Sir Mark Trevor's family mansion, as everyone knows, is in Cornwall, but, being passionately fond of the River Thames, he had bought a place down at Hurley, where he passed the summer months, and there entertained his large circle of friends. The idle, pleasant life of the river suited the baronet to perfection, and being a man fond of books and antiquities, he found the neighbourhood quite to his taste, much preferring the unpretending house at Hurley to his grand hall in Cornwall, and the pleasant vales and hills of Bucks to the wild Tors and iron-bound coasts of the west country.
Bellfield, as it was called--the name being an invention of Sir Mark's happy combination of his daughter's name and the fields which surrounded the house--was not a very large place. It had originally been a farm-house, and stood near the high road, while beyond arose the sloping hills with a fringe of trees on top, and down towards the river stretched broad fields, all yellow with waving corn.
The original portion of the house was built of flint, and Sir Mark had added to it, until the whole place looked nothing but a mass of gables covered with trelliswork and overgrown with creeping plants. But a very comfortable house it was, the favourite apartment being a kind of smoking-room which opened on to a glass porch, and beyond, a wide lawn, a gorse hedge, yellow with blossom, and a view of tall beeches and glimpses of distant hills.
The walls of the smoking-room were covered from top to bottom with cartoons from "Vanity Fair," only leaving one space where guns, daggers, swords, and other warlike instruments were displayed. Plenty of low basket-chairs, soft fur rugs, side tables with a generous profusion of pipes, tobacco, and cigarettes, and on the large table, near Sir Mark's writing desk, a spirit-stand always stood ready, together with an unlimited supply of soda and seltzer for thirsty boating parties.
There was a piano in one corner, with piles of new music, principally, it must be confessed, of the comic opera and music-hall orders, and over the piano a fox's head and brush, trophies of Miss Bell's prowess in the hunting field. Off this snuggery was the saddle-room, which the young men, and indeed not a few of the ladies used to vote "awfully jolly," in the expressive slang of to-day.
There were plenty of bedrooms, low-pitched and quaint, wide staircases with unexpected turnings and twistings, and an oak-panelled dining-room, wherein Sir Mark's guests used to wax noisy at meals, but the favourite room of the house was undoubtedly the smoking-room, and in it on this bright July morning all the guests staying at Bellfield were waiting, ready to start for the Marlow Regatta.
And a very jovial party they were. Pat Ryan, having returned from the Emerald Isle, was talking his usual nonsense to pretty Kate Lester, who was stopping at Bellfield with her uncle, a gentleman who passed most of his time asleep. He had declined to go to the regatta, and was already lying in one of the low basket chairs pretending to read theTimes.
Bell was standing by Carmela, who looked pale and white as she listened to Mr. Chester's chatter, giving that brilliant youth the mistaken idea that he had made an impression. Sir Mark was moving about, from one to the other, with his grave smile, and two young ladies, arrayed in white serge dresses, with jaunty straw hats, were flirting desperately with a young Oxonian called Wellthirp, but familiarly known as Bubbles, from his effervescent flow of spirits.
"We'd better start, I'm thinking," observed Mr. Ryan to the company; "it's a mighty bad thing wasting all this beautiful morning."
"You won't come, uncle?" asked Kate, going over to her avuncular relative.
"Not to-day, my dear; I'm a little tired."
"Begad, he's the seven sleepers rolled into one," said Pat to Miss Lester as they stepped out into the sunshine. "Come, Miss Lester, I'll race ye for a pair of gloves."
"Against what?" asked Kate, as he helped her through the gate.
"A kiss," said Pat, whereupon Kate blushed, and vowed she wouldn't run, so Pat set off, like a deer, by himself along the narrow path which led through the cornfield to the village of Hurley.
"How sad you are looking, Carmela," said Sir Mark, as he walked soberly along beside Miss Cotoner.
"She wants Mr. Monteith," said Bell, mischievously.
"Nonsense," retorted Carmela, while a flush came over her pale face.
"Then she'll soon be gratified," laughed Sir Mark; "for Mr. Monteith will be at the regatta to-day."
Carmela clenched her teeth. He would be at the regatta, and how would he meet her after all that had passed? The last time she saw him she was free, but now he would see her as the affianced wife of another. Well, she would wait and see. Their meeting must come sooner or later, so why not now?
The party went through the quaint village of Hurley, past the Old Bell inn with its antique gables and wide windows--through the remains of the old monastery, which was one of the finest in England, and along by Lady Bell Place with its old walls and picturesque, red roof, under which the conspirators of 1688 met to mature their plot for driving James II. from his kingdom.
Over the bridge they went, and found the river crowded with boats, filled with men in flannels, and pretty girls in yachting costumes, all waiting for the lock to be opened. Sir Mark's boats were below Hurley Lock, so they all went down, only pausing a moment to look into the lock, filled with boats, and presenting a blaze of colour. A number of young fellows were leaning on the great arms of the lock gate, chattering idle nonsense to the pretty girls in the boats below.
"I wonder how many engagements these flirtations at the locks have been accountable for?" said Pat, sentimentally, to Kate, as he handed her into his boat.
"I'm sure I don't know," retorted Kate, and a pretty flush dyed her cheek; though, to be sure, it might only have been the sun shining through her red sunshade. "Why do you ask?"
