Major Ruck made no remark, but stood silent and motionless, ever smiling, according to his custom. Beatrice, on the contrary, uttered an exclamation of surprise, and ran forward to throw herself into Vivian's arms. Suddenly she stopped.
"Do you mean what you say?" she asked, hesitating.
"I do," he replied firmly. "The obstacle I spoke of has finally been removed, and I am free to marry you."
"Can I believe this?" murmured Beatrice, clasping her hands and looking down doubtfully. "For a long time you held back from asking me to be your wife, although you must have seen that I loved you. On the night Mr. Alpenny was killed you proposed, and I accepted you."
"Ah!" said Major Ruck, smiling more broadly than ever.
"Then," continued Beatrice, still addressing Paslow, "you again changed your mind, and said that some obstacle, which you then declared was removed, again prevented our marriage. Now you come once more and say much the same as you said before. How do I know but what you may change your mind again?"
"I have never changed my mind throughout," cried Vivian impetuously; "therewasan obstacle. I thought that it was removed, and then I discovered that it still remained: Now I have made strict inquiries, and I learn that I am free."
"What is the obstacle?" asked Beatrice, very pale, and still doubtful.
"I can tell you that," remarked Major Ruck, changing his attitude for the first time; "this young gentleman is married."
"I was married," said Paslow, as Beatrice shrank back with a cry of amazement, and, as Vivian thought, of anger; "but my wife is dead."
Ruck shrugged his shoulders. "So you say!"
"So Durban says--so this death certificate says. I heard all about my wife's illness, as I went to the house where she died. I have seen her grave, and the doctor gave me this." He held out a certificate to Beatrice. "Do you not believe me?"
"It is so strange," she murmured, taking the paper, and glancing at it in a scared manner.
"And so untrue," said Major Ruck coolly.
"You lie!"
"I am not accustomed to be told that I lie," said Ruck, and his eyes narrowed to pin-points.
Paslow turned his back on him contemptuously. "I care very little for that," he said. "You and your creatures betrayed me into difficulties, for which I have suffered bitterly. But now I am free, and you can harm me no longer."
"Don't be too sure of that, Mr. Paslow."
Beatrice saw Vivian wince, and came forward. "Whatever Mr. Paslow has done," she said, with dignity, "I am certain that he is an honourable man."
"Bless you for those words, my darling."
Major Ruck gave a short laugh, and did not seem so good-tempered as he had been. "An honourable man!" he repeated. "I fear if you knew all Mr. Paslow's life, you would see fit to change your opinion."
Vivian restrained himself from violent words. "Of course you talk like that, because it is to your interest to stop my marriage. But I trust to a woman's instinct," and he stretched out his hands toward Beatrice with an anxious smile.
She waved him back. "I must have an explanation first"
"Beatrice!"
"Vivian, I love you, I shall always love you; but can you expect me to blindly believe, when I am so much in the dark as to what all these things mean? There must be an end to these hints and mysteries. If you really love me, you will explain fully, so that I know where I stand."
"I think I can do that," said Ruck, fondling his moustache.
"Then do so," said Paslow, throwing back his head. "We know a great deal of one another, Major, so it may be to your interest to speak the truth," and he looked meaningly at the other man.
"I never tell lies, unless they are necessary," said Ruck calmly. "In this instance the truth will suit me very well."
Beatrice sat down, still holding the certificate of Mrs. Paslow's death, which seemed to be quite in order. "I am waiting to hear the truth," she said, "and hear it I will."
Without any invitation, Major Ruck sat down. "I may as well be comfortable," he said lazily, and smiled in his most genial manner. Vivian did not sit down, but stood near the window looking out at the fair prospect unseeingly. Knowing that his past was about to be revealed, he seemed nervous, and did not look at the girl he loved. Major Ruck was much the coolest of the trio.
"I can tell you the truth very briefly," said Ruck, stretching out his legs. "As I said, I was at school with Mr. Paslow's father, and also with Alpenny. Some eight years ago this gentleman"--he glanced towards the silent Vivian--"came to town. I did what I could to give him pleasure, as his father was dead, and I desired to do what I could for the son of my old friend.--That is true, I think?" he added, turning politely to Paslow.
"You were extremely kind," said Vivian, stiffly and guardedly.
"Thank you. Mr. Paslow then had money, and I think I showed him London very thoroughly. We had a great time."
"Pray go on with your story," said Beatrice, icily.
"Oh, it's the truth," replied Ruck, with a genial chuckle "I think Mr. Paslow will bear me out in that."
"I have yet to hear what you have to say."
Ruck raised his eyebrows. "What can I say, save that which happened, my dear fellow?--Mr. Paslow"--he now addressed himself to Beatrice--"met in town at the house of a friend of mine, a certain young lady called Maud Ellis. He fell in love with her----"
"I was trapped by a scheming woman, you mean," put in Paslow brusquely.
"Fie! fie! fie!" said Ruck good-humouredly. "Don't blame the woman, my dear fellow; that is mean. But trapped, or not, you married her."
"I did; and found that she only married me because she thought that I had money."
"So you should have had, and a great deal of it, but that Alpenny managed to collar the estates. But you loved her."
"I did not, save in the way one loves such women at an early age."
"Oh!" sneered Ruck; "she was perfectly respectable."
"I should not have married her else," said Vivian quickly, and not daring to glance at Beatrice. "I have nothing to say against her, save that she was heartless, and left me within six months. But I repeat that I was young and foolish at the time, and that she schemed to marry me. I fell into her toils, and bitterly have I had to pay for doing so; but for her I should have long ago have married Miss Hedge."
"I don't think Alpenny would have permitted that, Paslow."
