Captain Huxham's death having been legally relegated to the list of undiscovered crimes, his gnarled old body was committed to a damp grave in Marshely cemetery. There was a vast concourse of people from far and near to assist at the funeral of one who had been so mysteriously murdered. So greatly had the strangeness of the deed appealed to the imagination of metropolitan readers, that many London reporters came down to see the last of the case, and if possible to begin it again by making enquiries. But ask as they might, they could learn nothing. They were therefore compelled to content themselves with picturesque descriptions of the ancient Manor-house amidst its corn-fields, and with inaccurately lurid accounts of the late owner's career as a sailor.
Mrs. Coppersley went to the funeral as chief mourner, as Bella resolutely declined to do so. She was sorry for her tyrannical father's violent death, but being very human, found it difficult to forgive him for the way in which he had behaved. He had bullied her and shut her in her room, and finally had drugged her by stealth. But as it turned out it was just as well that he had done so, as thereby she was able to prove that she knew nothing of the crime, even though she was alone in the house. Then again, there was the other side of the question to take—that if Huxham had not administered the laudanum he might have been alive and well at the moment. It seemed to Bella, overstrung with nerves, that some higher powers had dealt out a punishment to the Captain for crimes committed but undiscovered. Certainly she agreed with Tunks that her father had some dark secret in his mind, which led him to isolate himself in the midst of the corn.
However, he was dead and buried, so all debts were paid, and Bella sitting in the vast drawing-room of the Manor-house with a church-service open on her lap, tried hard to forget Huxham's bad traits of character, and to remember his good ones. This was somewhat difficult, as the captain had few engaging qualities. But Bella recalled that he had been kind in a gruff sort of way and had never grudged her the best of food and the gaudiest of frocks. Huxham had been one of those so-called good people, who are amiable so long as everything is done according to their liking; but who display the tyrant when crossed. But on the whole he might have been worse, and after all, as she anxiously kept in mind, he was her father.
The room wherein she sat, with the blinds down, was opposite the study and was a large apartment sparsely furnished. Huxham did not care for a drawing-room, as he preferred his den, but Mrs. Coppersley had bothered him incessantly until he provided her with furniture for the place. She selected the furniture herself, and what with her brother's stinginess and her own bad taste, the result was woefully bad. The room, spacious, lofty and stately, was decorated as beautifully as was the study, and required the most exquisite furniture to enhance its faded splendours. But Mrs. Coppersley had bought a magenta-hued sofa and many magenta-covered chairs, together with a cheap sideboard, so sticky as to look like a fly catcher, and two arm chairs of emerald green. The inlaid floor she had covered with lineoleum, diapered white and black, and her artistic taste had led her to paint the mellow oak panelling with pink Aspinall's enamel. As the curtains of the many windows were yellow, and the blinds blue, the effect was disastrous, and suggestive of a paint-box. An artist would have died of the confusion of tints, and the barbarism of destroying the oak panels, but Mrs. Coppersley was more than satisfied with the result, and when seated in the drawing-room on Sunday felt herself to be quite the lady.
At the present moment Bella's nerves were less troubled than usual; the blinds were down in sympathy with the funeral, and a dim twilight pervaded the room, hiding more or less the atrocious grandeur. She sat in one of the green arm-chairs near the fire-place, reading the burial service and listening to the solemn tolling of the bell. But after a time she dropped the book on her lap and leaned back to close her eyes and reflect on her grave position. If only she had not seen Cyril on that night she could have married in ignorance that he had anything to do with the death of her father; but, enlightened as she was, it appeared impossible that she should become his wife. She had said nothing of his visit at the inquest, but the hideous doubt remained in her mind, although she strove to banish it by assuring herself over and over again that Lister could have had no hand in the matter. But how could she prove his innocence?
She was alone in that sinister house, and although it was bright sunshine out of doors she felt scared. The cool dim room, the dreary booming of the distant bell, the impressive words of the burial service which she had just been reading—all these things united in a weird appeal to her psychic instincts, to those mysterious senses which deal with the unseen. In the arm-chair she sat with closed eyes strung up to breaking-point, and felt that if the psychic influence which seemed to control her became more insistent, she would scream. A thought flashed across her mind that her father was walking that dim, chill apartment, trying to communicate the truth; and in her nervous excitement she could almost have sworn that she heard the heavy tread of his feet.
Thus, when she really did hear a light footstep in the entrance hall without, she uttered a piercing scream, and staggered to her feet. The hall door, she knew, had been left open since the coffin had been carried down the path between the standing corn, so that anyone could enter. Perhaps the assassin had come back to review the scene of his crime, or to commit another.
White-faced and panic-stricken by the power of her own emotions engendered by the circumstances, she clung to the back of the arm-chair, straining her eyes towards the door. At the sound of her thin high-pitched scream the footsteps had ceased for a moment, as though the intruder was listening. Now they recommenced and drew near the outside of the door. Unable to utter a sound Bella stared through the dim lights and saw the door open cautiously. A face looked in and the eyes set in the face blinked in the semi-gloom. Then the door opened widely and Cyril Lister stepped in.
"Oh, my darling!" With a sudden rush of relief Bella ran rapidly towards the door to throw herself into her lover's arms. Then a gruesome memory of that sinister visit made her falter and pause half way. Cyril closed the door and stood where he was, holding out his hungry arms.
"Dearest," he said softly. "Oh, my poor girl."
But Bella did not move; she stood looking at him as though fascinated. He wore a white drill suit made, tropic-fashion, high at the neck, with white shoes, and a panama hat. His white-clothed figure accentuated the twilight of the room, which now looked brown and grim. Considering that her father was dead and even now was being laid in an untimely grave, Cyril might have come to her dressed in mourning, unless—ah, unless. "Oh!"—she stretched out an arm as he advanced slowly—"don't come near me—don't come near me."
"Bella!" He stopped in sheer surprise. "Bella, darling, don't you know me?"
"Ah, yes, I know you," she gasped, retreating towards the chair. "Perhaps I know you too well."
"Because I have not been to see you before?" he asked, surprised. "Bella, dearest, I would have come but that I have been abroad during the week. I had to go to Paris to see a—a friend of mine."
She noted the hesitation and shivered. "When did you go?"
Cyril came near, and again she shrank away. "On the afternoon when your father found us in the corn-field."
"It's not true; it's not true. How can you lie to me?"
"Bella!" Cyril stopped short again, and in the faint light she could see that he looked thoroughly puzzled and amazed. "What do you mean?"
The girl's legs refused to support her any longer, and she sank into the chair. "My father is being buried," she gasped.
"I know, I know," he replied sympathetically. "I went to the funeral, but finding you were not present, I came here to comfort you."
"You—you—you went to the funeral?" her eyes dilated.
"Why should I not go. After all, even though we quarrelled, he was your father, and a last tribute of respect——"
"Oh, stop, stop. You can say this to me—to me, of all people?"
Lister frowned and pinched his lip. "This lonely house and this cold, dull room have unnerved you," he said after a pause. "I make every allowance for what you have gone through, but——"
"But you know, you understand."
"Know what? understand what?" he inquired sharply.
"I said nothing at the inquest. I held my tongue. I never——"
"Bella!" Cyril, now thoroughly roused, advanced and seized her wrists in no gentle grasp, "are you crazy, talking in this way?"