"Because I'd like one more to be added to the number," said Ryan, audaciously; whereat Kate blushed again, and was spared the trouble of answering by Bubbles telling the Irishman to push off, and not talk so much. Pat consented with an ill grace; for, versed as he was in affairs of the heart, he saw that Kate knew his feelings, and responded to them.
Kate and Carmela sat in the stern of the boat; the former steering, while Carmela sat idly gazing at the gay throng on the river, her thoughts far away with Ronald Monteith.
They passed Temple Court, embowered among trees, and had to take their turn in entering the lock, which gave Pat and Bubbles lots of opportunity to converse and chaff their friends. Indeed, it was really wonderful how many people these young men knew, and even Carmela smiled as she heard Pat's witty tongue running riot.
At last they got into the lock, Bubbles skilfully piloting them; and, as the boat sank rapidly to the lower reach, several ladies in other boats shrieked, but were pacified when the water ceased to fall.
"Begad, they're as bad as banshees!" said Pat; whereon he was once more told to hold his tongue by Bubbles, who was captain, and soon they were out again on the broad river, with the roar of the weir in their ears.
"An' would ye like to tow down?" asked Pat, persuasively, of Kate. But that young lady declined, on the plea of heat, so Pat had to give up his idea of a flirtation on the towing-path, and work hard instead.
"There's Bisham!" said Bubbles, as they passed the grey old abbey. "Where Shelley wrote his 'Revolt of Islam' floating in a boat under the beeches."
"Begad, I hope he had a lady with him!" said Pat, gaily; "there's nothing stirs imagination like a pretty girl."
"Your imagination is quite vivid enough already," said Carmela.
"There's Marlow Church and Marlow Bridge," observed Bubbles, still in the character of guide book.
"Where the bargees ate puppy pie," put in Ryan; "but here we are at Shaw's--shall we go on shore or stop in the boat?"
Both ladies preferred to go on shore, so, after making the boat fast among all the other crafts, Pat and Bubbles put on their coats, and handed the ladies out. Sir Mark's boat was nowhere to be seen, whereupon Pat proposed to go over to the Anglers' Hotel, and see what was doing there.
"I believe you want to drink," said Kate, severely, as they walked over the bridge.
"And small shame to me," retorted the undaunted Pat; "haven't I rowed ye down under a blazing sun?"
"I suppose you must be rewarded," said Carmela, with a smile; so Pat and Bubbles, nothing loth, went into the quaint inn, which bears the sign of the Anglers, and had two tankards of foaming beer.
"Xerxes wanted a new pleasure," said Bubbles, when he had finished. "I'd have given him a thirsty day on the river with a pot of beer handy."
Pat laughed at this, and they went out to join the ladies, who were seated under one of the big trees, talking to two men.
"Hullo!" said Bubbles; "where did these Johnnies spring from?" But Pat did not hear him, as he was running towards the taller of the two, and was soon shaking him heartily by the hand.
"My dear Ronald," he said, eagerly; "how are ye? I'm glad to have a look at ye again, and Foster, too. Oh, we are a happy family."
But neither Carmela nor Ronald looked very happy.
Pat introduced Bubbles, who speedily made himself at home, and both Foster and Ronald declining Mr. Ryan's hospitable invitation to drink, they all went over the bridge again to see the races.
A bright day, gaily dressed crowd, the broad, blue river crowded with crafts, and the green country and picturesque red-roofed houses on either side--nothing could be more delightful. Pat, Bubbles, and Foster, all ardent boating-men, shouted vociferously as the boats went shooting up the stream, their oars flashing in the sunlight.
And the cheers that rang through the air when the winning crew won by a boat's length were as hearty for the losers as for the victors.
Ronald, however, looked grave and haggard as he stood by Carmela's side watching the races. He kept glancing at her face, and saw that she, too, was pale and thin, while everyone else was bright and gay, enjoying the animated scene, only those two unhappy lovers were brooding over their sorrows.
"She could not have committed such a crime," thought Ronald, his eyes fixed absently on the bright waters.
"He can never believe that I am marrying my cousin willingly," she thought, with a sigh; "he must know that it's to save my sister."
"I had your letter," said Ronald, in a low whisper, in her ear.
"And you understood my reasons?" she asked, though her lips grew white.
He bowed, thinking she alluded to her crime.
"Is it true?" he asked, huskily.
"Yes; God forgive me, it is," she replied, thinking he was referring to her sister's sin.
Ronald gave a shudder, and turned away as white as a sheet.
"From her own lips," he muttered; "it is impossible; I'll ask her again."
Ah me, how often cross purposes mar our lives!
After that the party went down to the boats to luncheon, and Sir Mark, delighted to see the young men, asked them to dinner.
"We dine at seven," he said, hospitably, "where are you stopping?"
"The Crown Hotel," replied Foster.
"Then you'll come and dine with me to-night?" said Sir Mark.
"Yes," answered Ronald, eagerly, for he thought he then could speak freely to Carmela, "we shall be delighted."
Foster saw what his friend wanted, so gladly accepted the invitation, the more so, as he felt a decided inclination to improve his acquaintance with Miss Trevor, whose bright eyes had made an impression on his heart.
