It was with a heavy heart that Claudia went to Hedgerton. She could by no means understand the behaviour of her father, who certainly talked, in a most contradictory manner. At one moment he denied that he had anything to do with the death of his old friend, yet the next hinted at mysterious risks undertaken to obtain money.
Naturally, the change of scene, with new people to talk to, and with new occupations, did her infinite good. To her the rectory was a haven of peace, and Edwin a strong-armed man, who could and would defend her. The welcome of Mr. and Mrs. Craver comforted her exceedingly, as they were charmed with their visitor, and thoroughly approved of her in every way, The Rector, who was a white-haired, gentle-faced old gentleman, fonder of literature than of humanity, admired her beauty greatly, while little Mrs. Craver pronounced her to be an uncommonly sensible girl. Within the week, Claudia was comfortably settled in her new surroundings, and was happier than she had been since her arrival in England. On the plea that Mrs. Craver could teach her housekeeping, she took her share of the work and became quite a busy bee. Her prospective mother-in-law found her quite an able assistant. Poor, weary Mrs. Craver had toiled and struggled and scrimped and screwed for so many years alone that it was quite a relief for her to see a younger person attend to the work. And Claudia enjoyed this domesticity, greatly.
Lemby displayed no desire to call at the Rectory and see the parents of the young man whom his daughter desired to marry, He remained in London, as a gentleman-at-large, and still continued to live in Tenby Mansions--that is, he camped there, for his hours were generally passed elsewhere, although he returned nightly to sleep in the flat. When he did write to Claudia, which was rarely, it was to congratulate her that she had free board and lodging at the Hedgerton Rectory, since money was so scarce. These letters made the girl work all the harder, as she was too proud to live on strangers, and wished on all and every occasion to make some return for bed and board and fire. Ardent as, Mrs. Craver was about work, she took it upon herself to restrain Claudia's zeal, and insisted that she should not do much.
"As a rule I have to drive people to work," said Mrs. Craver at afternoon tea, "but you, my dear, require to be checked. I never met anyone like you."
"So Edwin thinks," remarked the Rector, who had a book on his knee and a cup of tea in his hand. "He says that Claudia is a pearl and far above rubies in value. I quite agree with him."
"Oh, you must not think so highly, of me," said the girl with a blush. "I am really a very ordinary kind of person. I love work."
"Then you are not an ordinary person," said the Rev. George Craver. "It is very rarely one meets with people who love work. If Hedgerton was filled with such people my task would be easier than it is."
Mrs. Craver shook her brisk little head, and her sharp face looked sharper than ever. "The Hedgerton people are too self-complacent, George. You can talk and talk and talk, but no impression can be made."
"I think, that I am making an impression on Lady Wyke, Emma. She attends the services regularly, and has done so since she came here a month ago."
Mrs. Craver straightened her slim figure, which was clothed in the shabby black silk, and looked severe. "Lady Wyke comes, to show off her frocks. She is sinfully extravagant in dress."
"Oh, my dear Emma, you must not assign such a reason for her attendance at church. She really is most attentive to the services, and also she desires to help in the parish work. She told me so."
"She would tell you anything, George, and you would believe her. Who is she?"
"Sir Hector's widow," said Claudia, looking surprised, at this unnecessary remark. "Everyone knows that."
"Oh, yes," agreed Mrs. Craver, significantly. "She is the widow of that poor man, sure enough. But who is she? Where does she come from?"
"She comes from London, Emma," said the Rector, humorously, "and she lives in Hedgerton."
"Why does she live here, George?"
"Well, she must live somewhere."
"But not in the very house in which her husband was murdered, To my mind, it is a ghoulish idea for her to rent Maranatha, seeing, what took place there."
"It is odd," admitted Claudia, musingly. "I wonder why?"
Mr. Craver reached forward to take another slice of bread. "It may be that she wishes to learn who murdered Sir Hector, and, therefore, thinks that she will be more successful if she remains in the house where the crime was committed."
Claudia winced, and her thoughts flew to her father and his mysterious remarks; to Lady Wyke and her ominous hints. "Has she discovered anything yet?"
"No!" observed Mrs. Craver, sharply. "At least, she has said nothing to us, although she has been here a month. And that reminds me, George, that she has not called again since Claudia arrived."
"Well, Emma, she called on you and you called on her. The demands of courtesy have been satisfied. We are dull people, you know, and she is a smart lady. It is not to be supposed that she will find much enjoyment in our society."
"Indeed, George, she would find our society very instructive. She may be smart, as you say, but she certainly is not a lady."
Claudia nodded. "I did not think so myself when I saw her in Loudon."
"Ah, yes"--Mrs. Craver turned briskly--"of course, you saw her. Considering how badly Sir Hector behaved to you, my dear, I wonder she had the impudence to call. What courage she must have."
"Oh, I don't know, Mrs. Craver," Claudia shrugged, carelessly. "Naturally Lady Wyke was anxious to see me, seeing that I was to marry her husband. He was not to blame, poor man, as he quite believed that she was dead."
"She had no business to come alive again," retorted Mrs. Craver. "Yet I am glad, for Edwin's sake, that things have turned out as they have done."
"My dear Emma, you couldn't expect Lady Wyke to allow her husband to commit bigamy. Why shouldn't she come alive again, as you put it?"
"She should have remained always with her husband, as a true and faithful wife should," replied Mrs. Craver, drawing up her spare figure.