"I have had enough to make me crazy," she said bitterly, "let me go."
"Not till you explain your mysterious behaviour. No"—he grasped her wrists tighter as she strove to release herself—"not till you explain."
"Ah!" she cried out shrilly, "will you murder me also?"
Lister suddenly released her wrists and fell back a pace. "Murder you also?" he repeated. "Am I then in the habit of murdering people?"
"My father. You—you——"
"Well, go on," said he, as the word stuck in her throat.
"Oh"—she wrung her hands helplessly—"I saw you; I saw you."
"Saw me what?" His voice became impatient and almost fierce.
"I saw you enter the house—this house."
"Saw me—enter this house? When?"
"On the night my father was murdered—at eight o'clock."
"What the devil are you talking about?" cried Cyril roughly. "I was in London at eight o'clock on that night, and went to Paris the next morning. I never heard of the murder, as I saw no newspapers. When I returned last night I read the account of the inquest in the evening papers, and I came down this morning to comfort you. I really think trouble has turned your head, Bella."
The girl stared at him in astonishment. Even though she had spoken so very plainly, Cyril did not seem to comprehend that she was accusing him of having committed a dastardly crime. Her heart suddenly grew light. Perhaps, after all, she was mistaken, and—and—"You can prove your innocence?"
"My innocence of what, in heaven's name?" he cried angrily.
"Of—of—the—the—murder," she faltered.
Lister stared, and scarcely could believe his ears. "You are not serious?"
"Oh, my dear:" she sobbed, "I wish I were not."
"And you accuse me of murdering your father?"
"No, no! Really, I don't accuse you of actually—that is, of really—but I saw you enter this house at eight o'clock, or a little after, on that night. I intended to come down, thinking you and my father might quarrel, but I drank the tea—you must have seen about the tea at the inquest—that is, in the report given in the papers. Then I fell asleep, and woke to hear that my father was dead. But I never betrayed you, Cyril. God is my witness that I have held my tongue."
Lister passed his hand across his forehead, and fell helplessly into a near chair. "You accuse me of murdering your father?" he said again.
"No, no;" she repeated feverishly, "but I saw you—you looked up—you wore the grey clothes, as you had done in the afternoon when father interrupted us."
"Bella! Bella! You must have been dreaming, or the drug——"
"I was not dreaming," she interrupted vehemently, "and I saw you before I drank the drugged tea. I called to you, and you looked up; but you entered the house without making any sign of recognition. Then I fell asleep, and—and—oh,—my dear"—she flung herself down at his feet and seized his hand. "What took place between my father and you? I'm sure you did not kill him. I am quite sure of that, and, remember, I held my tongue. Yes, I held——"
"Oh," groaned the young man, looking down into her agitated face. "I am losing my reason. You will shortly persuade me that I killed——"
"But you did not—you did not. Ah, never say that you did."
"No," said Lister shortly, and rose so suddenly as to let her fall, "and if you believe me to be a murderer, we had better part."
"I don't! I don't!" she wailed, stretching out her hands, as he strode towards the door. "Oh, Cyril, don't leave me. You are all I have."
Lister was in a white heat with rage, and stood fumbling at the door. But a backward glance at her pale face cooled him somewhat. He recognised that he was in the presence of some mystery, and that it was necessary for his own peace of mind, as for Bella's, to probe the mystery to the bottom. On the impulse of the moment he walked back, and lifting her, placed her again in the arm-chair. Then he knelt beside her, and took her hands. "Darling," he said, softly and firmly, "I swear to you, what I would not swear to any living creature, that I am innocent. If anyone but you had accused me, I should have——"
"Cyril! Cyril!" She wreathed her arms round his neck, "I only fancied, but I really did not think that——"
He removed her arms. "You should believe in my innocence in the face of all evidence," he said sternly.
"But my own eyes," she faltered.
He frowned. "That certainly is puzzling; still, the drug——"
"I saw you enter the house before I drunk the tea," she protested. "I told you that before."
"Your senses were quite clear?"
"Perfectly clear. And I thought that you had come to try and induce my father to consent to our marriage."
"Strange," muttered the young man. "I was not near the house."
"Are you sure? are you sure?"
"Oh!" Lister's tone was highly exasperated. "You will drive me mad, talking in this way. Hearken," he added, speaking calmer, "when I left you and Captain Huxham in the corn-field, I went straight back to my lodgings. There I found a letter referring to the thousand pounds I wished to borrow. I had to see the friend who was willing to lend it to me on that night. I therefore went to London by the six o'clock train. My landlady can prove that I left the house; the flyman can prove that I drove to the local station; the ticket office there that I bought a ticket, and the guard of the train shut me himself in a first-class compartment. That is evidence enough, I fancy."
"Yes. Yes, for me, but——"
"But I might have sneaked back, I suppose you mean?" he said bitterly, and rising to walk the floor. "I can prove analibieasily. At eight o'clock I was at my friend's rooms in Duke Street, St. James's, as his man can swear. He had gone to Paris, and I arranged to follow. I went to the theatre, and to dinner with two friends of mine, and did not leave them until one in the morning, when I returned to my hotel. The murder took place at eleven, or between eight and eleven, so I can easily prove that I was not here. Next morning I went to Paris, and got the money from my friend. I lingered there with him, and only returned yesterday, to learn that your father was dead. Then I came down here this morning to—meet with this reception."
"Cyril! Cyril! Don't be hard on me."
"Are you not hard yourself?" he retorted. "How can I love a woman who doubts me? Besides, robbery was the motive for the commission of the crime. Am I likely to stab an old man, and then rob him?"
"No, I never believed, and yet——"
"And yet what?" he asked curtly.
"You—you—wanted a thousand pounds."
"Oh"—his lip curled—"and you believed that I robbed your father's safe to get it. Unfortunately, I understood, from your aunt's evidence at the inquest, that only one hundred pounds in gold were in the safe, so I must have committed a brutal murder needlessly."
"I never said that you murdered my father," cried Bella despairingly.
"You inferred as much," he retorted cuttingly; "also that I robbed——"
"No, no, no!" she cried vehemently, now thoroughly believing him to be completely innocent, and trying woman-like to recover her position. "But, Cyril, listen to me, and you will see that as things look I was justified——"
"Nothing can justify your believing me to be guilty of a double crime."
Bella bowed her proud head. "I can see that now," she said humbly.
"You should have seen it before," he replied harshly.
She raised her head, and looked at him indignantly, bringing into play the powerful weapon of sex. "You give me no opportunity of defending myself," she said, in the offended tone of a woman wronged.
"I ask your pardon, and give you the opportunity now," he replied coldly.
"I saw you enter the house," she repeated somewhat weakly.
"That is impossible," he rejoined briefly.
"Oh!" She clasped her hands together. "What is the use of saying that? It was not you, since I firmly believe what you tell me; all the same——"
Cyril sprang forward, seized her hands, and looked deep into her eyes "You believe me, then?"
"Yes, I do. But if the man was not you, he must have been your double."
"Was he so like me, then?"
"Exactly like you. Don't I tell you, Cyril, that I leaned out of the window and spoke to the man. I called him by your name."
"What did he do?"