Ronald had no more speech with Carmela that day, and kept aloof from her, a fact she attributed to his knowledge of her engagement with Vassalla. The rest of the afternoon passed rapidly, and though there was to be a procession of illuminated boats that night, the Bellfield party said they would go home, and departed up the river in the gathering shadows, Sir Mark's cheery voice being the last heard. "Seven o'clock, my boys!" he sang out, "not a minute later."
Ronald and Foster went up to the Crown Hotel, which is at the top of the principal street in Marlow, from which point two streets branch off to right and left, one leading to Little Marlow, the other to the village of Medmenham. A quaint, battered, old obelisk of stone, surrounded by an iron railing, stands in what is called the Market Place, and serves as a sign-post. The hotel itself, with its archway in the middle, which divides it into two parts, was mostly occupied with boating men, in their picturesque flannels, and as the young fellows went upstairs to dress, they saw the bar crowded with thirsty souls.
Ronald was ready first, and putting a light coat over his evening dress, went down to order a dog-cart to take them to Hurley, and then amused himself by observing the different people with which the place was thronged. Getting tired of this, he strolled through the dining-room to the quaint garden at the back, with the red brick walls, all softened by time and covered with peach trees.
"It's like the song," said Ronald, looking at all the harmonious tints, softened under the fading twilight of the sky, and he commenced to hum Hope Temple's song, "The Old Garden," when he heard Foster calling him, and found that gentleman waiting for him in the dog-cart.
"Jump up, my boy," said Mr. Foster; "we've no time to lose, it's past six now."
"All right," replied Ronald, pulling out his pipe; "wait till I light up." And, having done so, he sprang up to the side of his companion, and they were soon spinning swiftly down the High Street of Marlow.
"I know the way," said Foster; "so I'll drive."
Ronald nodded, by way of response as they went over the bridge, and they saw the river, dim and fantastic-looking below, while the lights were twinkling in the windows of houses, and the air was full of floating shadows. In front arose the great mass of Quarry Woods, with here and there a tall tree, standing out sharply against the clear glow of the sky. An owl hooted in the distance, and then there came the deep sound of a dog's bark, as the two young men drove swiftly along.
"Did you speak to Miss Cotoner to-day?" asked Foster, after a pause.
"I did not--exactly," said Ronald, hesitatingly, taking the cigar out of his mouth; "but she asked me if I knew the reason she was marrying her cousin. I said yes, and asked was it true?"
"And her answer?"
"Was, 'God help me, it is true!'"
"Humph!" said Foster, thoughtfully, "she might not have been referring to your thought that she killed Verschoyle, but to her own, that she marries him to shield her sister."
"Then you think she is innocent?" cried Ronald, eagerly.
"I don't know," replied Foster, "but I would certainly give her the benefit of the doubt rather than condemn her unheard."
"Condemn her!" echoed Ronald, bitterly, "God knows I'd give my life to prove her innocent."
"It won't be required of you, dear boy," retorted Foster, coolly, "the whole affair seems to be a deuced muddle, and it's my opinion that Vassalla is at the bottom of it; however, we'll see what success you meet with to-night."
Ronald did not answer, but, gripping his cigar hard with his lips, puffed away fiercely. They drove through the village of Bisham, up the long hill and down through the Temple Park, each absorbed in his own thoughts until they found themselves in front of Bellfield where a groom was waiting at the gate to take charge of the horse.
The two young men alighted and entered the house, where they were welcomed by Sir Mark, who, after they had removed their cloaks, led the way to the smoking-room, where Chester, Bubbles, Pat, and a young Oxonian, by name, Hammond, were assembled.
The ladies were not yet in the drawing-room, so the hospitable baronet proposed a glass of sherry and bitters, which was accepted by all the young men, and then they began to talk about the day's regatta until the servant announced the arrival of the Bishop of Patagonia, his wife, and Mrs. Pellypop.
The most stately thing in the world is, undoubtedly, a swan, the next a Bishop; and when the worthy churchman walked in, tall and dignified, no one would have thought how he quailed before his mother-in-law. But such is the superior force of women that they can subdue even the haughtiest natures to their yoke--if they go the right way about it.
My Lord Bishop was very affable and very condescending, and when they went to join the ladies in the drawing-room, Pat pronounced him a good sort, and he, whose experience was extensive, knew a good sort when he saw one.
Mrs. Pellypop, tall and majestic, in black velvet and lace; Mrs. Bishop, timid and nervous, hid herself under the matrimonial wing, and all the ladies looked even more charming in evening dress than during the day. At the sound of the gong, Sir Mark gave his arm to Mrs. Pellypop; he ought to have done so to the Bishop's lady, but then, Mrs. Pellypop always insisted on going first. The Bishop escorted Miss Trevor as the hostess, and Ronald found himself walking by Carmela.
They spoke very little to one another, Carmela talking principally to Bubbles, who sat beside her, and Ronald listening to the talk of a young lady next to him, who was a Girton girl, and thought she knew everything, whereas she knew nothing,--not even what a bore she was. Ronald thought the dinner was interminable; but it came to an end, as all things must, and the ladies followed Bell out of the room. The gentlemen, left to themselves, waxed merry over their wine; but were restrained from transgression by the presence of the Bishop, which that astute prelate quickly perceived, and left the room, followed by Sir Mark. Truth to tell, both gentlemen were anxious to escape in order to discuss a high church question then vexing the land.
