad to see me on my own account?"
"I scarcely know you, Lady Watson."
"Ah, but you will soon. I am a very easy person to get on with, as Durban knows. Dear old Durban"--she turned a smiling glance at the half-caste, who looked gloomily at the ground--"he is as young as ever.--It is long since we met, Durban?"
"Very long, madam," said Durban coldly, his eyes still on the ground, and Beatrice saw his hands opening and shutting as though he could scarcely keep them from Lady Watson's throat.
"Well, well, we won't talk of the past just yet--it is unpleasant, my dear Durban," and she gave a pretty little shudder. Durban made no reply in words, but, raising his eyes, looked at her meaningly. She shuddered again, this time with genuine terror, and turned pale under her rouge. Beatrice wondered what secret there could be between the two--the fashionable lady and the poor servant.
"Still the same gloomy thing," tittered Lady Watson, passing her flimsy handkerchief across a pair of dry lips; "you always were, you know, Durban. The Colonel--but there"--as Durban looked at her again--"we'll not talk of the past, but of the future.--Of course, dear Miss Hedge, you know that poor Mr. Alpenny left me his money?"
"I understand so," said Beatrice coldly.
"And, naturally, you are annoyed?"
"No. Before his death Mr. Alpenny gave me to understand that he would not leave me any money. You perhaps had a greater claim on him than I, Lady Watson."
The other tittered, and avoided Durban's eyes. "Oh dear me, no. The poor creature--Mr. Alpenny, you know--was in love with me ages and ages ago, long before I married Sir Reginald. But Reginald is dead, and so is Mr. Alpenny--everyone seems to die--so dreadful, you know, Miss Hedge--or rather I should say Beatrice. I shall call you Beatrice, since we are to be friends, and live together."
"Live together?"
"Oh! haven't I told you? I am such a feather-head. Yes. Whenever I found that poor Mr. Alpenny--queer creature, wasn't he?--had left me his money, I said I would come down and ask you to be my companion--my child, in fact, if I may put it so. You shall have everything you want. I must have someone to look after the house, as the servants are so tiresome, and I am a lonely woman without a chick or child."
"Miss Hedge is going to Convent Grange," said Durban thickly.
Lady Watson started and again turned pale. "That horrid place!" she said faintly.
"Why do you call it that?" asked Beatrice quickly.
"There was a horrid murder committed there ages ago. I was in the house at the time, and----"
"Madam," interposed Durban sharply; "please do not tell Miss Hedge anything more. She has had enough horrors for the time being."
Lady Watson looked straight at Durban, and he looked straight at her. The situation was adjusted between them without words, and although Beatrice protested that she wished to hear about the earlier crime, the frivolous little woman declined to say another word.
"How can one talk of such things in the midst of such lovely scenery as you have here?" she cried, and put up a tortoise-shell lorgnette to survey The Camp. "Quite delicious. I shall make this a kind of country-house. So odd, you know, with all these railway carriages. Dear Mr. Alpenny! he was so very queer in his tastes. But I'll come here with you, dearest Beatrice, and we'll garden and live like milkmaids--like Marie Antoinette, you know. Rural life--delicious."
"I am going to live at the Grange, Lady Watson."
"But I want you to be my companion. I insist." Lady Watson spoke with some sharpness, as apparently she was a lady not accustomed to be thwarted in her wishes.
"I have arranged to live at the Grange," said Beatrice, and Durban nodded his approval; "for a time, that is. Afterwards, I intend to go out as a governess."
"What! With that face and figure? You foolish girl, I won't allow it. You must enter society on my money--or rather on that poor creature's, Alpenny's, money--and marry and----"
"I don't think you have any right to tell me what to do, Lady Watson," said Beatrice, annoyed by this imperious air.
"As your mother's dearest friend?"
"I don't recognise that as an authority. But if you will give me your address in town, I'll come and see you and talk about my dear mother. I want to know everything about her."
"I can tell you nothing," said Lady Watson tartly; "that is, I won't, unless you come as my companion."
"Lady Watson, I thank you very much for your offer; but I go to the Grange, and as I am already overdue, I must leave you now. Good-day."