"He looked up, but making no sign of recognition stepped into the house, as the door was not locked. I never believed for one moment that it was not you, and resolved to clamber out of the window to be present at the interview. Then I drank the drugged tea, and——" she made a gesture of despair—"you know the rest."
"How was the man dressed?"
"In a grey suit, just as you wore in the afternoon."
"You saw the face?"
"I saw it very plainly, although the twilight was growing darker at the time. But I could have sworn it was your face. Would I have spoken to the man had I not believed him to be you?"
"No, and yet"—Cyril stopped, and tugged at his moustache. His face had grown pale, and he looked decidedly worried. "The man was of my height?"
"He was like you in every respect. Perhaps if I had seen him in broad daylight I might have recognised my mistake unless—oh, Cyril, could it have been your ghost?"
"No," said Lister, in a strangled voice, "don't be absurd. I have an idea that——" he made for the door. "There's nothing more to say."
"Cyril, will you leave me? Won't you kiss——"
"There's nothing more to say," said Lister, now deadly pale, and walked abruptly out of the dim room. Bella fell back in the chair and wept. All was over.
The interview between the engaged lovers had been a strange one, and not the least strange part was the termination. Apparently, after hearing the description of the mysterious double given by Bella, her lover could have explained much—at least, she gathered this from the hints his broken conversation gave. After his departure, she sat weeping, until it struck her sensible nature how very foolish she was to waste time in idle regrets. Whether Cyril felt so mortally offended by her doubts as to regard the engagement at an end, she could not say. But after some thought she believed that her remarks had given him a clue which he had left thus abruptly to follow up. Sooner or later he would return to explain, and then all would be well between them.
And in spite of his odd behaviour, she had one great consolation in knowing that he was innocent. His denial of guilt had been so strong; thealibihe set forth was so easy of proof, and so impossible of invention, that she blamed herself sincerely for ever having doubted the young man. Nevertheless, considering the weird circumstances, and the fact of the likeness of the double—whomsoever he might be—to her lover, she could scarcely regard herself as having been foolish. Nine people out of ten would have made the same mistake, and would have harboured similar doubts. Certainly, seeing that she loved Cyril devotedly, she should have been the tenth; but in the hour of trial her faith had proved very weak. She tried to remind herself that she had never really believed him to be guilty. All the same, recalling the late conversation, she had to recognise that her words could have left very little doubt in Lister's mind as to the fact that she believed him to be a robber and an assassin. Well, if she had, surely she had been severely punished, as was only fair.
Mrs. Coppersley returned from the funeral in a very chastened frame of mind, and in the company of Henry Vand, whom she had bidden to tea. The table was furnished forth with funeral baked meats, after the fashion of Hamlet's mother's wedding, and Mr. Vand did full justice to them—wonderful justice, considering his apparently delicate constitution. He was not very tall, and remarkably handsome, with his young, clean-shaven face, his large, blue eyes, and his curly, golden hair. His body was well-shaped all save the right foot, which was twisted and the leg of which was shorter than the other. Like Talleyrand and Lord Byron, the young man was club-footed, but otherwise had a very attractive personality. From his delicate fingers, it could be seen that he was a musician, and he had an air of refinement astonishing in one of his breeding and birth. Bella did not like him much. Not that she had any fault to find with him; but his eyes were shallow, like those of a bird, and his conversation was dull, to say the least of it. The sole way in which he could converse was through his violin, and as he had not that with him on this occasion, Bella preferred to remain absent from the lavish tea-table. Mrs. Coppersley did not object, as she wanted her darling all to herself.
However, Mrs. Coppersley was very severe on her niece for not attending the funeral, and had many sweet things to say regarding virtues of the deceased which she had just discovered after his death. "He meant well, did poor, dear Jabez," sighed Mrs. Coppersley, over a cup of tea; "and if he did swear it was his calling that made him profane. Bella!"—her niece was standing at the door as she spoke—"to-morrow I'm going up to see the lawyer about the property."
"Oh, don't trouble about that," said Bella wearily; "no, thank you, Mr. Vand, I don't care to eat. I feel too miserable."
"Not trouble about the property!" cried Mrs. Coppersley, paying no attention to the latter part of this speech; "but I do care. Things must be settled somehow. I must arrange my future life," and she cast a tender glance on the handsome musician. "Your future must be settled also."
"I shall look after that," said Bella, not liking her aunt's tone.
"You had better be sharp, then," said Mrs. Coppersley, in a dictatorial manner, "for the sooner things are settled the better. I'm not young, and"—she cast a second tender glance on her swain, who was eating largely—"ah, well, its useless to talk of weddings when funerals are in the air. To-morrow evening, Bella, after I have seen the lawyer—and he lives in Cade Lane, London—I'll tell you what I have arranged."
Bella looked in astonishment at her aunt, who suddenly seemed to have acquired the late captain's tyrannical manner. Apparently Mrs. Coppersley forgot—as Bella thought—that she would not inherit the solitary farm, and needed to be reminded of the fact that her niece was the mistress of Bleacres. In fact, Bella was on the point of saying as much, when she remembered that Vand was present. Not being anxious to discuss family matters in his presence—even though he was about to enter the family as Mrs. Coppersley's husband—she abruptly left the room. Mrs. Coppersley poured herself out a second cup of tea, and remarked in a high tone of satisfaction, that some people's noses were about to be brought to the grindstone.
Bella heard the remark as she put on her hat and walked out of the front door. It accentuated her lonely feeling, for she saw plainly now what she had long guessed,—that Aunt Rosamund had very little affection for her. The late captain also had never cared much for his daughter, and now that Cyril had vanished in an enigmatic manner, the poor girl felt more wretched than ever. Listlessly she walked down the narrow path as far as the boundary channel, and wondered how it would all end. Had she been a religious girl she might have sought comfort in prayer, but she knew very little about true religion, and did not care for the sort preached by Mr. Silas Pence in the Little Bethel at Marshely. As his name flashed into her mind, she looked up and saw him standing on the opposite side of the channel, so it was apparent—although she knew nothing about such things—that some telepathic communication had made her think of him. The preacher was in his usual dismal garb, and had accentuated the same by wearing black gloves and a black tie in place of his usual white one. Patience on a monument might have been taken as a type of Mr. Pence on this occasion, but he was not smiling on grief in the person of Miss Huxham. In fact he did not smile at all, being shocked to see her out of doors.
"Why are you not weeping in your chamber?" reproved Silas, in his most clerical manner; "the loss of so good a father——"
"You have doubtless said all you had to say on that subject at the funeral, Mr. Pence," retorted Bella, whose nerves were worn thin with worry; "spare me a repetition of such stale remarks."
It was a horribly rude speech, as she well knew. But Pence had a way of irritating her beyond all endurance, and the mere sight of him was sufficient to set her teeth on edge for the day. It was intolerable that he should intrude on her privacy now, when she particularly wished to be alone. She intimated as much by turning away with a displeased air, and walked for a short distance along the bank path leading to Mrs. Tunks' hut. But Silas, absolutely ignorant of the feminine nature, and entirely devoid of diplomacy, persisted in thrusting his company upon her. Bella turned sharply, when she heard Silas breathing hard behind her, and spoke with marked indignation.
"I wish to be alone, if you please," she declared, flushing.