"Mr. Ryan," said Sir Mark, as he left the room, "you can look after my guests."
"Faith, I will," cried Pat, taking the host's chair, "now then, boys, fill up, and no heel taps. Ronald, my boy, you're like a death's head; pass the claret, and don't be bringing your Egyptian mummies to the feast."
Under the influence of Pat, everyone woke up, and the wine was circulated, and also several stories, the morality of which was doubtful. After they had had enough wine, all the gentlemen adjourned to the drawing-room, where they found the Girton girl at the piano, wailing out the last new sentimental ballad, called "Columbine," which was very milk-and-watery, but useful in keeping the conversation going.
Then Mrs. Bishop tickled the piano in a mild, clerical way, playing "The Maiden's Prayer," as taught to her by Mrs. Pellypop, who learned it in her youth, somewhere about the reign of George III. Carmela was asked to sing, but refused, whereupon Pat sat down and sang, "I love a lubly gal," the melody of which brought all sorts of memories to Ronald's heart, as he remembered the days on board the "Neptune." He looked at Carmela, but saw she had arisen from her seat, and had gone out into the moonlight. Ronald sprang to his feet, and, snatching up a light cloak, ran out to place it on her shoulders.
"You will catch cold, Miss Cotoner," he said politely placing it round her.
Carmela accepted his attention passively, and they walked in silence round the house, until they came to the lawn. A ruddy glare of light blazed across it, which proceeded through the open door of the smoking-room, and it looked so warm and comfortable that they both moved simultaneously towards it, and stepped in.
"It will be warmer here," said Ronald, ceremoniously removing the cloak from his companion's shoulders, while she knelt in front of the fire, and spread out her hands to the blaze. The Australian leaned against the mantelpiece, tall and stately, and looked sadly at the girl at his feet.
"Yes," replied Carmela, slowly; "it will be--why do you speak to me so coldly?" she asked, suddenly.
"How would you have me speak?" he said, bitterly; "you cannot expect me to say much to another man's promised wife."
This was brutal--she arose to her feet.
"I did not expect that from you," she said. "You are unjust; I am forced into this."
"You are not," he began but she stopped him.
"I think we will go to the drawing-room, Mr. Monteith," she interrupted; "will you give me your arm? this is a pleasant room," with an effort at gaiety.
"Yes, very," he replied. They were both acting a part.
"Look at all these guns and daggers," said Carmela, stopping before them, "and there's a stiletto; get it down, will you, Mr. Monteith?"
Ronald took down the weapon, overcome with vague emotions. A stiletto, the very weapon she had used to-- But, no--it could not be true.
"It's very pretty," said Carmela, taking it to the lamp to examine it. "I had one once with an ivory handle--the head of Bacchus surrounded with bunches of grapes."
Ronald gave a cry. She was describing the very stiletto by which Verschoyle had been killed. Great heavens! could it be that she was guilty after all?
"Head of Bacchus--grapes! was--was that yours?" he stammered.
"Yes," she replied, laying down the weapon on the table, and looking at him in a puzzled manner.
"When did you see it last?
"Oh, not for many years; it has been lost for a long time."
Was she trying to shelter herself under the cloak of a lie? Ronald was determined to know the worst. He sprang forward and caught her wrist, she recoiled with a cry of alarm.
"Now, tell me the truth." panted Ronald, his eyes blazing fiercely; "tell me the truth, I will not betray you."
"What do you mean?"
"Did you kill him?"
"Kill him--whom?"
"Leopold Verschoyle."
"Are you mad?"
She flung away his hand, and drawing herself up to her full height, looked like an angry goddess at the man who thus insulted her. But Ronald was too excited to heed her, and his words came pouring out in one torrent.
"Yes, I am mad--mad, to believe anything against you, who are as pure as an angel. I'm only a poor devil who loves you, and want you to tell me all you know about this murder, so that I can save you."
"Save me--murder!"
She reeled a little, and caught hold of the table for support.
"Look! look!" cried Ronald, pulling out his pocket-book with the fatal paper, which he had brought on purpose; "look here"--spreading it out--"your writing--your writing."
Carmela glanced at it, and a film came over her eyes.
"Yes, it's my writing--seven--seven years ago."
"Then the stiletto by which he was killed, you have described it. You were on board; you recognised him."
"I did not." She spoke the words firmly. "No, until you told me the other day who the murdered man was, I had no more idea than you had at Malta that Lionel Ventin was Leopold Verschoyle. I did write that note when I was mad with the treatment I had received. I was only a girl, and acted foolishly, as girls will. I did have such a stiletto, but I have not seen it for years. I gave it to my cousin Vassalla about five years ago."
"Vassalla!" Ronald looked up suddenly. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, he took a fancy to it, and I presented it to him. Did you believe me guilty?" suddenly.
"No, on my soul I did not."
"Can I believe you?"
"Yes,--appearances were against you, but I swore you were--innocent. I told the detective so."
"Detective! Is a detective employed?"
"Yes."
"By you?--don't deny it. I see it in your face. Oh, God!" wringing her hands; "What am I to do? You will ruin my sister!"
Ronald suddenly grew calm.
"Carmela, you know I love you?"
"Don't speak of love at such a time."