"I don't think that the separation was Sir Hector's fault," said Claudia, after a pause. "He was a very polite and amiable old man. I certainly did not wish to marry him, as I always loved Edwin. But my father made me accept."
"Strange, my dear, seeing how strong-minded you are."
"You have not met my father," rejoined the girl, briefly.
"I don't think I want to. Of course, when you marry Edwin, he must come to the wedding, I suppose, and give you away. But he is much too dashing a gentleman for quiet people such as we are."
"Why, Emma," said the Rector, surprised, "I did not know you had seen him."
"I saw him outside the doors of the Entertainment Hall when the inquest was taking place. I happened to be passing on that day. Your father, my dear"--she addressed Claudia--"is a handsome man; but I should think he has a temper."
"He has," said the man's daughter, significantly. "Perhaps, if you knew my father you would not want me to marry Edwin."
"What nonsense. I love you for your own sweet sake. Your father will go back to Australia, I hope, and then we need not be bothered with him."
"Emma! Emma!"
"Well, I can't help it, George. After all, in trying to make Claudia marry that old man who died, Mr. Lemby did not behave very well."
"All the same, he is Claudia's father," said the Rector, reprovingly.
The girl flushed, and then turned rather pale, as she felt a trifle embarrassed during this discussion. If Mrs. Craver talked of her father in this way when he was absent, what would she say when he was present. The precise, refined little lady would never get on with the pirate, who was all that she was not.
Mrs. Craver, less observant than the Rector, accepted the reproof, although she did not notice Claudia's change of colour, and went on to make other remarks dealing with another subject.
"I only hope that Lady Wyke's example will not ruin the parish," she observed. "She is an extravagant woman, and you wouldn't know Maranatha now that she is living there. I'm sure when I called and saw the quantity of new furniture she has, and the silk curtains, and the fine pictures to say nothing of the many flowers and the expensive china, I thought how rich she must be."
"She has five thousand a year," said Claudia. "That was the amount of money left to her by her husband."
"Which would have been yours, my dear, had you married him. However, it is just as well since you love Edwin."
"What is just as well, Emma?" asked Mr. Craver, who found his wife's remarks a trifle confusing on occasions.
"That Lady Wyke should have come to life, and that Claudia should be poor. I am sure that Edwin will become a partner in that motor firm, and then he will be well able to support a wife. By the way, Lady Wyke's motor-car was manufactured by Edwin's firm. Before you came down, Claudia, she asked Edwin to show her how to drive."
"And did he?" asked Claudia, wincing when she thought of Lady Wyke's admiration for her lover.
"No. He said that he was too busy and had to get back to town. And now that I come to think of it George, Edwin really went back to London, as he had to fly. My heart sinks when I hear of these aviation accidents. A man with a mother should not fly."
"Nor should, an engaged man," chimed in the Rector, "and Edwin is engaged. Don't you think, Claudia, that you could persuade him to give up aviation?"
"I'll try." said the girl, with a faint sigh. "I don't like the idea myself, but Edwin is very determined when he likes."
"Just like me," said Mrs. Craver, complacently. "I am always firm."
"Obstinate," said Mr. Craver, with a laugh.
Before his wife could argue that obstinacy and firmness were entirely different, the parlourmaid entered with the information that Mrs. Mellin wished to speak to her mistress. Mrs. Craver was surprised, as this was not the day when washing arrived and the report of various doings in the parish was made. Something unusual must have caused Mrs. Mellin to come unexpectedly to the Rectory, so the eager little woman hurried out to learn what was the matter. Mr. Craver frankly laughed when alone with Claudia. His wife's energy, always amused him.
"Emma should have been a detective," he remarked to Claudia. "She is always on the look-out for information, and knows everything that is going on in the parish. Depend upon it, Mrs. Mellin, who is her assistant-detective, has come with startling news, and Emma will return to startle us with some kind of a storm in a tea-cup."
"Mrs. Craver is the dearest woman in the world," said Claudia, with a sympathetic laugh, "and I like her mannerisms. To me she is kindness itself."
"Who would not be kind to you, my dear."
Claudia was not emotional as a rule, but her eyes filled with tears at the paternal tone of the Rector's speech. She leant forward impetuously and took his hand. "You don't know how happy I am here," she cried, impulsively. "This place is like heaven to me. And yet perhaps it would be wiser for me to go away and forget Edwin."
Mr. Craver patted her hand. "Why should you?"
"Oh, my father and I are a kind of stormy petrel pair of birds. Wherever we go there is sure to be trouble. I should not like to bring trouble into this haven of peace."
"We'll take the risk, Claudia. We all love you, and now that you are here, here you will remain until Edwin makes you his wife. There is no reason why you should go away."
"I shall stay here willingly," she said, with a sigh of relief. "I am only too glad to stay here."
Just as she made this speech the door opened, and Mrs. Craver rushed into the room with flushed face and startled eyes. Evidently Mrs. Mellin had told her something of moment. "Oh, George"--she spoke while moving into the room--"do you remember Laura Bright? I wonder I did not recognise her."
"Laura Bright, Mrs. Mellin's sister, who ran away twenty and more years ago?"
"Yes, yes! The same. I wonder I did not recognise her. She is Lady Wyke. I mean Lady Wyke is Laura. And I never recognised her."