She held out her hand, which Lady Watson waved aside. "You provoking girl, I won't say good-day. I am stopping with Mrs. Snow, and will come and see you at the Grange. Give me a kiss"; and before Beatrice could stop her, Lady Watson kissed her warmly. When the little woman drew back, Beatrice saw to her surprise that the bright brown eyes were filled with tears.
The funeral was over, and Jarvis Alpenny was buried beside the wife whom--according to rumour--he had so cruelly neglected. The excitement about his mysterious death was apparently buried with him, and Hurstable again became a somnolent hamlet, devoid of news and intelligence. In spite of every effort, the police were unable to trace the man with the black patch. No one seemed to know anything about him, and he had vanished as completely as though the earth had swallowed him up. The local and London papers made their usual crass remarks about the inactivity and uselessness of the police, and, save in a rare paragraph, ceased to notice the matter. The murder was only a nine hours' wonder after all.
Lady Watson went away from the Rectory without calling upon Beatrice, as she had promised. Perhaps this was because she had unpleasant recollections of Convent Grange, or perhaps on account of a short conversation she had with Durban after Beatrice left The Camp. But whatever might be her reason, she did not again ask Miss Hedge to become her companion, nor did she call or even write. With her twenty thousand a year she returned to London, and left The Camp in charge of Durban, who still continued to inhabit his old quarters. Sometimes he came over to see Beatrice, and appeared to be more devoted than ever to the girl. But he said nothing about the various mysteries he had hinted at, nor did Beatrice inquire very closely what they might be. She saw very plainly that both Durban and Vivian were determined that she should know as little as possible--for what reason she could not imagine--and therefore, in pursuance of her determination, she cast about to find some path which might lead to a discovery of the truth, whatever that might be. She wished to learn who had killed Alpenny, and thought that, by examining into his past life, she might be able to learn something of his enemies. Once she discovered who disliked him, and the reason of such dislike, she fancied that she might lay her hand on the assassin. But there was no one to tell her of Alpenny's past, as both Durban and Vivian kept silent. But as, according to Mrs. Snow, the murderer of Colonel Hall was the assassin of Jarvis Alpenny, Beatrice determined to learn all she could about the earlier crime, in the hope that her discoveries in that direction might enable her to elucidate the mystery of the later murder.
Mrs. Lilly was the best person to apply to for a history of Colonel Hall's untimely fate, as she had been housekeeper to the Paslows for many, many years. Beatrice, during the first fortnight of her stay, hinted that she would like to hear about the tragedy, and Mrs. Lilly, after some hesitation, promised to tell her what she knew. Accordingly, Beatrice, two weeks after the burial of her stepfather, was seated in the Grange garden waiting for the housekeeper. Mrs. Lilly had first to attend to her work, but promised that as soon as it was ended she would come out and chat. As Dinah had gone over to the Rectory to see Mrs. Snow, Beatrice was quite alone. She did not count Vivian, as he scarcely stopped an entire day at the Grange, and very rarely a night. Some business took him constantly to London, but what it might be the girl could not guess. After that abrupt conversation in The Camp, the two said very little to one another. It was a strange wooing, and extremely unsatisfactory.
The garden of Convent Grange was delightful, as was the house, although both were somewhat dilapidated. The ancient red brick mansion had been--as Mrs. Snow had informed Beatrice--a convent in the reign of that arch-iconoclast, Henry VIII. When his greedy hand was laid upon ecclesiastical property, he had bestowed the convent on Amyas Paslow, who promptly turned out the nuns, to house himself and his family. But there was some curse on the place and on the race, for the family never prospered overmuch, and when the property came to Vivian Paslow, he was as poor as an English gentleman of long descent well can be. Nevertheless, he still clung to the old mansion, although he could have sold it at an advantageous price to an American millionaire. In some wonderful way he managed to scrape enough money together to pay the interest on the mortgage to Alpenny, and thus had kept a roof over his head and that of Dinah. Lately, as he had told Beatrice under the oak, he had inherited a small sum of money from an aunt, and thus things were easier with him. The girl fancied that it must be business connected with the paying-off of the mortgage that took him so often to London; but on this point he gave her no information.