"I must; I believe I can save your sister."
"You can?"
"Yes, I think so."
She clasped her hands with a gesture of entreaty.
"Oh, if you only could," she cried passionately, "I would not then be forced to marry Vassalla!"
"That is one of my reasons for trying to save her," he said. "I do not want you to sacrifice yourself in this way--but we must not talk, we must act"; and he struck the bell on the table.
"What would you do?" she asked.
"You must tell my friend Foster all you know about your sister's marriage; he is a lawyer, and will find a way out of this dilemma."
The servant appeared.
"Tell Mr. Foster to come here."
The servant disappeared.
"How can you save my sister," she asked, quickly; "is she innocent?"
"I don't know," he replied evasively; "but even if she is guilty, I'll save her."
Mr. Foster entered the room.
"Well," said that gentleman, "what's the matter?"
"Miss Cotoner would like to tell you a story," said Ronald quietly.
Carmela sat down, and so did Foster, who was now all attention, while Ronald leaned against the mantelpiece, and listened eagerly.
"This," thought Foster, as he settled himself, "is the beginning of the end."
Someone in the drawing-room was playing a valse, "Love's Sorrow," and in after years Ronald could never hear the melody without recalling the scene in the smoking-room at Bellfield. The eminently masculine characteristics of the room, the steady glow of the lamp, the quiet, cold moonlight outside, and those two figures seated before him. His friend Foster, with his keen eyes fixed on Carmela,--the woman he loved, seated in the low chair looking like a statue, with her white dress and rigid face, and the mockery of that brilliant valse music sounding fitfully at intervals, while this bitter scene was taking place.
"I will tell you all I know about Leopold Verschoyle," said Carmela, in low, steady tones, clasping her hands before her; "though I do not know I can throw any light upon the subject of his murder, but you can hear and judge for yourselves.
"When I first met Leopold he was a fascinating man of the world, and I but a simple girl of nineteen. My sister was four years older, and we both fell in love with him. He paid his addresses to both of us, and I think it was then my sister first began to hate me, though heaven knows she had no cause to do so, for he married her, and left me to make the best of my--as I thought then--broken heart. I have recovered, however, and now that the scales have fallen from my eyes, I see that Leopold Verschoyle was not worthy of being loved, and as long as he gratified his own selfish passions, cared nothing for the lives he wrecked.
"When he married my sister, in the first burst of passion, I wrote that paper"--pointing to the table--"but it was merely an outcome of girlish anger. I wrote it blindly, and did not mean what I said; indeed, I had forgotten all about it till Mr. Monteith showed it to me just now. Why Leopold Verschoyle kept it I don't know, unless to laugh at my folly and petulance. Well, I went to England after he deceived me, and stayed with Sir Mark Trevor; but I must tell you that my sister had another lover, Matteo Vassalla."
"But I thought he loved you!" broke in Ronald, impetuously.
"Now," she replied quietly, "but seven years ago it was my sister, and he went nearly out of his mind when he found her married. He used to rave to me that he would kill Verschoyle, but, of course, this was merely a fit of madness, the same as came over me when I wrote that letter. He also left Malta, and travelled in the East, and before he went I gave him the stiletto for a keepsake. We did not see one another for many years, as I lived quietly in England.
"As for the rest, you know all about my sister's unhappy life; how her husband separated from her and went with Elsie Macgregor; then she found out his infidelity and obtained the divorce. He went to Australia with Elsie Macgregor, whom, I heard, he had made his wife, and now----"
"She is dead!" said Foster, slowly.
"Unlucky woman!" replied Carmela, calmly; "but then everyone who had to do with Leopold Verschoyle was unlucky. When my sister obtained her divorce, she asked me to come and live with her in Valletta, and as I was alone in the world I agreed to do so. But we did not get on well together; she hated me, and always said that Leopold Verschoyle loved me best."
"Did she threaten him in any way?" asked Foster, eagerly.
"Not in any special way; she raved and stormed, but then she was always doing that; her molehills were mountains. I bore with her as long as I could, till Vassalla came home and wanted to marry me. My sister, however, fell in love with him, and longed for that which she had formerly rejected. I did not like my cousin, and told him so, but he would not be discouraged, and of course this only made matters worse.
"When the 'Neptune' arrived, I had already taken my passage, and was much surprised when Vassalla told me he was leaving Malta also; it was too late to go in another boat, or I would certainly have done so. My sister had a quarrel with me on that day when you," to Monteith, "saw us on the Barraca, and I left her, and walked home to our lodgings. I never saw her again till we met on board before the boat left."
"Then she was on board?" asked Ronald, quickly.
"Yes, it is no use me denying it, she was on board, and appeared to be very excited; she said she had seen Leopold in Valletta that day, but did not tell me he was on board the boat; then she, together with Vassalla, became separated from me in the crowd, and I never saw her again. After the boat sailed, I asked Vassalla why she had not said good-bye, and he informed me that the crowd was so great she could not find me, and went on shore as the last bell rang."
"Was Vassalla excited when he spoke to you?" asked the barrister, thoughtfully.
"No; as cool and quiet as he generally is."
"When the murder was discovered, did he say anything--make any remark?"
"No; except to mention that a passenger, called Mr. Ventin, had been killed."
"Did he see the body?" said Foster, turning to Ronald.