Little Mrs. Craver was greatly excited over the discovery that Lady Wyke was none other than flighty Laura Bright, the sister of the humble washerwoman. It was not surprising that the Rector's wife had not recognised her, as the brilliant woman of the world was very different from the pretty, discontented, and unformed girl who had gone away from Hedgerton some twenty and more years previous. Indeed, Mrs. Mellin herself confessed that she would never have recognised her sister, had not that sister called upon her to proclaim her identity. Evidently Lady Wyke had no false pride, for she calmly stated who she was, and talked over family affairs with Mrs. Mellin. Old James Bright, who had been the father of the two women, was dead, and so was the mother. The washerwoman's husband had passed away, leaving her with one son, and Lady Wyke was a widow, with no child at all. It was for this reason that she had called on Mrs. Mellin.
"You could have knocked me down with a feather, ma'am, when that grand lady come along, saying as she was my very own sister Laura. Not a bit of pride about her, ma'am, for she sat down and took tea, just as if she was no one in pertic'ler."
"It does her credit," said Mrs. Craver, approvingly. "I think the better of Lady Wyke for not being ashamed of her humble origin. She has greatly improved from the flighty girl she was."
"Clever, ma'am," interposed Mrs. Mellin, proudly, "never flighty."
"Pooh, pooh! She was a very feather, Mrs. Mellin. But we won't discuss her weaknesses. I suppose she called in order to help you?"
Mrs. Mellin rubbed her nose. "She did and she didn't, ma'am. So far as I'm concerned, she said she didn't mind giving me a pound or so when wanted. But she really called about Neddy."
"Oh, indeed. And what about Neddy?"
"Laura ses," Pursued Mrs. Mellin, wiping her mouth with a corner of her well-known tartan shawl, "as Neddy is the only one of our family left, and is as bewtiful as a angel and 'ave a voice like a bird. A skylark she called 'im, and wants to git 'im singing in London."
"Ridiculous!" cried the Rector's wife, vigorously. "Let her give him a good education and apprentice him to some trade."
"So I ses, ma'am, me bein' 'umble and Neddy my boy. But bless you, ma'am, Laura wouldn't 'ear of it, sayin' as 'is voice was wonnerful, and the gift of 'Eaven, which it 'ud be a shame not to 'ave 'eard. Had a long tork with 'her I did, ma'am, and Laura ses, as she was on the music-'all stage 'erself, and didn't see no-'arm in it, nohow. So she ses as she's goin' to send Neddy to London to appear as the Skylark at the Tit-Bits Music 'All."
"Ridiculous! Ridiculous!" said Mrs. Craver, again. "A choir-boy and a music-hall. The two things don't go together."
"They won't, ma'am." retorted Mrs. Mellin, rather defiantly. "Neddy 'ull leave the choir when he becomes the Tit-Bits Skylark. Laura's goin' to 'ave 'is voice trained with a pal of 'er's as sings 'isself, and with 'im Neddy can stay, Laura payin' 'is board and lodgin'. Week-ends he can come down 'ere for me to 'ave a look at 'im and look arter 'is washing, never trustin' them London laundresses as I don't no'ow. So there you are, ma'am. Fortune hev come to me and Neddy at larst."
"I don't approve of it, Mrs. Mellin, and the Rector won't approve of it either, you may be sure. I'll speak to him and to Lady Wyke myself."
Mrs. Craver did so, but gained small satisfaction, for Lady Wyke firmly held to her opinion and refused to listen to the little woman's entreaties. As to the Rector, he also ventured on a mild remonstrance, but Neddy's aunt quickly routed him. She declared that it was better for Neddy to earn his bread by means of his great gift than to remain in Hedgerton, loafing about and consorting with bad boys. In the end Lady Wyke got her own way, as such a hard and determined woman would, so Neddy arrayed in a new suit of clothes, was packed off to London forthwith. He was more than willing to go, as he looked forward to a life of excitement, while his mother was willing that he should try his luck, as she hoped that his voice would win sufficient money for him to support her in her old age. And as the two sisters were thus agreed, neither Mrs. Craver nor the Rector could do anything, although they highly disapproved of the step taken. But they fought desperately that Neddy should learn a trade, and the battle was prolonged for quite a month. At the end of that exciting time, the young scamp went to London, and the fight ended in the triumph of his mother and aunt. Mrs. Craver was much grieved over her defeat.
During the month things went on very smoothly. Edwin came and went, attended to his motor work, and between times essayed flying with more or less success.
Lady Wyke never came near the rectory during the four weeks, rather to Miss Lemby's surprise. Claudia quite expected that after the visit paid to the flat and the hint given that Lady Wyke would seek her out again and still pursue her object, which was to take possession of young Craver. But Sir Hector's widow remained ostentatiously away, and Claudia saw her only in church and occasionally on the esplanade. Short as was the time which had elapsed since her husband's death, the widow was already changing her mourning for dresses less aggressively dismal. From black her gowns turned into violet, and on some days she appeared in grey, always looking smart and fashionable, well-turned-out, and remarkably young.
With keen feminine instinct, Claudia guessed that Lady Wyke was on the warpath, and still cherished a desire to marry Edwin. Seeing that she had only met him once or twice, and that she knew he was engaged to Claudia, it seemed ridiculous that she should hope to win him. Yet her coming down to Hedgerton, her amelioration of mourning-frocks, and her frequent attendance at church to win over Edwin's parents, all suggested to Miss Lemby's clever and rather jealous nature that the widow had not got over her infatuation. Those superior residents of Hedgerton, who knew something of the outside world, invariably spoke of her as "The Merry Widow." Claudia frankly hated her.
