"How do you know?" asked Cyril sharply.
Mrs. Tunks replied without taking her beady black eyes from Durgo. "I saw the coming of the master in the crystal, lovey, and told your dear sweetheart of the same. The master brings good luck to you both, so if you tell, it will part you and your deary for ever."
"We are parted as it is," said Cyril bitterly.
"Perhaps not," replied the old woman.
Lister rose from his chair and stared. "What do you mean?" he cried imperiously.
Durgo, who had been examining the papers, looked up on hearing this question, and shot forth a long arm in the direction of the door. "Go!" he said to Mrs. Tunks. "Go at once."
"And the money, master?"
"You shall have it to-morrow, as soon as I have examined these. Go, I say; I am not used to speak twice."
"But Durgo," cried Cyril, annoyed by the interruption, "I want to know——"
"You shall know what Mrs. Tunks has to say to-morrow," said Durgo, settling down into the chair and still examining the papers.
The witch-wife, who had moved slowly towards the door, had not looked at Lister once during her stay in the room. All the time her gaze was fixed almost reverentially upon the negro. In spite of Durgo's prohibition Cyril crossed the room to catch Mrs. Tunks by the arm. But the moment he touched her she seemed to wake up as from a magnetic spell, and opening the door slipped through like a snake. When the door was closed again Cyril, in some anger, faced Durgo.
"Why didn't you let me question her?"
"She would have said nothing," returned the man dryly, "because she knows nothing."
"She hinted that Bella—Miss Huxham, I mean—and myself would not be parted."
Durgo shrugged his shoulders. "Hai! The woman is a witch and knows doings of the unseen. She may have been told——"
"Oh, rubbish! I don't believe in such things."
"Possibly you don't; I do. I have been taught things which would open your eyes if I explained them. In Africa we know much that you don't know."
A sudden light flashed into Cyril's brain. "Is that why Mrs. Tunks addressed you as master?"
Durgo nodded absently, still reading the papers. But he did not reply in words, as his eyes were travelling over some faded writing and his lips were moving. Before Cyril could ask another question, as he was desirous of doing, the negro started to his feet with a fierce shout, which sounded like a warcry.
"As I believed; as I thought!" he shouted. "Hai! the good news."
"What is it?" asked Lister, surprised by the savage exultation.
Durgo thrust the papers into his pocket and began to tell a story without any preamble. "When my father was chief, there were two traders in his town whom he trusted. One traded inland, and the other commanded the river steamer. Maxwell Faith was the inland trader's name, and the steamer commander was Jabez Huxham. For services rendered, my father, the chief Kawal, gave Mr. Faith jewels to the value of forty thousand pounds. Huxham became jealous, and having murdered Faith ran away with the jewels. He brought them to England, to Bleacres, and feared night and day lest he should be assaulted and killed for the sake of the treasure. That is why Huxham planted the fields with corn, leaving only one path whereby to reach the Manor-house. He did not wish to be surprised. Huxham took Faith's papers also regarding the value and number of these jewels. The papers were in the chest I told you of, and I have these papers here"—he tapped his breast—"but the jewels no doubt have been taken by your father, who doubtless killed Huxham to get them." Durgo nodded. "Good, very good. When my master Edwin Lister writes to me to join him, we can sell the jewels for forty thousand pounds and then can fit out our expedition to recover my chiefdom. Good-night, Lister. I have work to do; good night!" and before Cyril could recover from his amazement he found himself gently led into the passage and heard the door locked.
"What does it all mean?" he asked himself, but could not answer the question.
On that same evening, when Cyril was interviewing the strange negro, there was a concert in the Marshely school-house in aid of the prize fund. Dora had arranged the programme, and had asked Bella to be present. The girl would much rather have remained absent owing to the recent death of her father; besides, she did not feel able to enjoy music and frivolity and laughter. But to please her friend, who had been so kind to her, she came dressed in black and deeply veiled to the festival. For obvious reasons she took a seat at the lower end of the room, and near the door, so that she could easily slip out when the end came.
But Mrs. Vand was less retiring. In spite of her brother's tragic death she appeared dressed in all the colours of the rainbow, posing more as a bride than as a mourner. In fact, she displayed very little grief for the death of Jabez, and those who knew the late Captain Huxham were not surprised, as he had never been a man to inspire affection. Moreover, the secret marriage of Mrs. Coppersley to Henry Vand had created quite a sensation, and bride and bridegroom were much talked about and pointed at. Vand himself was one of the performers, as he played two violin solos. Some folk thought that both he and his wife would have displayed better taste by remaining away, but Mrs. Vand laughed at this opinion and flaunted her newly-found happiness in the face of all her acquaintances.