The day was hot and drowsy, and Beatrice, clothed in black--for she paid her stepfather the compliment of wearing mourning--sat on an old stone seat, between two yew trees cut in the shape of peacocks. Before her, on a slight rise, rose the mellow brick walls of the Grange, covered with ivy. A terrace ran along the front of the house, and over the door was the mouldering escutcheon of the Paslow family. What with the queer pointed roofs, the twisted stacks of chimneys, the diamond-paned casements, and the prim gardens, the place looked particularly delightful. A poet could have dreamed away his days in this rustic paradise, and Beatrice felt as though she were in the land of the Lotus-eaters. But even as she slipped into vague dreams, she pulled herself up, and shunned the enchanted ground. There was sterner work to do than dreaming. Before she could become the mistress of this castle of indolence, and wife of its master, it was necessary to lift the cloud which rested on the place. To do so, she would have to begin by questioning Mrs. Lilly, and impatiently awaited the arrival of that worthy soul.
Towards noon Mrs. Lilly appeared on the terrace, and sailed down the broad garden-path between the lines of brilliant flowers. She was stout and comely, with white hair and a winter-apple face. A very honest, pleasant old woman was Mrs. Lilly, but behind the times. It was her boast that she had never been away from the Weald of Sussex for one solitary day out of a long length of years; and she had no patience--as she frequently stated--with the new-fangled notions of modern life (of which, it may be remarked incidentally, she knew no more than a child unborn!). Beatrice looked at the housekeeper's worn black silk dress, at her lace cap and voluminous apron, and acknowledged that Mrs. Lilly was a picturesque figure, who might have stepped out of the pages of a Christmas Number. The very model of a pompous, narrow-minded, honest, kindly old English servant.
"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Lilly, who looked on the three young people as children and addressed them accordingly, "I've got through my work. And a wonder it is, seeing that Polly and Molly"--these were the two servants--"are so lazy. But I have had the rooms brushed, and the dinner is ordered, and everything is in apple-pie order; so here I am ready for a rest." And she sat down beside Beatrice with a groan, remarking on the stiffness of her joints.
"You won't have much rest with me, Mrs. Lilly," laughed Beatrice, who, knowing the old lady well for some years, was quite familiar with her. "Have you got your knitting?" Mrs. Lilly was always knitting when off domestic duty. "Oh! here it is. Now make yourself comfortable, you dear old thing, and talk."
"What about?" asked Mrs. Lilly, mounting her spectacles, and beginning to click the needles.
"Colonel Hall's death."
"Oh! my dear," said the housekeeper with dismay; "do you really wish me to tell you about that horrid thing?"
"Of course; and you promised to do so."
"But wouldn't you rather hear about the ghost?" said Mrs. Lilly in coaxing tones; "that's an old family legend, and ever so much nicer."
"No. Colonel Hall's death, or nothing."
"Why do you wish to know?"
Beatrice evaded this question dexterously, not thinking it wise to admit Mrs. Lilly into her confidence too largely. "Oh! Mrs. Snow talked a lot about it at the inquest."
"I heard about that, my dear. Strange that your stepfather should have been murdered by a man with a black patch over his left eye!"
"You agree with Mrs. Snow, then?"
"That the same man committed the other murder?" queried Mrs. Lilly musingly. "I can hardly say that. Certainly a black patch, that could have been worn over an eye, was found on the grass under Colonel Hall's window the morning after his murder, but----"
"The man was not seen, then?" interrupted Beatrice.
"No. Only from the presence of the black patch, the detective who had charge of the case thought it had been worn for the purpose of disguise. There was a great stir about the matter, as Colonel Hall was well known as a Government official. He came from some West Indian island, I believe, where he was Administrator or something," ended Mrs. Lilly vaguely.
"Well, then, tell me all from the beginning. Mrs. Snow has very little to go on, if that is all about the black patch. I saw Mr. Alpenny's murderer wearing it, you know; but neither Mrs. Snow nor any one else saw Colonel Hall's assassin with it on."
Mrs. Lilly nodded. "I heard of your experience. My dear, you should not run about the woods at night: it isn't ladylike. I wonder you didn't faint with horror when you saw the man!"
"I should have, had I known of this theory about Colonel Hall having been killed by such a man. As it was, I felt too worn-out to be startled by anything. Where ignorance is bliss. Go on, Mrs. Lilly; tell me all Mrs. Snow doesnotknow."