This being the case, it was unpleasant that she should meet with the schemer unexpectedly and be forced to have a conversation.
It was now March and there crept into the keen air a breath of spring. The sky was intensely blue, the chestnut buds were glummy, and the wayside hedges were greening over with tiny leaves. As the village, with its ancient fish-like smells, was not inviting, the girl often walked along the verge of the cliffs beyond the Rectory, and watched the murmuring waves ebbing and flowing on the sandy beach below. On the day she met Lady Wyke the sunshine was unusually warm and brilliant, and the azure of the sky, the deep blue of the sea, the reddish stretch of cliffs, and the delicate, green budding of the trees made up an uncommonly pretty picture. Claudia walked along for quite a mile and then sat down to rest near a coastguard station. The winds brought colour to her cheeks, sunshine light to her eyes, and the girl looked extremely young and extremely pretty.
"A penny for your thoughts, Miss Lemby," said Lady Wyke, in her shrill, sharp, and unpleasant voice.
Claudia started violently, as the newcomer had stolen up so quietly behind that she was not aware, of her proximity until she spoke. "Good-day, Lady Wyke," she answered, quietly, "I fear my thoughts are not worth even the small sum you offer."
"Oh, I don't know so much about that." Lady Wyke, a brilliant figure in black touched here and there with orange ribbons, leant with both hands on the smart silver-headed cane which she carried. "Young girls dream of satin frocks and orange-wreaths, of handsome bridegrooms and the wedding march."
"You are not a good thought-reader," said Claudia, coldly.
"Ha! we all make mistakes. Then you were thinking of your father, and of----"
"Of things which it is not necessary for you to know," interrupted the girl, with provoking calmness. "My thoughts are my own."
"What an obvious remark." Lady Wyke put up her lorgnette and surveyed Claudia, inquisitively. "Very obvious for so clever a girl."
"How do you know that I am clever?"
"Well, I think a girl with a shady father, who does her best to ingratiate herself with prejudiced people because she wants to marry their son is clever."
"What right have you to say that my father is shady?" asked Claudia, still composed, and mistress of herself.
Lady Wyke laughed. "Oh, your father and I have had quite a correspondence," she said, airily. "He was a great friend of my late husband's, you know, and professes anxiety to help me discover who killed poor Hector. He writes suggesting theories, and I write back to say that he is talking rubbish. But I rather think," added the woman, shrewdly, "that there is more in your father's attentions to me than zeal for revenge on the man who murdered Hector."
"Indeed!" Claudia coloured as she knew very well what her father's intentions were. "But all this does not warrant your calling him shady."
"Well, no. All the same, I may have other reasons. Miss Lemby. I think you are a nice honest girl----"
"Pardon me, but isn't this conversation rather personal?"
"I mean it to be," replied Lady Wyke, serenely. "You see, it is just as well that you and I should understand one another."
"I see no reason why we should. We are strangers," retorted Claudia, very much annoyed by the brazen impudence of the speaker. "Oh, I don't think we are strangers, Miss Lemby, seeing that you were on the eve of marrying my husband."
"Well, I didn t marry him, and what is more, I never wished to marry him. It was my father's scheme to----"
"To get money," interposed Lady Wyke, softly. "Didn't I say that he was shady, Miss Lemby? You, in a way, admit as much yourself."
"I admit nothing"--Claudia rose abruptly to her feet--"and I really do not see, Lady Wyke, why you should force your company on me in this way."
"There are many things you don't see, but will be made to see, my dear," said the elder woman, insolently. "I saw you leave the Rectory and followed you to this place so that I might talk to you quietly."
"I see no reason why I should listen," shaffed Claudia, restlessly.
"Oh, I think you will when I say what I have come to say," answered Lady Wyke. "To tell, you the truth I quite expected you to call and see me at Maranatha."
"I never had the least idea of continuing our acquaintance," retorted the girl, pointedly. "Our last meeting in London did not make me long to meet you again, Lady Wyke. Your last words hinted----"
"I shall talk about my hints on another occasion," interrupted the other in sharp tones. "Meanwhile I have sought you out to make you an offer."
"Indeed?" Claudia was quite unmoved.
"Yes. You are poor."
"That is my own affair."
"And your father is poor," continued Lady 'Wyke, taking no notice of the interruption. "You both want money. Your father, as I can see very well, is paying attentions to me in the hope that I may look favourably upon his advances."
Claudia was persistently blind. "What advances?"
"Well, if you will have it, my dear, your father has more than hinted that he desires to marry me. He could not get Sir Hector's money through you, so he is now trying to get it through me."
"Is he? Well, Lady Wyke, with what my father says or does or thinks, I have nothing to do. If he wishes to marry you, and accept him, I have nothing to say. It is none of my business."
"But as your father's daughter----"
"Yes. I know all about that," flashed out the girl quickly, and with flushed cheeks; "but there is no more to be said."
"There is this. That I do not intend to marry your father."
"That is his and your affair. It has nothing to do with me. What have I to do with your intentions, Lady Wyke?"
"You may guess," rejoined the woman, in silky tones, "when I tell you that I wish to marry Mr. Craver."