"Perhaps not; but he is dead, and cannot harm me now."
"The evil that men do lives after them," scoffed Ruck. "Alpenny had the power when alive; someone else may have the power now."
"Not you, at all events, Ruck."
Beatrice rose quickly. "Am I to hear the rest of the story?" she asked Ruck. "Is this all you have to bring against Mr. Paslow?--that while a young man he was entrapped into marriage by an adventuress?"
"Oh, Maud Ellis was no adventuress," said the Major, easily, "but a very nice girl. Lady Watson knew her well."
"Lady Watson seems to know everyone," retorted Beatrice; "but who knows Lady Watson?"
"I do, very well," said Ruck quietly; "but we are not discussing her. Later on, should you desire to learn about her, I can supply you with all necessary information. Meanwhile----"
"Meanwhile," repeated Beatrice, "I should like to hear what Mr. Paslow has to say."
"What can I say?" said Vivian, with a look of despair. "I married Maud Ellis, as I said, and she left me after six months of a miserable life. Some times since I saw her, but she never would come back to me."
"Did you wish her?" said Beatrice quickly.
"She was my wife," said Vivian calmly, "and I wished to behave as her husband, little as I loved her; but she always refused to come back to me. I met you, and said nothing about my fatal marriage. There was no need to."
"It would have been better had you been open."
"I see that now; I did not see it at the time. But you know that I loved you always, and you know now why I did not dare to ask you to be my wife. A few weeks ago I heard that Maud was ill. I went to see her, and found that she was suffering from influenza. I saw her several times: then I heard that she was dead. I proposed to you, Beatrice, under the oak. Later on, when I went to town to look after your property, and learn if Alpenny had done you justice, I again went to the house, and learned that what I had heard was false. Maud was extremely ill, but still alive. Then I came down, and you know what took place between us. I went again and again to town, and saw the doctor."
"And your wife also?"
"No--yes, once; but she was so ill, and my presence disturbed her so much, that the doctor would not let me see her again. Then I went one day, and heard that she was dead and buried."
"Why did you not go to the funeral?" asked Ruck sneeringly.
"I did not know that she was dead. I remained away from the house--it was in Kensington--for a long time, as it was useless for me to go and see her; and the doctor always kept me advised as to how she was going on. However, he gave me no notice of her death, and she was buried when I next heard news."
Beatrice expressed surprise. "But surely the doctor was wrong in not telling you she was dying? You should have been with her."
"I should; but the doctor neglected to inform me. I had a row with him about the matter. However, I got the certificate, which you hold, and saw the grave; so I am now free to marry you--that is, if you will have me after what you have heard."
Beatrice did not reply immediately to this question. "We can talk of that when we are alone," she said, and glanced towards Ruck, who still lounged in his chair.
"That is a hint for me to go," he said, rising lazily. "Well, I shall go--unless you will marry me?"
"Were you the last man in the world I should not marry you," said the girl quietly; "and I do not see why you wish to."
"We talked about that before," said Ruck, taking up his hat; "but now that the real Prince Charming has come on the scene, I see that there is no chance for me. I will allow you to marry Paslow----"
"Allow me!" cried Miss Hedge indignantly. "Allow me!" echoed Vivian, clenching his fists.
"I will allow you," repeated the Major smoothly, "on condition that you give me the Obi necklace."
"What?" asked Beatrice, starting back, "Colonel Hall's----"
"It was his property. I knew him very well," interrupted Ruck. "He gave that necklace to Mrs. Hedge."
"To my mother? Impossible! The necklace was stolen when Colonel Hall was murdered in this very house."
"So it was thought, but I know otherwise. Colonel Hall gave the necklace to Mrs. Hedge, who was his cousin, just before the murder. I learned that from Alpenny, who was in the house at the time; and that was why Alpenny married Mrs. Hedge--he wanted the necklace. And that is why I wished to marry you," added Ruck, smiling blandly, "asIwant the necklace. It is valued at ten thousand pounds, and Alpenny promised to give it to you when we married."
"I don't know how much of this is true, or how much is not," said Beatrice, looking puzzled, and pressing her hands to her head; "but I have not got the necklace. I never knew that my stepfather had it. There is no need for you to get angry, Major Ruck. I know nothing about the necklace save what I heard from Mrs. Lilly; and she told me that Colonel Hall was murdered, and the necklace was stolen."
"The necklace was given to Mrs. Hedge," said Ruck, who was now very angry, "and Alpenny promised to give it to you. If you give it to me, I will go out of your life and you can marry Paslow; if not, I can stop this marriage."
"I defy you to do your worst," said Paslow savagely.
"Don't do that; it might be dangerous," said Ruck, with a meaning look. "Well, Miss Hedge?" He turned to Beatrice.
"I know nothing about the necklace," she replied. "If you married me you would marry a pauper. Lady Watson has Mr. Alpenny's money; and if he did receive the necklace from my mother, he certainly never gave it to me, or even spoke of its existence."
Ruck turned pale and looked at the ground. "Can Lady Watson have secured it?" he muttered.
"You had better ask her. And now, Major Ruck, that I know your real reason for wishing to marry me, I may tell you that I would willingly have given the Obi necklace to escape such a match!" and she turned her back on him scornfully.
The Major, notwithstanding that he was in the house, and in the presence of a lady, put on his hat. He had quite lost his suave manners, and looked thoroughly angry. "I shall take my leave, Miss Hedge," he said, bowing ironically. "Marry Paslow Whenever you choose; he is free now, as he says; but if trouble comes of your marriage, do not say that I did not warn you."
"What trouble can come?" asked Beatrice, turning like a lioness.