"I think she knows a very great deal," remarked the housekeeper viciously. "I never could bear that lady--a sour, bad-tempered woman if ever there was one. She was a governess, you know. Yes; she and Mrs. Hall were at school together, and Mrs. Hall made her a kind of companion. After the murder, and when Mrs. Hall went back to the West Indies, Mrs. Snow--a Miss Duncan she was then--stopped on and married the rector, who was a fool. I am quite sure he has regretted ever since that he made her his wife."
"I don't like Mrs. Snow myself," said Beatrice thoughtfully. "And who is this Lady Watson who knew my mother?"
"I cannot tell you. I have never set eyes on her. Some school friend of Mrs. Snow's, I dare say. Mrs. Snow always said everybody had been to school with her. I believe she told lies," finished Mrs. Lilly with great contempt.
"Tell me about Mrs. Hall and the Colonel?"
"He was a tall, handsome man, very kind, and stately in his bearing, my dear. Mr. Paslow--the father of Master Vivian--knew him very well, and asked him to stop here."
"With Mrs. Hall?"
"Yes. But Mrs. Hall only came for one night, and that was the night of the murder. I don't think she got on well with her husband."
"What was she like to look at?"
"A small dark woman, very grave, and sparing of words. I think she had something on her mind. She seemed to be very much afraid of her husband, and rarely spoke to him. She came down with a one-year-old baby, and a nurse--a delicate-looking woman, far gone in consumption, poor soul."
"Just like my mother," said Beatrice; "she died of consumption, you know, Mrs. Lilly. At least Mr. Alpenny said so."
"I never saw your mother, my dear. Mr. Alpenny married a few weeks after the murder, and took Mrs. Hedge, as I understand she was called, to The Camp. She never came out, and no one ever saw her. When she was buried, everyone was quite amazed to hear that Mr. Alpenny had a wife--though, of course, it was hinted that he had married. He was deeply in love with Mrs. Hall, you know."
"Lady Watson says he was deeply in love with her."
"I don't believe the man was deeply in love with any one save himself," declared Mrs. Lilly sharply. "I detested him, and say so, even though he is dead and your father."
"My stepfather," corrected Miss Hedge. "I did not like him myself, Mrs. Lilly. He was a cruel man."
"He was, and had far too much influence with the old master. It was then that he got the mortgage on the Grange, which is such a trouble to Master Vivian. But perhaps Lady Watson will not be so hard to satisfy as Mr. Alpenny, and Master Vivian may be able to arrange, as he has inherited this little sum of money from his aunt. I wish he was clear of all these difficulties," ended Mrs. Lilly, with a sigh.
"Go on. You have not said a thing about the murder."
"I wonder Durban did not tell you about the matter. He was Colonel Hall's servant, you know."
Beatrice started to her feet, quite amazed by this intelligence. "Do you mean to say that Durban was Colonel Hall's servant?" she asked.
"Didn't you hear me say so?" said Mrs. Lilly tartly.
"Yes; but he never explained that to me."
"There was no need to. Besides, Durban doesn't like to speak of the murder of his master. He was the Colonel's servant, and came with him from the West Indies. Any one can see that Durban has black blood in him."
"It is all very strange," murmured the girl, sitting down again.
"Well, I thought so myself, as Durban never liked Mr. Alpenny. However, when the Colonel was buried, and Mrs. Hall went back to the West Indies with the baby, Durban stopped on, and when Mr. Alpenny married Mrs. Hedge, went to serve at The Camp."
"He has been a good friend to me," said Beatrice ponderingly. "I wonder why?"
"He was a good friend to your mother also, I heard. I asked Durban about your mother's marriage, and about your real father, Mr. Hedge, but he never would tell me anything."
"It is strange,--strange," mused Beatrice, quite perplexed over this tangled story. "And the murder?"
Mrs. Lilly wasted no more time, but plunged at once into the middle of the story, which Beatrice heard to the end without interrupting her more than was absolutely necessary. "Colonel Hall came down here to stop, as I said," resumed the old lady, "being a dear friend of my late master. Durban was with him, and Mr. Alpenny was in the house at the time. Later on, Mrs. Hall came down with the baby and the nurse, and with Mrs. Snow, who was then Miss Duncan; but that was not for a week. Colonel Hall had a necklace of diamonds that he had brought from the West Indies; it was valued at ten thousand pounds, and was called the Obi necklace, as there was some legend attached to it."