"I don't think so," replied Ronald doubtfully; "very few saw the body; but, of course, he must have known that Verschoyle was on board."
"How so?"
"Because Verschoyle was leaning over the side of the ship when the new passengers were coming up, and he must have recognised him, especially when Mrs. Verschoyle told him she had seen her former husband; he would then be on the look-out for him."
"Humph!--yes--no doubt," replied Foster, thoughtfully. "Can you tell us anything else, Miss Cotoner?"
"Nothing," she answered, rising to her feet, "except that Vassalla told me my sister had committed the crime, and instructed me to deny seeing her on board, which I did--I wrote to you," turning to to Monteith.
"Yes, I understood your letter," he said, gently; and Carmela flashed a grateful look at him.
"Vassalla said he was the only one who could bring the crime home to my sister," she went on, "and made me promise to marry him as the price of his silence."
"But you will not do so?" cried Monteith.
"What can I do?" she said, helplessly. "I cannot see my sister accused of such a crime, when I know it is in my power to prevent it."
"He won't accuse her," broke in Foster, bluntly.
"Then you think she is innocent?" said Carmela, joyfully.
"I don't know that," answered Foster; "the whole affair seems to lie between your sister and Vassalla. He knows more about this affair than we think. Your sister is in England--is she not?"
"Yes."
"You have not seen her?"
"No; I refused, until she cleared herself of this charge."
"Do you know why she came here?"
"No."
"Because the detective we sent out told her that the Marchese wanted to marry you, and she came to stop the marriage."
"Bah!" said Carmela, scornfully, "she knows I don't care for Vassalla."
"True enough," answered Foster, quietly; "but she knows Vassalla cares for you. What will be the consequence? She will try and make Vassalla break off the marriage. If he refuse----"
"Well?" they both cried, in a breath.
"My dear young people," said Foster, in rather an annoyed tone, "don't you see what must happen? Mrs. Verschoyle will lose her head, and they will quarrel, and when thieves fall out, honest men get their due."
"But I don't see----" began Ronald.
"Of course, you don't," said Gerald, with a dry laugh; "but if that interview has taken place, I'll bet you what you like one of us three will hear from Mrs. Verschoyle, for if her temper is what you say, she'll move heaven and earth to stop the marriage."
"I hope so," said Carmela, sadly.
"Of course, she will," replied Foster, cheerfully; "she will throw away honour, fortune, life itself, to obtain her ends, if she's so madly in love. When a man starts for the Devil, he generally arrives, but when a woman begins she runs past the Devil--and goes God knows where. Now, let us return to the drawing-room."
So, after this serious interview, they all went back to the drawing-room, where they were questioned by everyone about their past.
"We've been in the smoking-room," said Carmela, with a smile, her heart now feeling lighter than it had been for many a day.
"Oh!" said Pat, in mock horror; "do Maltese ladies smoke?"
"You ought to know, Pat," retorted Ronald; "you saw enough of the sex in Valletta."
"It's my kindly heart," retorted Pat, who was never at a loss for an answer. "Sure, I didn't like to see the poor things castin' such longing glances, without responding to 'em."
Everyone but Mrs. Pellypop laughed at this, and she snorted reprovingly.
"With such views, Mr. Ryan," said that good lady, "I hope you will never marry."
"Why not?" asked Ryan, glancing at Kate; "my natural inclination for matrimony is strong."
"I hope your wife will be," said Ronald, with a laugh; "or she'll never be able to keep you in order."
Foster had established himself by Bell, who did not appear to discourage the advances of the young barrister, though her attention was somewhat distracted by Bubbles, who sat next to her. Seeing this, Pat, who had a fellow-feeling for lovers, drew the young man away.
"Bubbles," he said, "was it you that sat for that Pear's soap picture?"
"Of course," retorted Bubbles; "I was the original infant."
And indeed he did not look unlike the picture, with his beardless face and curly hair.
"Faith," said Mr. Ryan, "it's a mighty original infant you are, anyhow."
"Well, we can't all be Irish," said Bubbles, satirically.
"And a great pity it is ye can't," retorted Pat, calmly; "the finest nation under the sun. Did ye ever hear anything that touched your heart like Irish music?"
"Sing us some, and then we'll judge," said Sir Mark, suddenly interposing.
So Pat, nothing loth, went to the piano, and sang Moore's exquisite song, "She is far from the Land," in such a pathetic manner that he cast quite a gloom over the company, but restored the joyous tone by dashing into "Garryowen."
At the conclusion of Pat's ditties, Ronald and Foster arose to go, in spite of a chorus that it was early. But Mrs. Pellypop, on behalf of the clerical party, said it was late.
"Begad, the night's young, and the liquor's plentiful," said Pat, impudently.
"I never touch spirits," said Mrs. Pellypop, majestically.
"More's the pity," retorted Pat; "it 'ud keep the night air out, anyhow."
Mrs. Pellypop deigned no response to this flippancy, but sailed out of the room, and shortly afterwards departed with the Bishop, and her daughter.
Ronald and Foster had a glass of whisky and soda each while their dog-cart was being brought round, and then went off, Ronald promising to call next day.
"And you won't forget what I told you," said Carmela, as he went.
"No," replied Ronald, pressing her hand; "and mind you let me know when Vassalla comes down."