"Don't say that you have not been warned," said Ruck, backing towards the door. "As to myself, I shall search for the necklace, and get it. Lady Watson may know of its whereabouts.--Paslow, I congratulate you on a possible marriage----"
"Youcannot stop it, Ruck," said Vivian coolly.
"Oh, I have no desire to do so. All I wanted from this lady was the Obi necklace. As she has not got it, there is no need for me to sacrifice my freedom. Miss Hedge, good-day; Paslow, good-day;" and with a bow, the Major took his gigantic figure out of the room.
The two young people looked at one another in silence. "What does it all mean?" asked Beatrice helplessly.
"You heard what Ruck said," answered Vivian. "He wanted to marry you for the necklace. As you have not got it, he will trouble you no more."
"In any case, he would not trouble me," cried Beatrice indignantly. "Does Major Ruck think me a child to be driven into a match about which I care nothing? What influence can he have to make me do what he wanted?"
"He was playing a game of bluff," said Vivian eagerly. "He cannot force you to marry him, nor can he stop my marriage. He could have done so before, because he knew that my wife was alive; but now that she is dead, his power ceases. And, Beatrice"--he paused and looked down--"how can I ask you to be my wife after what you have heard?"
The girl looked at him in silence. Had she loved him less, she might have refused to answer his appeal. As it was, her love overcame the momentary anger which she felt at having been kept in the dark. At once she moved towards him, and placed her arms round his neck.
"We are all sinners," she whispered; "and I love you too well to let you go."
"God bless you, my darling," faltered Vivian, pressing her to his breast.
"Let the past alone," said Beatrice, kissing him. "We shall marry, and live for one another. Look with me, Vivian, to a happy future."
"My darling--my darling!" and Paslow fell on his knees.
It really did seem as though the course of this true love was about to run smooth. Durban, to whom Beatrice explained all that had taken place during Ruck's visit, heard what she had to say in silence, and seemed relieved when he heard the whole.
"I am glad that Mr. Paslow arrived at the moment," said Durban, when the story was ended. "He and the Major now understand one another."
"I never knew that Vivian was acquainted with Major Ruck."
"He met him at Mr. Alpenny's town office, missy."
"The Major seemed to threaten Vivian," observed the girl thoughtfully.
Durban shrugged his fat shoulders. "That is so like the Major," he retorted carelessly; "he is all stage thunder. Now that he knows you have not the necklace, he will trouble you no more. Mr. Paslow is not rich, missy; and you have lost the master's money; still, I should like you to marry the man you love, and go away."
"Why do you want me to go away?" she demanded peremptorily.
"It will be better," murmured Durban, uneasily.
"You are still keeping something from me, Durban?"
"Nothing that is necessary for you to know, missy."
Beatrice saw very well that the old servant was fencing, and wondered what it was that he feared. "The necklace?" she said suddenly.
"I do not know where it is, missy."
"Did you ever see it?"
"Once. Colonel Hall showed it to me--a very fine set of diamonds."
"Where did Colonel Hall get it?"
"I cannot say--somewhere in the West Indies, I think."
"You were Colonel Hall's servant in the West Indies, Durban?"
"I was, missy." Durban looked at her with fire in his dark eyes. "He was the best of masters, and I loved him. He brought me to this place with him, and here he met with his death."
"Do you know who killed him?"
"No, missy, I do not."
"Why did you take service with Mr. Alpenny?"
"I was poor," said Durban, with a shrug, "and my master, the Colonel, was dead. I had no home, and I was thankful to accept the situation. I might not have stayed in it for so long, missy, but that Mr. Alpenny married. It was you who have kept me at The Camp all these years."
"And what about Mrs. Hall?"
"Nothing, missy. She was a silent lady. I know very little about her."
"Durban"--Beatrice looked at him keenly--"are you telling me the truth?"
"I am, missy. Why should I tell you a lie? All I know of Mrs. Hall is, that she was the daughter of a West Indian planter, who was my father's master in the time of slavery. I was born on the estate, and afterwards entered the service of Colonel Hall--a captain he was then--to whom I became greatly attached. He saw Mrs. Hall, and fell in love with her. They married, but did not get on well together, for what reason I cannot tell you. They came here to see Mr. Paslow's father, who was an old friend of the Colonel's. Mrs. Hall stopped in London for a time, and then came down for one night with the nurse and her child. My master was murdered, and the necklace disappeared. That is all I know."
"But, Durban, Major Ruck says that the Colonel gave the necklace to my mother before his death."
"That is not true," cried Durban vehemently, and his eyes blazed. "There was no reason why he should give it to--to--Mrs. Hedge. And I saw the necklace in the Colonel's hands on the very night the crime was committed. Yes, and I saw him place it in the green box beside his bed. Next morning the window was open, the Colonel was lying dead with a cut throat, and the Obi necklace was gone. I can tell you no more, and I don't know why you wish to know all this."
"Because," said Beatrice slowly, "it is my belief that the same man with the black patch who murdered Colonel Hall murdered Mr. Alpenny; and in both cases I believe that the murder was committed for the sake of this necklace."
"I did not know that Mr. Alpenny had it, missy."
"Major Ruck says that he had, and married my mother for the sake of the necklace, which doubtless--as it has not been found after his death--he turned into money."
"It might be so," murmured Durban moodily. "Major Ruck knew a great deal about Mr. Alpenny which I did not know. He was a kind of decoy duck to the master--a man about town who brought foolish youths to borrow money. A dangerous man, missy, and one you are well rid of. Missy"--he laid his hand on her arm--"be advised; seek to know no more. Mr. Alpenny's life was not a good one or a clean one. Marry Mr. Paslow, and go away."