"Obi is African witchcraft," said Beatrice.
"Like enough," said Mrs. Lilly indifferently. "Colonel Hall had a lot to do with the black people. My master, Mr. Paslow, warned the Colonel that he might have the necklace stolen; but the Colonel laughed at him. It was in a green box which he kept beside his bed. The box contained official papers, and also the Obi necklace. I understand that Colonel Hall intended to give it to his wife; but as there was some difference between them, he did not give it to her. But when she came down, she asked him for it. He refused, and was sharp with her, so she went to bed in tears. Colonel Hall also retired at ten o'clock. The next morning he was found dead in his bed with his throat cut, and the Obi necklace was gone."
"What happened, then?" asked Beatrice, breathlessly.
"The police were called in. Mrs. Hall was in a fright, and grew so ill that she had to be taken up to town and put in some hospital. I know that she went from one fainting fit into another, and the doctor said that she would die unless she was taken out of the house. So she and the baby and the nurse were bundled off to town. Mrs. Snow--Miss Duncan, that is--stopped on with Durban. The police could find nothing."
"They found the black patch?"
"Yes; and there were rumours of a man wearing such a patch having been seen in the neighbourhood. Colonel Hall always slept with his window open, as he was mad on the subject of fresh air. His bedroom was on the first floor of the west wing, and the ivy offered a foothold to any one who wanted to climb up. As the black patch was found on the grass below the window, it was believed that the assassin climbed up the ivy and tried to steal the necklace. Colonel Hall must have awakened: but before he could give the alarm, he was stunned in some way."
"Just like Mr. Alpenny," murmured Beatrice.
"When he was stunned, the assassin cut the poor man's throat," continued Mrs. Lilly, shuddering. "Ugh! it was a sight. Then the murderer went off with the necklace. The police tried to trace him by that, but could not do so. I expect the necklace was broken up and the stones were sold separately."
"The assassin was never caught?"
"Never. And it is nearly five-and-twenty years ago, so I don't expect he ever will be caught."
"He may be, now that he has committed a second crime."
Mrs. Lilly laid down her knitting and removed her spectacles. "Do you believe it is the same man?"
"The crimes are so similar, that I believe it is," said the girl earnestly. "Colonel Hall was stunned, and then his throat was cut; Mr. Alpenny was treated in the same way. Colonel Hall was robbed of this necklace; Mr. Alpenny was robbed also. And yet," added Beatrice, looking at Mrs. Lilly, "I don't believe that in either case robbery was the motive for the crime."
"What other motive could there be?" asked Mrs. Lilly, amazed.
"Revenge of some sort, in both cases. Both the victims were stunned, and so the plunder could have been easily carried off safely. But in each case the assassin cut the throats of his victims. That looks like revenge."
Mrs. Lilly resumed her knitting and shook her head. "I can tell you nothing more," she said, after a pause. "Orchard might know a lot--I always thought that he did."
"Who is Orchard?"
"He was our butler at the time, and afterwards went to be a shepherd on the Downs yonder," and Mrs. Lilly nodded towards the high range of hills spreading fair and green in the sunlight.
Beatrice started. "Mrs. Snow said something about that," she observed, thoughtfully. "Why did the man become a shepherd? So odd!"
"It is odd--I always thought it was odd," said Mrs. Lilly; "but, you see, the sight of the body--Colonel Hall's body--gave poor Orchard a kind of fit, and the doctor said he would have to live in the open air. At all events he left the house, and when we next heard of him he was a shepherd on the Downs. He is well known, I believe, and is alive still. I have never seen him from that day to this, but I daresay if you went up yonder and inquired, you would see him. He may know something more than I do."
"I shall certainly see him," said Beatrice. "I want to learn all I can about this case."
Before Mrs. Lilly could reply, a shadow fell on the sward before them. They looked up to see a small, dirty, red-haired man leering at them in an affable way.
"Morning, lydies," said this creature; "I'm Waterloo!"
"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 beyourfather, 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."