"Ah, no; ah, no," remonstrated Pence, stupidly. "Allow me to comfort you."
"You cannot," she retorted, marvelling at his density.
"Allow me to try. I was on the point of calling at the house to——"
Bella interrupted him cruelly. "You can call there still, Mr. Pence, and my aunt will be glad to see you. She has Mr. Vand to tea, so you will find yourself in congenial company."
"Your company is congenial enough for me."
"That is very flattering, but I prefer to be alone."
Silas, however, declined to be shaken off, and his reproachful looks so exasperated Bella that she felt inclined to thrust him into the water. And his speech was even more irritating than his manner. "Let me soothe you, my dear, broken-hearted sister," he pleaded in a sheep-like bleat.
"I don't want soothing. I am not broken-hearted, and I am not your sister."
Pence sighed. "This is very, very painful."
"It is," Bella admitted readily, "to me. Surely you are man enough, Mr. Pence, to take a plain telling if you won't accept a hint. I want you to leave me at once, as I am not disposed to talk."
"If I had my way I would never, never leave you again."
"Perhaps; but, so far as I am concerned, you will not get your way."
"Why do you dislike me, Miss Huxham?"
"I neither like nor dislike you," she retorted, suppressing a violent inclination to scream, so annoying was this persecution. "You are nothing to me."
"I want to be something. I wish you to be my sealed fountain. Your late lamented father desired you to be my spouse."
"I am aware of that, Mr. Pence. But perhaps you will remember that I refused to marry you, the other day."
"You broke my heart then."
"Go and mend it then," cried Bella, furiously angry, and only too anxious to drive him away by behaving with aggressive rudeness.
"You alone can mend it." Pence dropped on his knees. "Oh, I implore you to mend it, my Hephzibah! You are to me a Rose of Sharon, a Lily of the Vale."
"Get up, sir, and don't make a fool of yourself."
"Oh, angel of my life, listen to me. Lately I was poor in this world's goods, but now I have gold. Marry me, and let us fly to far lands, and——"
"I thought you were desperately poor," said Bella, suspiciously; "where did you get the money?"
"An aged and God-fearing Christian aunt left it to me," said Pence, dropping his eyes. "It is a small sum, but——"
"One hundred pounds in gold, perhaps?"
Pence rose, as though moved by springs, and his thin white cheeks flushed a deep scarlet. "What do you mean?"
Bella could not have told herself what she meant at the moment. But it had suddenly occurred to her to try and rid herself of this burr by hinting that he had something to do with the robbery, if not with the murder. Under ordinary circumstances she would never have ventured to do this, being a kind-hearted girl; but Pence exasperated her so greatly that she was, on the impulse of the moment, prepared to go to any length to see the last of him. "I mean," she said, in reply to his last question, "that my father had one hundred pounds in gold in his safe."
"You accuse me of——"
"I accuse you of nothing," cried Bella, cutting him short and flaming up into a royal rage. "I am tired of your company and of your silly talk. I only wish that Mr. Lister would come along and throw you into the channel."
The red faded from Pence's face, and he looked wickedly white. His eyes flashed with sinister lights. "I dare say you do," he said venomously, "but Mr. Lister had better keep out of my way, and out of the way of the police."
The girl felt her heart almost stop beating. "Now it is my turn to ask you what you mean?" she said slowly and preserving her coolness.
But the preacher saw that she was shaken, and followed up his advantage. "I think you had better make terms with me. Accept me as your husband, or——"
"Or what?"
"I shall tell the police what I saw," he finished spitefully.
"What did you see?" she asked in a shaking voice.
"On the evening of the murder I came here at a quarter to eight," said Silas slowly, his glittering eyes on her pale face. "I wished to adore the shrine wherein was my jewel; that is, I desired to gaze on the house, beneath whose roof you slept."
"Oh, stop talking like this, and speak plainly," she interrupted wearily.
"I shall speak plainly enough now," said the young man calmly. "While watching by the entrance through the bushes, on the other side of the channel, I was suddenly brushed aside by that Lister person. It was growing dark, but I recognised his figure, his insolent face, his lordly air of prosperity. He walked up to the house and I turned away, sick at heart, knowing that he had gone to see you. When I looked again, on my way back to Marshely, he had disappeared. So you see——" He paused.
"I see what?" she questioned nervously.
"That the Lister person must know somewhat of this crime, if, indeed, he did not strike the blow himself."
"How can you say that, when you lately intimated that Mr. Lister—if itwasMr. Lister, which I doubt—had come to see me?"
"I remember the evidence given by yourself and your aunt at the inquest," retorted Pence sharply. "You were locked in your room, and were in a drugged sleep. Mrs. Coppersley had gone to my lodgings to deliver the note from your late father, which I found on my return. That Lister person must have seen your father, and, as they were not on good terms—"
"How do you know that they were not?"
"Because your late father hated the very name of Lister, and said that he would rather see you dead than married to him. Also in the note left at my lodgings, your father said that he had quarrelled seriously with this Lister person, and had locked you in your room. Now, if I showed that note to the police, and related how the Lister person had brushed me aside so that he could cross the channel, he would be arrested."
"No, he would not," said Bella doggedly, but her heart sank.
"Yes, he would. He hated your late father; he was alone in the house with him, and I believe that he killed him so that he might marry you."
"As if I would marry any man who murdered my father," said Bella angrily. "You are talking a lot of nonsense, Mr. Pence. Mr. Lister was in London on that evening, and afterwards went to Paris."
"I don't believe it. Who told you?"
"He told me so himself."
"Naturally he has to make the best of things. But I know the Lister person well by sight, and I am prepared to take my oath that he entered the Manor-house about eight o'clock on the night of the murder."
"Mr. Lister has a goodalibi," said Bella, with a carelessness which she was far from feeling, and gathering up her skirts to go. "You can tell the police what you like, Mr. Pence. I am not afraid for Mr. Lister's good name."
"You will make no terms?" demanded Pence, annoyed by her feigned coolness.
"No," she said abruptly; "do what you like."
"I'll give you three days to think over the matter," cried Pence as she turned away; "if by that time you do not agree to become my wife, I shall denounce that Lister person to the police."
Bella took no notice of the threat, but walked swiftly away in the direction of Mrs. Tunks' hut. Hearing no footsteps she concluded that Mr. Pence had not followed, and a cautious look round revealed him crossing the planks on his way home. Bella felt sick with apprehension, and when she reached the hut had to lean against the door for support. But she had no time to consider matters, for unexpectedly the door opened and she fell into the bony arms of Mrs. Tunks.
"I knew you were coming, dearie," croaked the old creature; "the crystal told me."
"A glance along the path told you," retorted Bella, recovering her balance and entering the hut. "Why do you talk to me of the crystal, Mrs. Tunks? You know I don't believe in such things."
"Well I know your blind eyes and stubborn heart, lovey. Only trouble will make you see truths, and you ain't had enough yet. There's more coming."
"How do you know?" asked Bella, sitting down on a broken-backed chair with a sudden sinking of the heart.
"I know, I know," mumbled Mrs. Tunks, squatting on a stool near the fire. "Who should know but I, who am of the gentle Romany? Hold your peace, dearie and let me think," and she lighted a dingy black clay pipe. "Luke ain't here," added Mrs. Tunks, blowing a cloud of smoke, "so we've the whole place to ourselves, lovey, and the crystal's ready."