"I'll think of it, Durban," said Beatrice, after a few moments of thought, and there the conversation ended for the time being.
All the same, Beatrice had no idea of going away. She even thought that she would not marry Vivian Paslow until things were made clear, and she--so to speak--knew where she stood. What with Vivian's marriage to Maud Ellis, and the late Mr. Alpenny's hints that the young man had committed crimes, there was much in Paslow's life which she did not understand. Had she loved him less, she would have had nothing more to do with him. But she did love him with all her heart and soul; consequently she believed that he was more sinned against than sinning. It was nothing out of the common that a young man in London should be entrapped into such a marriage; and, after all, it was not unusual that Vivian should strive to hide from her--the woman he really loved--the folly of which he had been guilty eight years ago.Thatshe could forgive, and did forgive, and was ready to marry her lover as soon as he wished. But she could not rid herself of a vague fear that if she did marry him, it would only be the beginning of fresh misery. Durban's desire that the young couple should go away, seemed to her ominous; and Vivian, although under stress of circumstances had confessed the marriage, did not seem to be communicative regarding the other mysteries. What if at the back of all these things lurked some terrible scandal which might ruin her happiness and that of Paslow's?
While thinking thus, it occurred to Beatrice that she had never learned what Vivian had done on that night when he left her under the Witches' Oak. They were together walking in the garden after dinner when she considered this question, and she asked Vivian at once to explain. He removed his cigar and looked at her searchingly.
"What a woman you are to ask questions!" he said, with a forced laugh.
"I want them answered," said Beatrice rather imperiously.
Vivian shrugged his shoulders. "I am not averse to doing so," he said in a weary manner. "Well, on that night I left you and ran to see who was watching. It was a red-headed little beast called Waterloo, employed as a spy by Mr. Alpenny!"
"I know him--I have seen him."
"Seen him?" Vivian started and looked uneasy. "When?--where?"
"In this very garden." And Beatrice related how the tramp had suddenly appeared to mar the beauty of the scene. "He wanted to see you," she concluded, "but Durban sent him away."
"Had I seen the brute I should have horsewhipped him," cried the young man angrily. "He was a spy of Alpenny's."
"On me?--on you?"
"On us both. Alpenny knew that I loved you, and did not want us to meet. He told Waterloo, who was hanging round The Camp, to keep his eye on you and on me. Waterloo confessed----"
"Did you catch him?"
"Yes, I did, and nearly broke his neck. He confessed that he had been set to watch by Mr. Alpenny, and had been lurking outside the great gates of The Camp."
"I saw him," said Beatrice, recalling the vague shadow which she had seen crouching in the shade on that fatal night.
"He saw you go past," went on Paslow, "and followed to the Witches' Oak like your shadow. When I caught him he told me all this, so I gave him a kicking and let him go. The dog was not worth fouling my hands with. Then I went back to the Oak to find you. You had gone, so I fancied that you had gone home. I did not follow, as I thought that I might run up against Alpenny and that there would be more trouble. I went home to the Grange, and then was coming along the next morning to see you, and give you the key, when I met Durban."
"It was then that you heard of the murder?"
"Yes; and afterwards went up to town to see Alpenny's lawyer about your chances of getting the money. You see, Beatrice, Major Ruck, and other creatures employed by Alpenny, were quite capable of destroying the will, so as to get the money themselves."
"But how could they do that?"
"By bribing or blackmailing the lawyer of Alpenny. The man is not above reproach, as he did much dirty work for Alpenny. Ruck knows of many of these underhanded dealings; and on hearing of Alpenny's death, it struck me that Ruck might try to force the lawyer--Tuft is his name--to destroy any will that might be made in your favour, by threatening to communicate with the police. However, I saw Tuft, and he produced the will. It was genuine enough, as I know Alpenny's handwriting very well. The money was left, as you know, to Lady Watson. I believe that years ago Alpenny admired her, although I do not see why he should leave her such a large fortune and cut you out."
"He hated me," said Beatrice sadly; "he always did. Before he died he told me to expect nothing, and I am a pauper, as you know. Vivian," she said suddenly, "let us put off our marriage for a time. I can go out as a governess, and we can wait."
"Why should we wait?" he asked quickly, and his arms went round her in a firm embrace.
"Are you sure," murmured Beatrice, "that if I marry you, all trouble will be at an end?"
"Quite sure. My first wife is dead, so I can take a second. Ruck and those other beasts cannot harm me now. No, Beatrice, we shall marry in a week as you promised."
"I have no wedding-dress!"
"That does not matter. I marry you and not your clothes. If we postpone our marriage, it may never take place."
"Why not?"
"Because there are those who would stop me from marrying you. Not Ruck--he can do nothing. Beatrice,"--he caught her hands and looked deep into her eyes--"I own to you that I have been a fool. My marriage with that adventuress introduced me into strange company. I will not tell you now what straits I have been in and what trouble I have undergone. Only trust me and marry me. I shall then tell you the whole of my life's history. Believe me, there is nothing in it for which you will cease to love me. My worst sin is having kept this first marriage from you."
"I will trust you," whispered Beatrice, who was much perplexed; "but is it not possible to clear up these mysteries?"
"You may clear them up," said Vivian, after a moment's hesitation. "I cannot help you--I dare not," he ended, and abruptly left her.
What did it all mean? Beatrice asked herself that question again and again, but without receiving any answer. But for her overwhelming love, she would have hesitated to step forward in the dark, as she really was doing when consenting to this marriage. But she felt that Vivian needed her aid, and that only when they were man and wife would that aid be of any real service. She made no attempt to continue the conversation when they met again in the drawing-room, nor did she seek out the old servant to ask questions. But since Vivian hinted that by her own unaided efforts she might arrive at the truth, whatever it might be, she determined to search on. In one way or another she was resolved with all the force of her strong nature to put an end to these provoking mysteries.