They drove off in the moonlight, in silence for a time, and then Foster said--
"What a charming girl is Miss Trevor."
"Oh, ho!" from Monteith: "so you've lost your heart?"
"And why not?" retorted Foster; "you are not the only person privileged to lose your heart."
"Well, I hope your course of true love will run smoother than mine," sighed Ronald.
"My dear old boy," said Foster, "yours will be all right. I've got a presentiment that we shall hear from Mrs. Verschoyle."
"Do you think she is guilty?" asked Ronald.
"I don't know, but whether or no, she'll not let this marriage take place."
"But she can't stop it."
"Can't she? she knows more, perhaps, than we think. How is it Vassalla's dagger was found in the dead man's breast?"
"But you don't think"--began Ronald, when Foster interrupted him.
"I think nothing," he retorted, whipping up the horse, "except that we'll hear from Mrs. Verschoyle."
Events proved him a true prophet, for on arrival at the Crown Hotel there was a letter waiting for Ronald, which he opened and read, then passed it to Foster.
"Didn't I tell you?" said the lawyer, when he read it.
"Yes--I believe the end is nearer than we think."
The letter said that Mrs. Verschoyle would call on Mr. Monteith at the Crown Hotel, Great Marlow, the next day at three o'clock.
So, Foster's presentiment was true after all.
Next morning, when Ronald awoke, he was very much exercised in his mind as to the reason of Mrs. Verschoyle's visit, and wondered what she wanted to see him about.
"I wonder if she wants me to marry Carmela?" he thought; "of course, if she's in love with Vassalla, she'll be only too anxious to get Carmela disposed of. She did not commit the murder, or she wouldn't be such a fool as to come to England."
When he finished dressing, Mr. Monteith went downstairs into the dining-room, a pleasant apartment that opened, by French windows, on to the quaint old garden with the red-brick walls. He lighted a cigarette and walked slowly up and down waiting for Foster to come to breakfast, and was speedily joined by that gentleman.
"Aren't you hungry, old chap?" asked Gerald, as he came into the garden.
"Rather," retorted Ronald; "I was wondering when you were going to turn up."
"Hungry!" said Foster, raising his eyes, "and he says he's in love--oh, Cupid! what a worshipper you've got!"
Ronald laughed, and put his hand on Foster's shoulder.
"My dear lad," he said, quietly, "love is the least of my troubles. I want to see Carmela free from all this annoyance and then----"
"And then," repeated Foster, as they walked towards the breakfast-room.
"You'll see as true a lover as ever sighed his soul out to a midnight pillow," laughed Ronald; "now come and have some breakfast, I'm starving."
"What time do you think our friend will arrive?" asked Foster, as they sat down to the table.
"Oh, about three, I should imagine," said Ronald, attacking a fried sole, with a good appetite. "I wonder what the deuce she wants to see me about?"
"Humph! that's a puzzler," said the barrister, lightly; "but I don't think I'm far wrong when I say it will be all about Vassalla."
Ronald laughed, and went on with his breakfast. He was singularly light-hearted, this young man, because an idea had entered his mind that all would yet be well. If it were not for hope and sanguine expectations, where would our pleasure in the future be?
They finished their breakfast, and then went out for a walk; saw the house where Shelley lived, on which is a tablet, erected by Sir William Clayton, and interviewed the landlady of the hotel into which a portion of the place is turned.
"Don't remember 'im," said the landlady, when they asked about the poet; "I think he was afore my time."
"And this is fame!" ejaculated Foster, when they left. "Shelley isn't even remembered by name;" and he began to spout Horace, when Ronald stopped him.
"Don't be classical, old chap; but look at these old parties."
The old parties consisted of two old women, who informed the gentlemen that they were each eighty years old, and had never been out of the town. So Ronald gave them each a shilling, and walked away with his friend.
"I daresay they are much happier than we are," he said, sighing.
"Better to be a butterfly, and enjoy life for a day, than a tortoise, and sleep out a hundred years," said Foster, sapiently; "depend upon it, life is made up of quality, not quantity."
They strolled down to Marlow Church, and then to that tumble-down heap of cottages immortalized by Fred. Walker, the picturesque aspect of which struck Ronald very strongly.
"I don't know much about pictures," said the Australian, frankly, "and I haven't the eye of an artist, but I do admire these mellow-tinted roofs, so different from the galvanized tin of the colonies."
Then they went across the bridge, saw the river full of boats with their light-hearted occupants, had a drink at the Anglers Hotel, and looked out over the foaming waters of the Weir, murmuring like the humming of bees, and ultimately went back to the Crown Hotel, up the long street, with the old little shops on either side.
After they had some luncheon, consisting of bread and cheese and beer, they sat in the dining-room in a kind of somnolent state, smoking steadily, until a waiter came, and said that a lady had called to see them.
"Why, what's the time?" asked Ronald, sleepily, tumbling to his feet.
"Three o'clock, sir," returned the waiter.
"The Devil!" ejaculated Ronald. "I say, old boy, here's Mrs. Verschoyle."
"Right you are," answered Foster, awake and alert at once; "I'm coming--where is the lady?"
"In the sitting-room upstairs, sir," replied the waiter.