Claudia flushed still deeper, and looked indignant. Then the humour of this insolence calmed her and made her laugh. And laugh she did, right in the face of Lady Wyke's artificial beauty. "I am not afraid," said Claudia, after looking her rival up and down with all the contempt of youth for age.
The woman clenched her hands, grew a deep red, and quivered from head to foot, as nothing could have been said, calculated to wound her more. However, having an object to gain she kept her temper. "I said before that you are poor, and so is your father. He can't get money by marrying me, as I wish to marry Mr. Craver. But your father can get money, and so can you, if you will stand on one side and refuse to become Mr. Craver's wife."
"Oh, indeed! And how much do you propose to offer me as a bribe?"
Lady Wyke, thinking from the soft tone that Claudia was willing to consider her proposal, became eager. "I shall give you a thousand a year," she said rapidly, and advancing a step. "Think what you can do with that! It is quite a fortune in Australia. You can return there with your father, and keep him in his old age. Think, Miss Lemby--a thousand a year!"
Claudia laughed again, and again Lady Wyke winced. "I don't think that there, is any need to say more. Good-day," and she moved away.
"Stop, stop!" screamed Lady Wyke. "I want my answer."
Claudia looked over her shoulder laughing persistently. "There is no answer."
"Very good." Lady Wyke quivered and turned pale under her rouge. "I have made you a fair offer, and you have refused even to consider it. Now look out for yourself and for your father."
Claudia laughed still louder, and continued to walk away. "Good-day, Lady Wyke!"
Needless to say Claudia did not report the conversation with Lady Wyke to the Rector or to his wife, as neither of them would have understood, so shameless a chase of age after youth. But the girl was anxious to disburden her mind, and looked forward anxiously for the arrival of Edwin, who was expected down to spend the usual week-end. After luncheon the Rector retired to write his sermon, while Mrs. Craver found that she had household duties to do. The young couple were left alone, and forthwith Claudia related all that had taken place on the cliffs. Her lover was greatly annoyed.
"But we can't talk over things quietly here," he said, taking Claudia's arm and moving towards the dining-room door. "Mother is sure to pop in and out when least expected, and I don't want her to hear about Lady Wyke's vagaries."
"I have said nothing, Edwin."
He squeezed her arm. "That is wise of you, dearest. Let us go into the garden and thresh the matter out. I have something to tell you also."
They found a secluded arbour at the bottom of what was called the Laurel Walk from its hedges, and there sat down comfortably. It was quite a place for lovers, and being springtime, they should have paid their devotions to Cupid. But matters were much too serious for trifling of this sort, and the golden hour was filled with the discussion of important matters. Edwin's very first remark made Claudia angry--and with her lover.
"Lady Wyke has ben persecuting me with personal attentions and with letters."
"Oh!" The girl's eyes flashed and her cheeks grew red. "Why didn't you tell me, Edwin?"
"I didn't wish to worry you, dear."
"Your worries are my worries, Edwin. I wish to be your comrade as well as your wife. I think it is very unkind of you to keep silent."
"Well, you know, Claudia, a fellow does feel a bit of an ass in talking about a woman running after him. Spare my blushes!"
"It's all very well turning it into a joke, Edwin," cried the girl, indignantly, "but it is no joke. Lady Wyke is a most dangerous woman."
"Why, what harm can she do?"
"She can hurt my father, if her last threat is to be believed."
"Ah, but is it to be believed?" questioned the young man shrewdly.
"Yes it is. Lady Wyke is growing old, and, as you know, there is no fool like an old fool. She has fallen in love with you, and will move and earth to get you as her husband."
Edwin frowned. "That is quite true." Then he smiled. "She has asked me to afternoon tea."
"Oh, what impertinence! You won't go."
"I leave the decision to you, Claudia," said Craver, drily.
"What does she wish to see you about?"
"I understand from her that she will explain when I call, not before." There was silence for quite a minute. "You had better go, Edwin," said, Claudia, becoming more her reasonable resolute self, and speaking decisively. "I am quite sure that Lady Wyke suspects my father with something in connection with the death of her husband. She may even believe that he is guilty. Perhaps I was foolish not to stay on the cliffs and hear what she had to say. But I was in a rage. I only wanted to hurt her, and did so by laughing."
"You cut off your nose to spite your face." said Edwin, with a shrug. "That is not like you, Claudia."
"No, it isn't," she answered penitently. "Usually I am calm and self-possessed when there is trouble. But Lady Wyke makes me so angry with her insolence that I lose control of myself. How has she persecuted you, Edwin."
"I told you. Nearly every day she has written to me at the factory, saying a great deal without making clear what she really does mean. Three or four times she has been in town, and I have had interviews with regard to the motor she bought. This was wrong, and that was wrong, when, as a matter of fact, nothing was wrong. Then she wrote inviting me to take her to the theatre; she asked me to dinner; she sent me a box of cigarettes----"
"Oh!" Claudia was furious. "You returned the cigarettes?"
"Well, dear; I couldn't do that without appearing to be rude."
"Then you should have been rude, very rude. She deserves rudeness."
"But I refused the dinners and the theatres on the plea that I was busy. I did not intend to see her to-day, but after her conversation with you, I think it is just as well that she should understand things."
"I agree. Tell her you intend to marry me and not her. Oh, what a cat she is! What a persistent, spiteful cat!"
"She is showing her claws at any rate," said Craver, with a shrug. "It is puzzling to know why she has taken this mad fancy to me."