It was for this reason that the next morning found her climbing the Downs. Vivian had gone with Dinah into Brighton, and Beatrice, alleging the death of her stepfather as a reason for retirement, had remained at home. In reality, she wanted to trace out Orchard the ex-butler, who had turned shepherd, and whom Mrs. Lilly had told her of. From that elderly dame Beatrice obtained the information that Orchard lived on the Downs in a little wooden hut, like the savage maid in the popular song, and having gained a fair notion of its whereabouts, she set out to seek the man. He had been in the house at the time of Colonel Hall's murder, and apparently had seen something. Had he not done so, his nerves certainly would not have been so shattered as to make him give up the comfortable profession of a butler for the hard life of a shepherd. Certainly he might refuse to speak out, as he assuredly had not told the police anything likely to lead to the discovery of Colonel Hall's assassin. But Beatrice had great faith in her woman's wiles and in the power of her tongue to get what she wanted. It was the sole way in which she could do so, as she had no money wherewith to tempt the old man. But then so patriarchal a person might be above bribery and corruption.
It was a divine day, and the breezes were blowing freshly across the spacious Downs from the distant Channel. Beatrice loved to look on these wide spaces of green, and to watch the sheep moving across the close-shorn turf, which they kept in such good order. A mile's walk brought her into the vicinity where Mrs. Lilly had informed her that Orchard watched his flock, and she speedily saw the hut, a tiny box of a house roofed with turf and standing on the Downs, without railing, or fence, or garden round it--just like a house that had lost its way.
Fate favoured her, and she took it as a good omen when she saw the old man seated at the door eating his midday meal. He was bent and white-headed, and had a long white beard. In fact, he might have passed for Father Christmas had he been appropriately dressed. His eyes were faded, blue and mild, and he seemed in no wise disturbed when she approached. "Good day, miss," said the ex-butler.
"Good day," responded Beatrice. "Will you let me sit down? I have been walking for some time."
"Certainly, miss," said Orchard, with the deference of a former indoor servant; "but the air will do you good. I suppose, miss, you are one of the gentry from Brighton? They often come up here to breathe the air and get appetites. Sit down, miss."
By this time he had brought out a stool, and Beatrice sat down with a weary air, for she really was tired. "I come from the Weald," she said, waving her hand towards the luxurious verdure of the valley below. "I live there."
"A very nice place, miss. I lived there once myself."
"At Convent Grange?" said Beatrice, glad to see that Orchard was disposed to be communicative.
He turned a mild look of surprise on her, and considered her face attentively. "Why, yes, miss," he replied, "although I don't know how you come to know that."
"Mrs. Lilly told me."
Orchard let a glimmering smile rest on his pale lips. "Sarah Lilly?" he said musingly. "Ah, I have not seen her since we were fellow-servants together--and that was long ago. I might have married her, miss, as we liked one another. But she was married and I was married, so we couldn't come together."
"I should think not," said Beatrice, smiling at the grave way in which the old shepherd spoke. "Mrs. Lilly is a great friend of mine."
"Is she, miss? And no doubt"--he considered her still more attentively--"Mrs. Lilly told you how I came to be a shepherd?"
"Yes, she told me that."
"I did it for my nerves," said Orchard, looking away at the treeless green expanse; "they were shattered by the terrible calamity which happened in that house. The air here cured me."
"Do you know who killed Colonel Hall?"
"You are the first person who has asked me that question for many years, miss. Time was when many did so, but the Colonel has been buried these five-and-twenty years, and his terrible death is quite forgotten. I don't know who killed him--for certain, that is, miss."
"Have you no suspicion?"
"Oh yes," said Orchard calmly. "I believe that Mr. Alpenny murdered Colonel Hall to get a certain necklace."
"That cannot be true," said Beatrice aghast; "a Major Ruck----"
"I don't know him," interpolated Orchard.
"Well, he says that Colonel Hall gave the necklace to my mother."
"And who was your mother, miss?"
"Mrs. Hedge----"
"Who married Mr. Alpenny?" cried Orchard, rising suddenly to his feet and really startled out of his mildness.
"Yes. Mr. Alpenny is now dead, and----"
"I know--I know," said Orchard, waving his hand; "he met with the due reward of his wickedness. I can talk of him later, and I'll tell you why I suspect him. Mrs. Hedge's daughter--the Colonel's child----"
"What?" cried Beatrice, springing to her feet.
"Mr. Alpenny never told you, I suppose," said Orchard coolly; "but he married Mrs. Hall, who took the name of Mrs. Hedge because she was suspected of being concerned in the crime. You are Miss Hall--Miss Beatrice Hall!"
Beatrice waited to hear no more. As a sensible woman, she should have remained where she was to question the old shepherd, and learn why he stated so firmly that she was the daughter of Colonel Hall who had been murdered so cruelly at the Grange; but the mere fact of the announcement startled her, and without pausing, she rushed away, as though to escape from her thoughts. Orchard looked after her in mild surprise, but did not call her back, although her action must have puzzled him. The ex-butler seemed to have outlived all curiosity, or else the Downs had cured his nerves so thoroughly that he did not feel startled. However, be this as it may, he returned to his dinner, and sat watching the slowly-moving sheep without giving a thought to the young lady who had called upon him.