She nodded towards a bright spark of light, and Bella saw a round crystal the size of an apple, standing in a cheap china egg-cup. There was no light in the bare room, but the ruddy flare of the smouldering fire, and what with the semi-darkness, the fumes of Mrs. Tunks' pipe, and that bright unwinking spot, Bella felt as though she were being hypnotised.
The hut, built of turf, was square, and was divided by a wooden partition into two equal parts. One of these parts was again sub-divided into two sleeping dens—they could not be called bedrooms—for Mrs. Tunks and her grandson. The day apartment, which did for sitting-room, dining-room, drawing-room, and general living-room, was small, and dirty, and dingy. The ceiling of rough thatch, black with smoke, could almost be touched by Bella without rising. The floor was of beaten earth, the chimney a wide gaping hollow of turf, and there was one small window, usually tightly closed, beside the crazy door. The furniture consisted of a deal table, of home manufacture, with its legs sunken in the earthen floor, and a few stools together with the broken-backed chair on which the visitor sat. There also was a rough wooden dresser, on which were ranged a few platters of wood and some china. The whole abode was miserable in the extreme, and in wet weather must have been extremely uncomfortable. Granny Tunks, as she was usually called, housed like an Early Briton or a Saxon serf; but she seemed to be happy enough in her den, perhaps because it was better than the rough life of the road, which had been her lot in life before she had married a Gorgio.
She was a lean, grim old creature with very bright black eyes and plentiful white hair escaping from under a red handkerchief. Her dress was of a brown colour, but tagged with bright patches of yellow and blue and crimson, and she wore also various coins and beads and charms, which kept up a continuous jingle. On the whole Granny Tunks was a picturesque figure of the Oriental type, and this, added to her sinister reputation as one acquainted with the unseen world, gained her considerable respect. The marsh folk, still superstitious in spite of steam and electricity, called her "The Wise Woman," but Granny dubbed herself "A Witch-Wife," quite like a Norse warrior would have done.
Bella stared at the crystal until she felt quite dreamy, while Granny watched her with a bright and cunning eye. Suddenly she rose and took the gleaming globe in her skinny hand. "You've put your life-power into it," mumbled the witch-wife; "now I'll read what's coming."
"No, no!" cried Bella, suddenly startled into wakefulness. "I don't want to know anything, Mrs. Tunks."
Granny took no notice, but peered into the crystal by the red light of the fire. "You've trouble yet, before you, dearie," she said in a sing-song voice, "but peace in the end. You'll marry the gentleman you love, when a black man comes to aid your fortunes."
"A black man! What do you mean?"
"There's no more," said Mrs. Tunks; "the vision has faded. A black man, remember."
The fortnight which followed the funeral of Captain Huxham passed quietly enough at the Solitary Farm. Mrs. Coppersley went several times to London for the purpose of interviewing her late brother's lawyer, who had his office in Cade Lane. She said very little to Bella when she returned, and on her part Bella did not ask questions. Had she been more versed in worldly wisdom she would have accompanied her aunt to see the solicitor for herself, so that she might learn what disposition had been made of the property. But Bella was an unsophisticated girl, and moreover was so anxiously lamenting the continued absence of Cyril that she neglected needful things.
Lister had disappeared from the neighbourhood, and Bella had neither seen him again nor had she heard from him. Considering what had taken place at their last interview, she was inclined to think that Cyril had passed out of her life for ever. But something told her that in spite of her unjust accusations he still loved her, and would return. Meantime, there was nothing for it but to wait in patience, and to busy herself with her ordinary pursuits. These, however, had lost their savour for the girl, since the whole of her mind was filled with the image of the man she loved.
Pence did not fulfil his threat of informing the police at the end of three days. Bella waited in dread for the arrival of Inspector Inglis to ask her questions concerning Lister, but the officer never appeared, and as the days glided by she began to think that Silas would say nothing. With her aunt she went on Sunday to the Little Bethel, and heard him preach, but he did not seek a private interview with her. Even when he delivered his sermons he sedulously avoided her eye, so she deemed that he was ashamed of the wild way in which he had talked. What struck her most about the young man was his wan looks. He seemed to be thinner than ever, and his cheeks had a more hectic flush, while his eyes glittered feverishly, as though he were consumed with an inward fire. But his discourses became more and more powerful and were greatly admired by his congregation, who liked melodramatic religion. Mrs. Coppersley was especially loud in her expression of approval.
"What a gift," she said to Bella, when they returned home on the second Sunday through the rapidly-yellowing corn-fields. "He spares no one."
"And that is just what I like least about his sermons," retorted the girl. "As a Christian he should be more merciful."
"You don't know anything about it," said Mrs. Coppersley tartly.
"I know what Christ preached," replied Bella quietly; "and Mr. Pence has not the spirit of His preaching."
"In what way, pray?"
"Mr. Pence does not do as he would be done by. I wonder how he would like to suffer the condemnation which he measures out so freely to other people."
"Silas Pence is a good man, and no condemnation is possible where he is concerned," cried Mrs. Coppersley fervently, and bounced into the house.
"In that case he should make allowance for those who are not good."
"Not at all," said the elder woman, stating her views uncompromisingly. "The good shall go to heaven, and the wicked to hell: that's Scripture."
"As translated by man," finished Bella neatly; "but the Sermon on the Mount, Aunt Rosamund——"
"Bella, you are irreligious," interrupted the lady, removing her hat and placing it on the kitchen-table. "I won't have freethinkers in my house."
Bella raised her finely-marked eye-brows. "Your house?"
"Yes," almost shouted Mrs. Coppersley violently, for she felt somewhat nervous as to what she was about to say, "my house. I didn't tell you before, as I have a kind heart, but it is time we understood one another. To-night I shall explain myself, so that you may understand your position."
"You shall explain yourself now," said Bella, pale but determined.
"I have no time," said her aunt brusquely; "Henry is coming to dinner."
"I don't care if Mr. Vand is coming to dinner twenty times over," said Bella, her eyes growing hard with anger. "You have said so much that you must say all, Aunt Rosamund."
"Don't bully and bounce me, miss."
"I shall act exactly as I please, and it is my pleasure that you would explain what you mean."
"I have to lay the cloth and see to the dinner. You know that Jane never can cook to Henry's liking. I daresay the meat is burnt and the——" Mrs. Coppersley was about to pass into the scullery where the one small servant, over whom she tyrannised, slaved at the mid-day meal, when Bella caught her by the wrist. "How dare you, Bella?" cried the stout woman.
"Come into the drawing-room, out of Jane's hearing," whispered Bella fiercely. "I shall not wait another minute for an explanation. This house is either mine or yours."
"Very well," cried Mrs. Coppersley, bouncing towards the kitchen door, "If you will have it, you shall have it. I have tried to spare you, but——"
"Go on to the drawing-room, please," interrupted Bella imperiously, as she saw the small servant peeping round the corner; "there is no need for us to discuss private matters in public."
"The whole parish shall soon know what I am about to say," snapped Mrs. Coppersley, and rolled towards the drawing-room.