"It's not puzzling at all," rejoined Claudia, promptly. "I took a fancy to you myself. You are handsome and clever and----"
"Oh, spare my blushes!" interrupted Edwin again, and really did grow crimson at these crude compliments. "You make me feel an ass. But there is no doubt," he continued seriously, "that she means mischief with regard to your father."
"You don't think that he is guilty, Edwin?" faltered the girl, wincing.
"No, no! Certainly he is innocent. But he was in the house when Wyke was murdered, and Lady Wyke may try to implicate him in the matter. Sergeant Purse isn't very clever, you know, while she is; so she may be able to twist him, round her finger. I'd better pay the visit, Claudia."
"Yes. But don't--don't--kiss--her."
"Claudia!"
"I know I'm silly," said Miss Lemby, dismally; "but she's old and desperately in love with you. I don't say that you'll kiss her----"
"Which you did," interpolated Edwin.
"But she may kiss you."
Very much amused, Edwin jumped up and swung Claudia to her feet, "You are a silly child," he said fondly. "You are the only woman I ever loved, or ever shall love. Will you come with me and keep guard?"
"No!" Claudia stamped viciously, "I couldn't keep my temper. She certainly means mischief with regard to my father, Edwin, for she is keeping him on the string."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean what I say. Dad wants to marry her and get the money. He said so. She guesses that, and is allowing him to write her silly letters so that she may keep in touch with him. For all I know she may ask him to dinners and theatres, as she asks you. Dad is clever in some ways but a fool in others."
Craver remembered the truculent manners of the buccaneer, and recalled his dominating personality. "I don't think Lady Wyke will find him such a fool as she imagines. He is quite capable of twisting her neck."
"Oh!" Claudia turned pale. "That sounds as though dad was capable of stabbing Sir Hector."
"He didn't do that," said Edwin decisively.
"How can you be sure?"
Craver hesitated in a most unaccountable manner. "Well, it might be the other fellow who bolted on the bicycle, you know. If there had been any evidence against your father he would have been arrested after the inquest."
"That is true," sighed Claudia, with relief, "But what does Lady Wyke mean by her hints?"
"I'm going to find out. Don't worry."
It was all very well for Craver to give this sound advice, but hard for the girl to take it. Usually she was sensible, but the long continued strain on her nerves was breaking her down. Also she was jealous of her elderly rival, who was clever, rich, and persistent. Of course, Edwin could be trusted, still he was only a man, and men are wax in the hands of women.
Claudia would have liked to go also to Maranatha in order to protect her man from the vile machinations of Lady Wyke, But she could not trust herself. She would be sure to say something or do something which would give her hostess the advantage, so it was wiser to risk nothing. Edwin went alone, and then Claudia returned to her room to spend an uncomfortable hour or so of suspense.
The young man walked briskly along the road and turned into Ladysmith Road about four o'clock. He soon arrived at the square, red bricked mansion and paused to stare at it. Maranatha had been greatly improved by its present tenant. The lawns were trim and clean-shaven; the elms were clipped, and looked more civilised, while the house itself had a more inhabited and less dismal look.
Edwin nodded to himself in approval of Lady Wyke's cleaning-up and restoration, then walked up the neat path and rang the bell. When a. sedate-looking footman introduced him into the hall he shivered a little, at the memory of the late tragedy, but recovered himself when shown into the drawing-room. This, was upstairs, the very room where Oliver Lemby had been waiting on that fatal night. But it presented quite a different appearance now from what it did then, although the visitor did not know this. Formerly dusty and untidy when attended to by Mrs. Vence, it was now cheerful, bright, and comfortable. A fire was burning in the grate, there was a new and brilliant carpet, while the old-fashioned furniture had been renovated and polished so as to look like new. Showy coloured rugs and draperies made the vast apartment look gay, and everywhere there were hothouse flowers of rainbow hues. The scent of pastilles burning in bronze vases made the atmosphere languid, indisposing those who breathed it to transformation from gloom to brightness as had taken place in Maranatha.
And the author of the transformation rose from a sofa on which she was reclining to greet her visitor. "I am so glad to see you," she said softly, and he noted that her shrill voice was now low and gentle. "I feared you would not come."
But Edwin was not to be taken in by her wiles, and only lightly touched her hand outstretched in greeting. "I certainly came, Lady Wyke," he observed, coldly, "because your letter intimated that you wished to speak to me about something connected with the death of your late husband."
"Does that interest you?" she asked, indicating a seat and sinking down on to the sofa.
"Surely. You hinted to Miss Lemby that her father had something to do with the matter, and for Miss Lemby's sake I am interested."
"Can't we leave the name of that girl out of the conversation?"
"I think not," said Craver, still coldly. "You forget that it is on behalf of her father that I have come. You threatened, both in London and on the cliffs the other day to do him harm."
"Oh!" Lady Wyke's brows contracted in a frown, "so that girl told you of our conversation on the cliffs?"
"Yes. About an hour or so ago. In fact, the moment I arrived as you might say, she told me everything."
"Everything?" repeated the woman, with emphasis.
Edwin nodded. "Even to the offer of one thousand a year."
"She should have had more sense than to say that," snapped Lady Wyke.
"Don't you think that we had better leave Miss Lemby's name out of this conversation?" said Craver, tartly.
"I asked you to," she reminded him swiftly, "and you refused."