How Beatrice descended the slope of the Downs into the valley she never knew. Her brain was filled with the information she had so strangely gained. She was not Beatrice Hedge, but Beatrice Hall, the daughter of the dead man who had owned the necklace. Ruck asserted that the Colonel had given the necklace to his wife before the murder. As Mrs. Alpenny, who called herself Mrs. Hedge and who really was Mrs. Hall, had been the wife of the Colonel, this was not unlikely. Alpenny, finding that she possessed the necklace, might have married her to gain possession of the same. But what Beatrice could not understand was, why her mother should have married the usurer. It was true that he had always been her admirer, as Durban himself had stated; but from accepting attentions to marrying the man who paid them, was a long step. Mrs. Hall had taken it, under the name of Mrs. Hedge, and again Beatrice wondered what the reason could be.
Durban must have known this truth. He had been the faithful servant of Colonel Hall, and had always spoken of him with love and admiration. If she--Beatrice--were the Colonel's child, the adoration of Durban for herself would be explained. He loved her, because he had loved her dead father. But why had Durban held his tongue over the marriage, and had allowed everyone to think that Alpenny had married a Mrs. Hedge? Durban, as Beatrice well knew, had no love for Alpenny, yet he had said nothing likely to prevent such a match. Certainly Durban might not have had the power; but there appeared no reason why he should have concealed the truth from his dead master's child. Beatrice was beginning to see light. There was some mystery concerning her, which had to do with her father's murder, with the missing necklace, and probably with the murder of Alpenny himself. Durban now might tell the truth and explain matters seeing that she already knew so much. Then, again, he might refuse to speak out, and she would be as much in the dark as ever.
Major Ruck doubtless knew the truth from Alpenny, although he had declared that Mrs. Hedge was the cousin of Colonel Hall. But Beatrice, remembering his hesitation in making the statement, was certain that Ruck was cognisant of the real state of affairs. Was Vivian Paslow likewise enlightened? She could not be certain of this. Vivian might or might not know, but he assuredly had some secret on his mind which he refused to impart to her until the marriage took place. Had that secret to do with her real parentage which had been revealed to her by Orchard? Beatrice was minded, then and there, to ask Vivian for the truth. But she could not do so on the spur of the moment, much as she wished to since Vivian was at Brighton with Dinah and would not be back for some hours. Durban certainly was at The Camp, but Beatrice, very naturally, considering his attitude, was doubtful if he would speak out At the foot of the Downs, and when on the road leading to Hurstable village, she paused to think what was best to be done. She half regretted that she had not stopped with Orchard to learn more. It would be just as well, she thought, to go back: but a glance at the steep wall of the Downs led her to change her mind. She could not face that weary climb again, as her nerves were shattered by the communication which had changed her life.
Then it occurred to her that Mrs. Snow knew her mother. Mrs. Snow--then Miss Duncan--had been at Convent Grange when Colonel Hall was murdered. She must have known that the so-called Mrs. Hedge was really Mrs. Hall, and must have known also the reason why Mrs. Hall under a feigned name had married Jarvis Alpenny. Mrs. Snow declared herself to be a dear friend of Mrs. Hall. Why, then, did she hate Beatrice, who was the daughter of that same dear friend? That Mrs. Snow hated her Beatrice was convinced, as she had pointedly neglected her throughout five and twenty years. Yes Mrs. Snow would be the best person to question; and having made up her mind rapidly, the girl took her way to the Vicarage of Hurstable.
Mrs. Snow, looking more sour and elderly than ever, was in the garden, engaged in the Arcadian pastime of gathering roses for decorative purposes. She was a good housekeeper, and liked to see a dainty dinner-table. Notwithstanding her disagreeable nature, she made the vicar and his son comfortable enough, and really loved them both in her sour way. Jerry, indeed, was the apple of her eye, and it was for this reason that she resented his engagement to Dinah Paslow. With any other girl it would have been the same. It was not the individual maiden that Mrs. Snow hated, but the girl who took her son to be a husband. For the sake of her own selfishness, which she miscalled maternal love, she would have liked Jerry to remain a bachelor all his life, just to please her, and bestow all his affection on his dear mother. But the young man himself had not found that affection, although it really existed, strong enough to fill his life. Therefore he had asked Dinah to marry him, and so strongly had he held his own on the subject, that Mrs. Snow had been won over so far as to receive Dinah as a future daughter-in-law.
"Mrs. Snow," said Beatrice, when she entered the pretty grounds of the Vicarage, "I wish to speak to you particularly."
The vicar's wife looked sourly at her visitor. She hated Beatrice because of her beauty, amongst other things; and when she saw that same beauty was somewhat worn and haggard, that the girl looked ill and had lost her vivacity, she felt pleased. "Quite washed out," said Mrs. Snow to herself, and thus became more amiable. Laying down the scissors, with which she had been clipping the flowers, she advanced with what was meant to be an ingratiating smile. "My dear Miss Hedge, I am so pleased to see you. This is the first time that you have called. Come inside, please."
"Thank you. I prefer to remain in the garden and take up as little of your time as possible."
Mrs. Snow stiffened. "What an extraordinary tone to take withme," she said, with the offended air of a thorough egotist.
"Can you wonder at it? We know so little of one another."
"That is, as it may be," snapped Mrs. Snow, wondering what her visitor had come to see her about. "I may know more of you than you think."
"For that reason I come to see you," said Beatrice calmly.
Her hostess started, but speedily recovered her calmness. "I really do not know what you mean, Miss Hedge," she said composedly.
"I think you know this much, that I am not Miss Hedge."
"Oh!" said Mrs. Snow, her sallow face flushing an uneasy red. "Will you not be seated?"
"Thank you." Beatrice moved towards a garden seat at the far end of the lawn; but Mrs. Snow touched her arm, and pointed to a side-path.
"I have a very secluded arbour there," she said significantly, "where we cannot be overheard." And she led the way down the path.