"Rolled" is precisely the word to use in connection with Mrs. Coppersley's way of walking, for she was an extremely stout, well-fed woman, large-limbed and clumsy. Her round, chubby face was rosy and her eyes were as black as her hair. She did not look uncomely, but there was something coarse and plebeian in her appearance. Although she was in mourning for her late brother she could not altogether restrain her flamboyant taste, and therefore wore a red feather in the hat she had left in the kitchen, and yellow gloves, which she was now impatiently removing.
Outside it was extremely warm and brilliant with sunshine, but in the vast drawing-room the air was pleasantly cool and agreeable. The blinds being blue, only a faint light came through them since they were down, and the cerulean atmosphere was almost religious in its feeling. Bella, ever sensitive to the unseen, in spite of her ignorance of psychic phenomenon felt the grave influence, but her aunt, being of a coarser fibre, bounced red-faced and hot into the room, openly cross at having been summoned to what was likely to prove a disagreeable interview.
"Henry will be here shortly," she said pettishly, "and he doesn't like to be kept waiting for his meals."
"On this occasion he must wait," said Bella dryly, "it will do him good."
"Don't speak of Henry in that tone, miss; you know he is the most amiable man in the world."
"Your speech about his impatience for dinner sounds like it. However, we need converse only for a few minutes. I understood you to say that this house is yours, Aunt Rosamund."
Mrs. Coppersley flopped down into one of the emerald arm-chairs and placed her pudgy hands on her stout knees. "It is," she said, glancing round the vari-coloured room with great pride. "The house is mine and the farm is mine, and Jabez's income of five hundred a year, well invested, is mine."
Bella grew pale. Mrs. Coppersley spoke with such conviction that she believed her to be telling the truth. "And what is left to me?" she demanded in a low tone, for the shock took away her breath.
"Your aunt's love," said Mrs. Coppersley, in a matter-of-fact way. "Jabez asked me to look after you; and so long as you behave yourself I shall do so."
Bella passed over this petty speech. "Do you mean to say that my father has left everything to you?" she asked pointedly.
"Everything," assented Mrs. Coppersley, with an air of triumph. "Jabez wasn't so rich as folk thought him, and although he had enough invested to give him five hundred a year, he had little ready cash. When my late husband died he left me a good sum. Jabez borrowed this and added it to his own, so that he might buy Bleacres. I agreed, but only on condition that Jabez should leave me the whole property when he died. I saw that the will was made, and Mr. Timson, the Cade Lane lawyer, is now proving it. When probate is obtained, my dear," ended Mrs. Coppersley amiably, "I shall marry Henry and will be happy for evermore."
"What about me?" gasped Bella, utterly overwhelmed.
"You can stay here until you marry," said Mrs. Coppersley coldly, "as I am a Christian woman, and wish to obey Jabez's request. He left you to me as a legacy, so I will look after you; only behave yourself."
"Do I ever do anything else?" asked Bella bitterly.
"Oh, dear me, yes," returned her aunt complacently. "You run after men."
Bella rose with a flushed cheek. "That is a lie."
Mrs. Coppersley rose, also in a violent rage and quite glad to vent her petty spite on one who could not retaliate. "Oh, I'm a liar, am I?" she said shrilly. "You call me a liar when I am only keeping you out of charity——"
"Stop!" Bella flung up her hand and spoke firmly. "You are not doing that, Aunt Rosamund. In one way or another you have persuaded my father into leaving you what is rightfully mine. But I shall see Mr. Timson, and read the will; you shall not have it your own way altogether."
Mrs. Coppersley snapped her large finger and thumb. "Go and see the will, by all means," she scoffed in a coarse voice; "you won't find any flaw in it, as I was careful that it should be properly drawn up. I have a perfect right to the farm, as my money helped to buy it."
"So be it. Keep the farm, but give me the income. That, at least, you have no right to retain."
"I have the right of possession, which is nine points of the law, miss," said Mrs. Coppersley violently, "and the will is plain enough. Jabez did right to leave the money to me, and not to a chit of a girl like you, who would waste your father's hard-earned money on that wastrel from London."
"Of whom are you talking?"
"Don't pretend ignorance, miss, for I won't have it. I mean Mr. Lister, as he calls himself, though I daresay he is no better than he should be."
"You have no right to say that."
"I'll say what I like and do what I like. Remember I am mistress; and as you depend entirely on me, miss, I order you to give up all idea of this Lister scamp and marry Silas Pence, who is——"
"I shall certainly not marry Silas Pence, or anyone but Cyril," said Bella in icy tones. "You have no right to interfere in——"
Mrs. Coppersley stamped and interrupted in her turn. "No right! no right!" she bellowed furiously. "I have every right. This house is mine, and the food you eat is mine. If I turned you out you would have to starve, for I am certain that your fine lover would have nothing to do with you. He's a bad man; your father said so."
"My father knew nothing of Mr. Lister."
"He knew that he was bad; he said as much. Why"—Mrs. Coppersley pointed a fat finger towards the round table in the centre of the room—"there's a photograph of him, and in a silver frame, too. What extravagance. How dare you spend my money on silver frames?"
She dashed forward to seize the photograph of Cyril, which Bella had brought down from her bedroom and had left unthinkingly on the table. Doubtless Mrs. Coppersley would have destroyed the portrait, but that Bella secured it before the good lady could reach the table. "Mr. Lister gave me this," said Bella, putting it behind her back; "frame and all; it is mine."
"And you dare to bring into the house the picture of a wicked profligate whom your father hated," roared Mrs. Coppersley, her red face shining with perspiration and her little eyes flashing with wrath.
"My father being so good himself," said Bella ironically, and feeling quite cool. "Mr. Lister is not a profligate, Aunt Rosamund, and you are a bad woman!"
Mrs. Coppersley gasped like a dying dolphin. "Me a bad woman!" she cried, puffing out her cheeks ludicrously; "me, when Henry says that I am the best woman in the world. And I'd have you know, Bella, that I'm a lady and no woman, miss—so there."
The girl, in spite of her grief and dismay, laughed right out. "Even a lady must be a woman," she observed sarcastically.
"Leave my house! leave my house," panted Mrs. Coppersley.
"No. I shall remain here until I know if the will is correct. I shall stay here, as I say, and shall receive polite treatment. If I do not, I shall dispute the will, and make things unpleasant."
Mrs. Coppersley snapped her fingers. "That for all the harm you can do," she said coarsely. "The will stands good in law. I have made sure of that by consulting Mr. Timson, who drew it up. You can stay here for a week; at the end of that time you pack up and go."
"Where to, Aunt Rosamund?"
"That's your look out, miss. But you don't stay here to spoil my honeymoon with my darling Henry."
Bella shrugged her shoulders. It really was not worth while losing her temper with a person whose methods were so crude. The more enraged Mrs. Coppersley became, the cooler Bella felt. "Do you know what you are, Aunt Rosamund?" she remarked coolly. "You are a bully, and a petty tyrant. While my father was alive you cringed to him because you were afraid. Now that you think you have the whip hand of me, you vent your spite on one whom you think cannot retaliate. If I had the money, you would cringe to me; as you have it, you take every advantage of your position. But it won't do, Aunt Rosamund, for I am not the girl to submit to your insults. I shall stop here so long as it pleases me to stop, and if you make yourself disagreeable I shall know what to do."