Craver could not deny this, and looked uncomfortable. "I have not much time to wait, Lady Wyke," he remarked, looking at his watch with pointed rudeness. "I must ask you to come to the point."
"Oh, there is plenty of time for that," she answered sweetly. "You must have some tea first."
"Thank you. I am due back to tea at the Rectory."
"I think not. We have much to say to one another."
"About Mr. Lemby?"
"No." Lady Wyke looked at him so pointedly that he blushed. "About yourself."
"I wish you wouldn't," he exclaimed, just like an unformed schoolboy.
"You wish I wouldn't what?"
"Talk like that."
"Talk like what?"
"Oh, we are speaking in a circle. See here, Lady Wyke. You asked me here to say something about Mr. Lemby. I understand from your hints to Claudia that you accuse him of murdering your husband."
"How crudely you put it." She raised her eyebrows. "I don't accuse him."
"Then why I am here I don't know."
"You will know soon, Mr. Craver. I accuse someone else."
"Who is it?" The young man suddenly shivered, in spite of the warm atmosphere.
"Who is he, you mean. Well; then, ask yourself who murdered my husband."
"I don't know. How should I know?"
"Because you murdered him. It was you who escaped on that bicycle, Mr. Craver, and it was you who stabbed Sir Hector in this very house."
Lady Wyke's sudden accusation of murder came like a bolt from the blue, and so stunned Craver that he had not a word to say. While he sat silent in the deep armchair, as white and cold and motionless as any corpse, she touched the bell-button and ordered the footman who appeared to bring in tea immediately, The footman arranged the tea-table near the fire, and Lady Wyke sat down to attend to her hospitable duties.
"Sugar, Mr. Craver?" she asked, when the tea was poured out.
If she could be composed so could he.
"Thank you. Two lumps," he said, and bent forward to accept the cup.
"You take it very well," said Lady Wyke, approvingly. "But then I know you have plenty of courage. All aviators must be courageous, and you are very successful I hear. I wonder if you would take me for a flight one day?"
"Would you risk one with me?" asked Craver.
Lady Wyke laughed, settled herself amongst the cushions of the sofa, and stirred her tea. "Oh, you mean that you might be inclined to tip me out of the machine," she observed, looking at him straightly. "Very naturally you should, seeing what I know. Still, I am willing to risk a flight."
"What do you know?"
"I told you. I know that you murdered Sir Hector."
"I did not murder him," said Craver, steadily.
Lady Wyke shrugged her elegant shoulders. "Of course you say that. I don't very well see what else you can say if you want to save your neck."
"My neck isn't in danger."
"Oh, I think it is, and at my discretion"
"So you think."
"And so I believe, with every reason to believe," she retorted, and yet looked uneasy. This calm way of taking so heinous an accusation surprised and irritated her greatly. "Well, what have you to say?"
"A great deal."
"Hum! I told you that you would not get back to tea at the Rectory. After all, we are very comfortable--at least I am."
"Well, I can't say that I am comfortable in the presence of a woman who stoops so low to gain her ends; but let us get down to business."
"Business? You mean you wish to know why I act in this way?"
"Well, I have a sort of idea of your motive. Still--"
"Still, you must be blind," she interrupted, "not to see that I am in love with you and wish to marry you."
"You go the right way about getting me to be your husband, I must say," said the young man, sarcastically. "I shall love you immensely if you succeed in leading me to the altar against my will. Get someone else to woo you," he ended.
"No; I want you."
"You can't have me."
"Edwin"--she leant forward and extended her arms imploringly--"don't be so cruel. It is not my fault that I have fallen in love with you. The moment I met you I wished you to become my husband. After all, I am not so old and not so ugly that you should scorn me. Also, I am rich; I have brains----"
"With regard to that last," he interrupted, "I don't think you have. Otherwise, you would scarcely proceed with your love-making in this way."
"It is the man who should make love;" she panted, fiercely.
"I agree with you. Why, then, do you usurp the privilege of the male sex?"
"I hate you!" Lady Wyke clenched her fists, as if about to strike him, and glared viciously. "I hate you!"
"I prefer that," said Craver, serenely, and kept a cool eye on her doings.
"Ah"--Lady Wyke looked up to the ceiling--"has this man any feeling? How can he sit there and see a loving woman tear her heart to lay it at his feet for him to trample on."
"Silly! Silly!" was Edwin's comment.
"Take care." The woman bent over him and hissed the word into his ear. "I can hang you!"
"So you say," he replied, unmoved.
"So I say, and so I know," she shouted. "I know that you came down to this house on the night when Hector was murdered. You stabbed him, so that he might not marry that Lemby girl. You escaped on the bicycle. You----"
"Stop. How can you prove all this?"
"Oh, I can prove it right enough. But I don't want to go--to--such lengths." Lady Wyke burst into tears and took out her handkerchief. "I wish you wouldn't force me to--to behave in this way. Oh, my darling, I love you with all my heart and soul, I want to--to----"
Edwin sprang up as she stumbled forward, with the idea of throwing her arms around his neck. "Don't go on acting like a fool," he said, sternly. "If you must talk, talk sensibly. Otherwise I shall leave immediately."
"I'll send the police after you," she threatened, furiously.
"Do so. You'll be no nearer to gaining your object."
Then Lady Wyke broke down. "Oh, Edwin! Edwin! Edwin!"