"The whole world may hear what I have to say," declared Beatrice boldly, and resolved to be a party to no mystery.
"But the whole world," said Mrs. Snow, stopped with a disagreeable smile, "may not hear what I may have to say--that is, if you press me."
"I want to hear everything," said the girl sharply; "for that reason I have come to you."
"I fear you will go away less easy in your mind than you came."
Beatrice shrugged her shoulders. "My mind has been uneasy ever since the death of my stepfather," she retorted. "Is this the place?"
"This is the place," assented the vicaress.
It was--as Mrs. Snow had stated--a very secret place. The path ended In a kind of semicircular enclosure surrounded by a high hedge of hawthorn. The arbour faced the path, so that any one seated therein could see an intruder advancing along the path. The haven of rest was of light trellis-work overgrown with roses, and had a comfortable wooden seat at the back, and two basket chairs in front of this, with a small green-painted table between. Beatrice sank into one of the chairs, and Mrs. Snow subsided into the other. The table was between them, and the two glanced at one another when seated. Mrs. Snow looked as sour as ever: but there lurked a watchful look in her eyes, which a more discerning person than the visitor would have seen at once. Beatrice on her part, having nothing to conceal, was perfectly open; and caring very little for what Mrs. Snow had to say, resolved that, whatever it might be, she would bind herself to no secrecy. The scene being set, the actresses spoke. Beatrice politely waited to give Mrs. Snow a chance of opening the conversation, while Mrs. Snow was equally determined that her visitor should speak first. Under these circumstances a silence ensued which lasted for quite two minutes. Mrs. Snow, being the most impatient, yielded first to the desire to use her tongue.
"You spoke very strangely just now, Miss Hedge," she said, and purposely uttered the name to evoke frank speech from Beatrice.
"Miss Hall, if you please," said the girl, falling into the trap.
"Oh! Miss Hall," replied the other, flushing. "I never knew that your mother was called Hall."
"As she was your dearest friend--you told me as much--I fancy you must have had some idea."
"Perhaps," said Mrs. Snow, looking down uneasily. Then she raised her face with a frown. "Who told you this?"
"A man called Orchard. You may know of him, Mrs. Snow?"
"I have no reason to deny that I know of him. He was the late Mr. Paslow's butler, and became a shepherd on the Downs, because the doctor said he would have to live in the open air."
"Why?"
"Did he not tell you? His nerves were so shattered by that horrid murder which took place at the Grange twenty-five years ago."
"You allude to the murder of my father?"
"To the murder of Colonel Hall," corrected Mrs. Snow snappishly.
"My father was Colonel Hall."
"So this man Orchard says?" sneered the other, her face flushing and her hands opening and shutting.
"And so I believe. Come now, Mrs. Snow, you must tell me what you know of this matter?"
"I know nothing."
"Perhaps Miss Duncan may be able to tell me?"
"Ah!"--the vicar's wife laughed carelessly--"you know my maiden name, and perhaps my occupation before I married my husband?"
"I heard that you were a governess."
"Who said so?"
"Durban."
"In that case, since he has been so frank, I wonder that he did not tell you how Mrs. Hall--your mother--killed the Colonel."
Beatrice started to her feet. "You dare to say that?"
"Yes, I do," cried Mrs. Snow venomously. "She killed your father to gain possession of a diamond necklace, and married Alpenny because he could have accused her of the murder."
"That is not true," said Beatrice, closing her eyes with horror.
"Itistrue. I can prove it."
"Why did you not do so twenty-five years ago?"
"Because your mother was my friend."
"Mrs. Snow"--Beatrice opened her eyes, and leaned across the table--"you were never my mother's friend."
The woman moved uneasily, and her hands were restless. "Had I not been so, your mother would have stood in the dock."
"Ah! you had your own reason for keeping quiet."
"Do you mean to accuse me of being her accomplice?" said Mrs. Snow, rising, and scowling.
"Sit down, please." Beatrice pushed her back into the chair.
"How dare you!" gasped Mrs. Snow. "I was never treated before so in the whole course of my life!" And she made to rise again.
Again Beatrice pushed her back. "I am stronger than you, Mrs. Snow," she said scornfully; "youshallsit down, and youshalltell me everything you know."
"And if I do not?"
"I'll go at once to the police."
Mrs. Snow turned white. "To the police?"
"Yes. Listen. I believe that the man with the black patch who murdered my father, Colonel Hall, also murdered Mr. Alpenny. My mother is entirely innocent, and were she alive she would say so." Mrs. Snow laughed at this remark, but in a hollow manner. "Yes, you may laugh, Mrs. Snow, but what I say is true," resumed Beatrice firmly; "and if you don't tell me all you know, I shall tell the police that you accuse my mother and say that you can substantiate your accusation. When arrested, you may be forced to speak out."
"Arrested? How dare you!" Mrs. Snow was furious. "How can I be arrested when the murder of your father took place twenty-five years ago? It is ridiculous."
"Oh no; this second murder has to do with the first, so that will bring the death of my father up-to-date. Speak out, or I go at once to Brighton, and then----"
"You will not dare----" gasped the vicaress in a cowed tone.
"I give you three minutes to make up your mind, Mrs. Snow."
"I don't want one minute. I shall tell you all I know--all I believe to be true: your mother is guilty."
"Wasguilty, since she is dead," corrected Beatrice quietly; "and I do not believe one word. You hated her, in spite of the fact that she was--as you say--your dearest friend."