They went upstairs to the sitting-room, and found a lady, closely veiled, waiting for them. She arose when they entered, and looked from one to the other in a doubtful way.
"Mr. Monteith?" she asked.
"I have the honour to bear that name," replied Ronald, stepping forward. "You are Mrs. Verschoyle?"
The lady bowed and threw back her veil, disclosing a countenance so like Carmela's, that Ronald was startled for a moment.
"You will wonder what I've come about," said Mrs. Verschoyle, resuming her seat; "so I may as well tell you at once--it is to stop my sister's marriage with the Marchese Vassalla."
Gerald glanced at Ronald, and as their eyes met the same thought was in their minds.
"Jealousy!"
"But why do you come to us?" said Ronald, politely; "we cannot stop the marriage."
How he fervently wished he could!
"Yes, you can," she replied, quietly; "you are looking for the murderer of my husband."
Both the young men stared; what was she going to say?
"My sister and I are not very good friends," said Mrs. Verschoyle; "but I don't want to see her married to a man guilty of a crime."
"Guilty of a crime!" cried Ronald, springing to his feet; "you don't mean to say that Vassalla----"
"Is the murderer of Leopold Verschoyle," she said. "Yes, I swear it."
Ronald sat down again, and looked helplessly at Foster, who came to his aid.
"This is a very serious charge you make, madam," said Foster, gravely; "are you sure?"
She sprang to her feet in a fury.
"Sure!" she hissed, viciously; "of course I am sure; you have been looking for the murderer of my husband, and I tell you the man, then you doubt my word--bah!"
Foster was quite unmoved by her violence.
"I always presume a man's innocent till he is proved guilty," he said, quietly; "so that must be my excuse; but are you sure Vassalla committed this crime?"
"I will tell you all about it," said Mrs. Verschoyle, sitting down again; "when I married Mr. Verschoyle, my cousin Matteo was in love with me."
"So your sister said," interposed Ronald, gravely.
"He swore he would kill Leopold Verschoyle if he got the chance, and he has kept his word. I was on board and saw him."
"Saw him commit the crime!"
"Not so much as that," she replied; "but I will explain. I met my husband in Valletta, and went on board to see him."
"You denied doing so in your letter to Vassalla," said Foster.
"Ah! he showed you that--it was to save him I wrote it. I am the only witness who could prove him guilty, and I said I was not on board, so in the case of his being found out, I would not have to appear against him."
"How was the crime committed?" asked Ronald.
"I saw my husband on board, but did not speak to him. I heard him mention the number of his cabin to you, and then leave. Matteo Vassalla, who was beside me, followed him."
"And you?"
"I remained where I was, but I did not think Matteo was going to commit a crime, or I would have gone with him."
"When did you see Vassalla again?"
"I went to my husband's cabin, and met Vassalla coming out. He tried to prevent me from going in, but I entered, and saw my husband dead, with Matteo's stiletto in his breast. Matteo implored me to be silent, and I obeyed. I went on shore at once, and wrote the letter you saw. I would have kept silent still, only I heard that he was going to marry my sister, and determined to save her."
"You say Vassalla's stiletto was in poor Verschoyle's breast," said Foster quietly, fixing his keen eyes on her face. "Will you kindly describe the weapon?"
"An ordinary stiletto," she replied, "with a curiously carved ivory handle, representing the head of Bacchus surrounded with wreaths of grapes and vine leaves."
"Yes, that is the description of the weapon," said Foster; "but how do you know it was Vassalla's?"
"Because my sister told me she had given it to him."
Ronald started, and would have spoken, as he remembered Carmela had said the same thing; but Foster stopped him.
"You say," observed the barrister, smoothly, "that Miss Cotoner gave your cousin the stiletto; may I ask when?"
"Oh, six or seven years ago."
"And it has been in Vassalla's possession ever since?"
"Yes," defiantly; "who else could have it?"
Foster made no answer, so Ronald took up the conversation.
"What motive had Vassalla for committing this crime?" he asked, in a puzzled tone; "he would not have nourished revenge all these years."
"Ah, you don't know a Maltese gentleman," said Mrs. Verschoyle; "he never forgets an insult. My husband insulted him seven years ago, and he swore he would kill him. It is like the Corsican Vendetta with us."
"Are you prepared to make this statement in a court of law?" asked Foster, eyeing her keenly.
"Yes! I will swear to it on the cross."
"Vassalla will have to be arrested."
"Of course," she retorted, defiantly. "I want him to be arrested."
"For the murder of your husband at Valletta?"
"Yes!"
"Good! We will go up to London to-night, and take out a warrant."
"The sooner the better!" she said, vindictively.
"Will you let me offer you some refreshment?" said Ronald, as he arose to leave the room.
"Yes; send me a glass of brandy and soda," she replied. "I feel worn out."
Ronald bowed, and then went out with Foster to see after their things. They sent up the drink to Mrs. Verschoyle, and then Ronald wrote a letter to Carmela, telling her he was going up to London on business, but did not mention what. Foster paid the bill, got their dressing-bags, and in a few minutes they were on their way to the station.
While Foster was getting the tickets, Mrs. Verschoyle being on the platform, Ronald took the opportunity to ask his friend a question.
"Do you think her story is true?" he asked.
"If it isn't, Vassalla can easily clear himself." was the ambiguous reply.