Purposely cool and pointedly rude Craver resumed his seat, lighted a fresh cigarette and looked at her critically. "I wouldn't cry if I were you, Lady Wyke. You can't afford to do so at your age without spoiling your face."
"Oh, you brute!"
"Quite so; and, knowing that I am a brute, why, try to force me to become your husband?"
"Oh, I don't know." She dabbed her eyes carefully with her handkerchief. "Perhaps to make you smart for having treated me so insolently. I won't give you up to that girl."
"There is no question of giving up. I am hers; I never was yours. Come, Lady Wyke, don't you think we had better discuss matters calmly."
"What matters?" she asked, wilfully dense.
"Well; the accusation, for one thing."
Lady Wyke did not reply. She was thinking how best to get the better of this iceberg. Threats did not move him; passion did not appeal to him; tears had no effect. Strange to say, the more he held out the more she admired him. However, if she wished to gain him against his will, and that she intended to manage, being so infatuated, the sole thing to do was to talk business. He must be forced to see that she had the upper hand, and if he did grasp that fact he might yield. But even then she was not very sure of victory.
"Let us talk calmly," said Lady Wyke, lighting a fresh cigarette. "I want to marry you, and I mean to have you. That is not an easy thing for a woman to say to the man she loves."
Edwin admitted this, and suggested that she should lay her cards on the table forthwith. "Then I shall show you my hand."
With an ironical smile she fumbled under the cushion and produced a letter deliberately to pass over to him. "It's a copy," she observed, while he read it. "You see, I can't trust you with the original."
"Well, perhaps it is as wise not to do so. H'm!" Edwin glanced over the four or five lines and nodded. "This is my letter to Sir Hector saying that I was coming down to see him that night at seven o'clock. I wrote this letter--the original one, I mean--in answer to one which your husband wrote me asking me to call. How did you get the original of this?"
"From Neddy Mellin, my nephew. He took the letter from the hall table, where it had been left by the postman on that night. He did not show it to his mother, as he is clever, and hoped to get money for it."
"He read it, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes. The boy is far in advance of his years, and knows a thing or two. He guessed that you were guilty, since the letter said that you were calling to see Sir Hector. However, Neddy gave the letter to me, thinking I could get some money for it for him. I told him to hold his tongue, and, lest he should not, I sent him to London. He is quite safe. Well, now, Mr. Craver, do you deny that you were in his house on that night?"
"Oh, no," said Edwin, smoothly. "I came before my letter arrived, it seems, as Hall brought it while I was in the house. Wyke wished to see me with regard to his discovery that you were alive. He told me that he could not marry Claudia, because you had turned up. But he loved Claudia, and not being able to marry her thought he would make her happy by giving her to me."
"He could, not help himself," said Lady Wyke, tartly.
"So he said. He heard my ring at the door, and came down to the study, leaving Lemby in the drawing-room. Wyke told me that he hated you, and did not intend that you should have his fortune. He intended, so he said, to make a new will, leaving the five thousand a year to me, on condition that I should marry Claudia. I agreed, and he took me out of the study into the dining-room adjoining to show me some notes he had made for a new will."
"Rather strange that he should keep those notes in the dining-room," sneered Lady Wyke, who was listening intently.
"It was strange. But then Wyke was not quite himself that night. Your unexpected reappearance gave him a shock, because he hated you. Anyhow he took me into the dining-room and showed me some papers. Afterwards he went back to the study for other papers, and was away for some time. I heard a cry and a fall, and after waiting for a moment or so I went back to the study. There I saw Wyke lying dead on the hearthrug. While I was bending over him, to see if he was really dead, Mrs. Vence came in, dropped the tray, and fainted. Then came the postman's knock. I lost my head, for in a flash I saw in what a dangerous position I stood if I were discovered with the dead man."
"It seems to me," said Lady Wyke, deliberately, "that you kept your head very cleverly, seeing how you saved yourself."
"I did that on the spur of the moment. I was very much afraid, and ran into the hall, opened the front door, and dashed down the path. All I wanted to do was to escape being recognised by Hall. Then I saw his bicycle leaning against the fence, and immediately the idea came to me of escaping. I used it as you know--and as everyone else knows. Where I rode in the fog and the gloom, I scarcely knew; all I wanted to do was to escape. Then I found myself on the Bethley Road, and saw the carrier's cart joggling along with the man half asleep while driving. I jumped off the bicycle and hoisted it on to the back of the cart, so that no one should know where I had dropped off the machine. Sorley, the carrier, found it, as you know, when he reached home at Waking. I then walked back to the Bethley railway station and took the train to town. That is the whole story, so you see that I am innocent."
"You make out a very good case for yourself," she said, coolly; "but who will believe such a story? It is known that the Lemby girl wished to marry you, and that you hated Hector for taking her from you."
"That is quite true. But I did not hate him after our interview in the study and the dining-room. Of course, I pitied him."
"Yes, of course you did," scoffed the woman, "Anyhow, you are known to have hated him as your rival, and the original letter I hold will prove that you came down to murder him."
"I don't see that?"
"Sergeant Purse may see it."
"Well, then, show it to Sergeant Purse," said Craver, in desperation.
"Oh, no. I shall give you time to reflect. Take a week or a fortnight. If you agree then to marry me I shall destroy the letter. If not----" She paused and smiled.
"I'll take the fortnight," said Craver, heavily. "You are top dog this time."