Mrs. Coppersley's face grew slowly white, and her mouth opened and shut like a cod-fish. Had Bella wept, she would have gone on bullying triumphantly, but this cool, calm, scornful demeanour frightened her. At heart, like all bullies, she was a coward, and knew well that if it were known how she had ousted Bella from her rightful inheritance, that she would be unpopular. As Mrs. Coppersley liked to be popular, and hoped, by means of her marriage with Vand, her wrongfully obtained income, and her possession of Bleacres, to be the great lady of the neighbourhood, she did not wish to drive Bella to extremes. She therefore wiped her face, and hedged.
"You mustn't be angry with me Bella," she said in quieter tones, "I wish you well, my girl."
"You wish me just as much as suits yourself," retorted Bella coolly; "so far you have had everything your own way. Now I mean to look into things for myself. You can go now, and entertain your darling Henry. I shall not come to dinner. Send up Jane with some food to my bedroom."
"I shall do nothing of the sort," protested Mrs. Coppersley feebly, for her late rage had exhausted her, and she did not feel equal to fighting this pale, steady-eyed girl.
"I have told you what to do; so go and do it!" said Bella, without raising her voice, and looked Mrs. Coppersley squarely in the eyes.
The mistress of Bleacres tried to face down the gaze, but failed, and thoroughly cowed and beaten, in spite of her better position, she slowly retreated, muttering to herself a vengeance which she was unable to fulfil.
Left alone, Bella gave way. Pride had kept her up during the quarrel with her aunt, but now, secure from observation, she broke down and wept. Never before had she felt so lonely or so helpless. Cyril was away, and she could not confide in him, for even if he had been present the terms on which they had parted forbade confidences. There was Dora Ankers, the school-mistress certainly—a good friend, but a bad adviser, as she knew very little of the world. And there was no one else who could help her in the dilemma in which she was placed. She had no home, no friends, and—on the face of it—no lover. It was a terrible position for a girl who hitherto had never met with serious trouble.
In spite of the drawn-down blinds and the cool atmosphere of the room, Bella could scarcely breathe, so she moved to a side window, drew up the blind, and lifted the lower sash. Outside, the brilliance of the sunshine was almost blinding, and through the quivering heads, across the still, stiff stalks of the corn, for there was no wind, she could see the gaudy red of the scarecrow coat. The mere glint of the violent hue made her head ache, and she returned to the middle of the room to walk up and down wearily thinking of what was best to be done in the circumstances in which she found herself. The photograph of Cyril in its silver frame she replaced on the table. The much-loved face smiled encouragingly on her. At least, in her over-wrought state she thought so, and the thought aided her to beat down the many fears which assailed her.
While musingly walking the room, she became aware of a slight noise, and turned abruptly towards the window to see a black face grinning at her, with very white teeth. At once her thoughts reverted to the prophecy of Granny Tunks, and she felt a sudden thrill of dread as she saw that a black man actually had come to the Manor-house. For one moment, the negro and the fair, young girl looked steadfastly at one another, she filled with nervous fear, and he, curiously observant. After an almost imperceptible pause—which seemed hours to Bella—the man leaped through the window, before she could regain her voice to forbid his entrance.
"Where is my master?" he asked, in guttural tones, but in fairly good English.
Bella did not immediately reply, as her nerves fairly thrilled with the weird realisation of what the witch-wife had seen in the crystal, and even now she had not her voice under command. The negro was tall, bulky, and powerfully framed, coal-black from head to foot, with tightly curled hair and sharp, white teeth like those of a dog. Bella had never seen so huge and strong a man, but in spite of his formidable appearance, his dark eyes had a kindly look in their depths, and his movements were extremely gentle. Apparently his bark was worse than his bite, though his uncivilised looks were enough to awe the boldest. Plainly but roughly dressed in an old tweed suit, with brown shoes and a bowler hat, he was not noticeable, save for his stature and enormous virility. The sensation he produced on the girl was overpowering, yet it was not entirely one of fear. In spite of his cannibal looks and unexpected entrance, and imperious demand, she felt perfectly safe.
"I am Durgo!" explained the negro, annoyed by her silence, as was apparent from the frown which wrinkled his eye-brows. "Where is my master?"
"I don't know where your master is," she replied, finding her tongue with some difficulty. "I do not know who your master is."
"My master," said the negro, "is my master. He came here two weeks and some days ago, more or less. I have come to find him. Where is he?"
"How can I tell you when I do not even know his name?" asked Bella sharply.
"His name is——" Durgo was about to satisfy her curiosity, when he caught sight of the photograph in the silver frame, which still stood on the table. With a guttural cry of delight, he caught this up in his huge hands. "Oh, my master! my master!" he gurgled, in an ecstasy of delight.
Bella stepped back a pace with a scared look. "Mr. Lister your master?"
Durgo nodded, and coolly slipped the photograph, frame and all, into the breast pocket of his tweed coat. "He is here! I shall find him," he remarked. "Did my master see Captain Huxham?"
"Yes," she replied mechanically.
"Did my master and Captain Huxham quarrel?"
"Yes," she replied again, and still mechanically.
"And did my master get what he wanted?" demanded the negro, rolling his eyes.
"I don't know what Mr. Lister wanted," said Bella faintly; "you must explain yourself, and——"
"I explain nothing until I see my master," was Durgo's reply. "Perhaps Captain Huxham knows where my master is?"
"Captain Huxham is dead," she gasped.
Durgo shut his strong white teeth with a click. "Dead!" he repeated. "Ah—aha—aha; Captain Huxham is dead. Then my master——"
"No," cried Bella, covering her eyes. "I don't believe that Cyril killed my father—I don't believe it."
"Cyril! father!" repeated Durgo, looking at her curiously. "I must learn if——" He broke off suddenly and moved noiselessly to the window. Bella stretched a helpless hand to stay him, but, lightly vaulting out of doors, he disappeared in a moment. She rushed to the window and saw him running down the path towards the boundary channel. There was no chance of catching him up, as she saw well, and therefore drew back.
"The crystal! the crystal!" she muttered to herself, shivering. "Granny must know what it all means. I must see Granny, and ask about the crystal."
Having made up her mind to seek an explanation from Mrs. Tunks regarding the vision of the negro in the crystal—that is, if the old woman really had beheld the same—Bella lost no time in executing her purpose. In two or three minutes she hastily reassumed her hat, cloak, and gloves, which she had removed while conversing with Mrs. Coppersley. Then taking her sunshade, she left the Manor-house by the front door. In the dining-room she could hear the refined tones of Vand and the coarse voice of Mrs. Coppersley, as they laughed and chattered in the most amiable manner. Evidently the pair had quite forgotten the recent tragedy, which had invested Bleacres with so sinister a reputation. With a nervous shiver—for the merriment seemed to be singularly ill-timed—Bella closed the door softly, and walked down the corn-path. Glancing right and left, and straight ahead, she could see nothing of the black man, who had appeared and disappeared so mysteriously. Like the witches in "Macbeth," he had made himself into thin air, and had vanished.