"You are right!" cried Mrs. Snow with hysterical vehemence; "I did hate her--always--always! She took from me the man I loved. Yes, you may look and look, but I loved George Hall, your father, with all my heart. I was only a governess, poor and plain; your mother was a planter's daughter, rich and beautiful. We were at school together. I was her companion afterwards; but I always detested her, and now----"
"Now you detest her daughter," finished Beatrice.
"You have your mother's beauty," said Mrs. Snow, and cast a venomous look on the girl's pale face.
"So this is the reason you kept away from The Camp, and spoke of me to others so bitterly as you did?"
"Yes. You may as well know the truth: I hate you. You have the beauty of your mother, who stole George Hall away from me. But you have not the money; I saw to that."
"How could you prevent my inheriting the money? I suppose you allude to Mr. Alpenny's fortune."
"Because I told Mr. Alpenny if he left the money to you that I would accuse him of being an accomplice of Mrs. Hall in her murder of the Colonel. Miss Hedge, or Miss Hall, or whatever you like to call yourself, I hate you so much that I would like to put the rope round your neck."
"Yet I am the daughter of the man you loved!" said Beatrice, wondering at this bitterness.
"All the more reason I should hate you. His daughter--yes, and the daughter of Amy Hall, whom I loathed with all my soul."
"If so, why did you not accuse her of the murder?"
"I gave her a chance of repentance."
"No, Mrs. Snow, that was not the reason. You did not tell the police, because you could not prove your accusation. For all I know--for all the police know--you may have murdered my father yourself."
Mrs. Snow laughed scornfully. "I murder George Hall? Why, I loved the very ground he trod on. You can prove nothing against me."
"Nor can you prove anything against my mother."
"Can I not?" Mrs. Snow rose and flung her arms about exultingly. "I was stopping at the Grange. I was lying awake on that night, wondering when my misery would end."
"What misery?"
"The misery of loving your father, and of seeing him with your mother. But I sowed dissension between them: they were never happy."
"You wicked woman!"
"Iama woman, and that answers all," said Mrs. Snow sullenly. "I don't mind telling you all this, as you cannot accuse me of anything. If you did say that I told you what I am now telling you, I should deny it; and who would believe you, against a respectable woman like me?"
"You are a wicked woman!" said Beatrice again. "Go on with what you have to say. I want to get away from you as soon as possible."
"You may not be in such a hurry to leave me on a future occasion," retorted Mrs. Snow. "You and I have not done with one another yet. I know much that you would like to know."
"What is that?"
"I'll tell you later. Meanwhile, I tell you that I was lying awake and heard a noise. I stole out, and saw Mrs. Hall ready dressed to go out into the passage. She was at the head of the stairs, and with her was old Alpenny, for he was old even then. They stopped talking for a time, as I saw, and he apparently was persuading her to do something. Then they went along towards the wing where Colonel Hall slept. I went back to bed, wondering what Mrs. Hall meant by keeping a midnight appointment with old Alpenny. I never suspected the truth. Next morning the necklace was gone and George Hall murdered. And she did it!" shouted Mrs. Snow savagely; "she--you mother! Alpenny was her accomplice. He wished to get the necklace. He was afraid to kill George Hall himself, and made a woman do it. Then she got the necklace after she cut poor George's throat, and Alpenny made her marry him under a threat of denouncing her as what she was, a murderess--a murderess--you--you daughter of one!" jeered Mrs. Snow, pointing a mocking finger at the pale girl.
"You lie!" said Beatrice, shaken but not convinced.
"A black patch was found under the window of my father's room. It was open; and now that a man with a black patch killed Mr. Alpenny (for the necklace, for all I know), I believe he also killed my father."
"You admit that Mr. Alpenny had the necklace. How did he get it?"
"Orchard said that Alpenny killed my father."
"No; your mother did. Alpenny was merely the accomplice."
"Wait. Major Ruck declared that Colonel Hall gave the necklace before his death to Mrs. Hedge. Now I know that Mrs. Hedge was really Mrs. Hall, I believe him. Father gave my mother the necklace, and doubtless what else you say is true. My mother was forced to marry Alpenny, because he threatened to denounce her, She must have been suspected of the crime. I can see that plainly, else she would not have changed her name to Hedge. I wonder she was not recognised."
"No one knew her here," said Mrs. Snow gloomily. "She was only one night at Convent Grange, and on that night her husband was murdered. Pshaw! She is guilty."
"I don't believe it," insisted Beatrice, rising defiantly; "but I will prove the truth of what you say. Durban must speak out now."
"And he will accuse your mother as I accuse her. Why did Durban go to serve Alpenny for nothing? Because Alpenny, wishing to get a faithful servant for nothing, said he would denounce Mrs. Hall unless she married him and brought Durban with her. Durban knows the truth, but he has kept silent all these years because he dared not speak out without hanging Mrs. Hall."
"She is dead now, so nothing can be done," said Beatrice sadly; "but at least her memory can be cleared, and I shall clear it."
"If you delve into your mother's past, you will find more things than murder in it," said Mrs. Snow sneeringly. "She loved Major Ruck."
"What?"
"She loved Major Ruck, I tell you. He also was at Convent Grange on the night the crime was committed, and I believe that your mother was about to elope with him when I saw her dressed at midnight, with Alpenny talking to her."
"Oh," said Beatrice coldly, "I thought that she was there--as you say--to murder my father."
"She intended to do so, and then elope with Ruck; but Alpenny caught her in his toils. For all I know, I may have seen her talkingafterthe murder, and Alpenny may have gone with her to get the necklace."
"You make out a very pretty case, Mrs. Snow," said Beatrice, her heart beating loudly and quickly, for the weight of evidencedidseem to be against Mrs. Hall. "However, I shall see Durban, and then come again to see you. Good day," and she moved away, while Mrs. Snow laughed.