Bella felt remarkably uneasy, and on the face of it had great cause to be so. Apparently, and she had not the least doubt of this, Durgo was Cyril's servant, who came in search of him. She rather wondered that her lover should have so uncivilised an attendant, and resolved that if they married she would endeavour to get him to dispense with the services of the man. But what struck her most, were the questions of Durgo. He evidently expected Cyril to meet Huxham and to have a quarrel. Also the stated time—of two weeks and some days—corresponded with the midnight visit of Cyril to the Manor-house. She recollected then that the visit was paid, not at midnight, but about eight o'clock, and saw in the mistake she had made the perplexity of her bewildered brain. With a groan she tried to clear her understanding by swift movement, for she felt unable to follow any regular train of thought.
Nevertheless, Durgo's innocent speech re-awakened her old suspicions, though she dreaded to recall them. What if, after all, Cyril had been the visitor of a fortnight since? In that case, since Huxham had been found dead, Cyril must have struck the blow. The horror of the mere idea, which placed a barrier between them, made her turn cold, and she resolutely put it from her. Cyril was the man she loved; the man in whom she had every reason to believe. He had solemnly sworn that he was innocent of her father's blood, and if she entertained a grain of affection for him she was bound to believe his word, even in the face of strong evidence to the contrary. He must be guiltless; hewasguiltless, as she assured herself; his looks and words and bearing convinced her of his guiltlessness. In one way or another, the promised explanation would solve the difficult problem. But when would that explanation be made?
Then, again, Mrs. Tunks must know somewhat of the truth, since she had so truly foretold the coming of the negro. Bella, entirely lacking the mystical sense, had no belief in visions, and assumed that the old woman, for her own ends, had played a comedy, based upon actual fact. Taking this view, the girl walked towards the hut of the witch-wife, resolute to learn how much Mrs. Tunks knew concerning Cyril's past life. Something she must know, else she could not have hinted at the appearance of the negro. Bella herself was ignorant that her lover had so sinister a servant, but it seemed that Mrs. Tunks was better informed. And since the old hag knew so much, she must know more. A few questions would doubtless bring forth the information, and then Bella felt that she would know how to act. But the position was extremely difficult, and the skein of life very tangled.
Thinking in this desultory way, she reached the end of the corn-field, and was about to turn along the pathway leading to the hut, when she heard her name called anxiously. Looking up, she saw Dora Ankers on the hither side of the boundary channel.
"Oh, Bella! I am so glad to see you," sang out the Marshely school-mistress volubly. "I really didn't want to go to the Manor and meet that horrid aunt of yours. Come with me, dear; he is waiting at my cottage."
"Who is waiting?" demanded Bella, greatly surprised by this address.
"Oh, my dear, as if to a girl in love there is any he but the one he in the world," said Dora, who was sentimental and impatient.
"Do you mean to say that Mr. Lister——"
"Mr. Lister? Oh, you cruel-hearted girl: do you call him that?"
"I mean Cyril," said Bella hurriedly; "is he——"
"Yes, he is. He won't come to the Manor, and can't very well see you in his own rooms, as that nasty-minded Mrs. Block might say things. She is such a gossip you know. In despair he came to me, poor dear, so I asked him to wait in my sitting-room while I came for you."
Bella drew herself up stiffly. She did not desire to appear too willing to obey the summons of her lover. Womanlike, she wished him to say that he was in the wrong, so that her pride might be saved. "I am going to Mrs. Tunks'."
"What for?" asked Dora, bluntly.
"Never mind," replied Miss Huxham, unwilling to confess that she was dealing with uncanny things beyond the veil. "I must go."
Dora tripped lightly across the narrow planks, and slipped her arm within that of her friend. "You shall do nothing of the sort, you cold thing," she declared. "Poor Mr. Lister is quite broken-hearted by the way in which you have treated him."
"Oh!" Bella became stiffer than ever. "Has he said——"
"He has said nothing! he is too much a man to say anything. But I saw his poor, pale, peaked face, and——"
"Does he look ill?" Bella was seized with a sudden qualm.
"Ill?" Miss Ankers' gestures and looks became eloquent. "Dear, he is dying."
"Oh, Dora!" Miss Huxham kilted up her skirts and fairly ran across the planks. "Why didn't you come for me before?"
"You don't seem to be in a hurry to come now," laughed Dora, crossing in her turn; "yet the poor, dear fellow is dying—to see you."
"Where has he been all this time?"
"I'm sure I don't know, dear. He came straight from London last night, and went to my cottage this morning to see me. I was in church, so he came again in the afternoon, and asked me to help him. Oh, my dear, he is handsome, and I felt that I could do anything for him. I wish he had made love to me," sighed the romantic school-mistress; "but all he did, was to ask me to bring you to my cottage for an interview. So come, dear, come, and save the poor darling from an early grave."
Bella needed no urging, for she was genuinely concerned over the news, and sped towards Marshely like a fawn, with Miss Ankers at her heels. Dora had no difficulty in keeping up, as she was a slim, small, dainty woman, more like a fairy than mere flesh and blood. In spite of her age, and she confessed to thirty-five, she had a pink-and-white skin, golden hair, and clear blue eyes. Dressed as she was, in pale blue, with many ribbons and ornaments, she looked like a well-arrayed doll, just out of a satin-lined box. But for all her innocent looks, Miss Ankers was a stern school-mistress, and during business hours behaved with great severity. Out of them, however, she presented herself to the village world in her true colours, as a sentimental, airy, sweet-tempered little creature, who was everybody's friend and nobody's enemy. Bella was always fond of her, but at this moment felt more attached to her than ever—as she had every reason to be, seeing that Miss Ankers had given up her snug sitting-room for a lovers' meeting, and had actually brought that meeting about.
"You're my good angel, Dora," said Bella, kissing her friend, as they drew near the cottage, on the outskirts of Marshely.
"Oh, what waste!" remonstrated Dora, opening her china-blue eyes to their widest. "What will Mr. Lister say to your throwing away kisses on me?"
Bella laughed, for her heart had grown unexpectedly light. She had a firm belief that all misunderstandings were about to be cleared up between her lover and herself. Also she acknowledged to herself, with great and thankful joy, that Cyril, in spite of her misgivings, had returned to her. Seeing how she had doubted and accused him, he might have departed for ever, and with every reason for such a course. But apparently he loved her so devotedly that he was willing to remain and explain himself. It was no wonder that Bella's heart leaped for joy, since the cloud, which had for so long overshadowed the sunshine of love, was about to be dissipated. She almost danced into Ankers' small garden.
"Mr. Lister is in the sitting-room dear," said that arch-plotter, pushing her companion into the cottage. "You'll find him there. I have to go to the church to run over the evening hymns."
Miss Huxham knew that this was a mere excuse, but loved Dora all the more for making it. Miss Ankers was much too romantic to mar the meeting by presenting herself as an inconvenient third. Therefore she turned away laughing, and Bella, anxious to lose no moment of joy, entered the small sitting-room with a bright, expectant smile. It died away at the sight of Lister's sombre face.
The young man was seated in an arm-chair, with a newspaper lying on his knees. But he was not reading, as his eyes were fixed darkly on the door through which Bella had just entered. For the instant, he did not appear to be aware of her presence; then he rose gravely and bowed. Even in the midst of her dismay at this reception, Bella was woman enough to note how spruce, and trim, and singularly handsome he looked. Certainly his face was grave and pale, but beyond this she could not see the dying looks which Dora had so eloquently described. When they came face to face an embarrassing silence ensued. Bella was the first to speak.