Luckily few people noticed Bella in her obscure corner, so she was not troubled with questions. Those who guessed who she was, felt that she had been very badly treated since the money had been left to Mrs. Vand, and indeed the sympathies of the entire neighbourhood were with the disinherited girl. Mrs. Vand, as everyone said, should have been ashamed of herself; but in spite of the indecent way in which she thrust her good fortune on everyone's notice, no one was bold enough to tell her what was the general opinion of her conduct. As for Bella, she sat in her corner feeling ill and miserable. She had every right to be so considering the position in which she and her lover were placed. It was to ween her thoughts from this dismal state of affairs that the kind-hearted school-mistress had induced her to come to the concert. Hitherto the cure had not worked.
The programme was the usual village one. There were several sentimental ballads of the purely English drawing-room type; two or three recitations, the violin solos of Henry Vand, who really played with rare skill, and a reading by Silas Pence, who was the chairman. Pence looked leaner and more delicate than ever, and read the "Dream of Eugene Aram" as a cheerful contribution to the evening's entertainment. His sepulchral tones and dismal appearance cast quite a gloom over the close of the evening, which was only dispelled by the singing of a glee by the Marshely Choral Society. But some time before this point was reached Bella had slipped out of the room and had taken her way back to the cottage. She went early, as her aunt had noticed her, and it was just possible that Mrs. Vand, who dearly loved to make trouble, might start a quarrel if it came to a conversation between the two. Mrs. Vand had not forgiven her enforced payment of one hundred pounds.
Bella did not enter the cottage, as it was very hot within, and the night was simply glorious. She took off her hat and veil and seated herself in the tiny garden to enjoy the soft breeze. There was not a cloud in the darkly-blue sky, and a serene moon moved majestically across the starry heavens. The cottage, with the lamp light shining behind the pink blinds, looked pretty and picturesque, so Bella resolved to wait for Dora's return in the open air. She had ample to think about, for the concert had failed to inspire her with cheerful thoughts. How could it when the clouds which environed her were so densely black? Poor Bella was not religious, and had small faith in the goodness of God. This was natural as God's name had rarely been mentioned by Captain Huxham and his sister, who were perfect heathens of the animal sort. So Bella, having no hope to cling to and seeing no ray of light piercing the darkness around her, began to conceive a cheerless future in which the figure of Cyril did not appear. The fact that his father had murdered hers ended the chance of marriage once and for all. He would doubtless go abroad and try to forget her, while she, bereft of love, home, money, and father, would seek some humble situation as a nursery governess: and it must be confessed that, as things were, Bella Huxham had good reason to despair. Any chance of happiness seemed to be as far removed from her as was the moon in the heaven above her.
The seat upon which she was resting stood close to the white palings of the garden, and under a leafy chestnut, now in the full glory of its summer foliage. Occasionally a person would pass, or a child singing would run home, but for the most part the road was deserted. Nearly all the village people were at the concert, and it would not end for at least another half hour. Only then would the roadway be full, but in the meantime, save for occasional interruptions, Bella had solitude and peace. She was therefore extremely ill-pleased when a dark figure halted at the palings and, leaning over, removed its hat to reveal the delicate features of Silas Pence.
"I give you good-evening, Miss Huxham," said the preacher, in his refined but somewhat shrill voice.
"Good evening," said Bella coldly. "Had you not better return to the concert, Mr. Pence? As the chairman you cannot leave the platform."
"I have presided most of the evening and have recited my piece," said Pence eagerly. "Now, on the plea of feeling faint I have left that hot room, and I am here to commune with you in the glory of the night. Is it not beautiful, Miss Huxham?" and he recited the well-known lines of Addison:—
Soon as the shades of night prevail,The moon takes up the wondrous tale,And nightly to the listening earthRepeats the story of her birth.
Soon as the shades of night prevail,The moon takes up the wondrous tale,And nightly to the listening earthRepeats the story of her birth.
"Did you come here to recite, Mr. Pence?" said Bella disagreeably. "If so I must go indoors. I have been entertained enough this evening."
"You should not have been at the concert at all," said the preacher rebukingly, "seeing that your dear father is scarcely cold in his grave."
"That is my business, Mr. Pence," said Bella in icy tones. "If you rebuke any one it should be my aunt, who is flaunting the property of which she robbed me in the face of everyone."
"I shall rebuke Sister Vand at a proper time," said Silas authoritatively. "In the meantime——"
"You rebuke me," said Bella, who had risen to her feet, weary of the conversation. "I decline to permit your interference."
"I don't want to rebuke you," cried Pence eagerly. "I wish to make you smile on me. Become my spouse, or fair lily of the valley, and you will have me always at your feet."
"I have told you before, Mr. Pence, that I cannot marry you."
"Then you still intend to wed that son of Belial, overflowing with insolence and wine?" questioned the preacher bitterly; "your father's murderer."
"Mr. Lister is perfectly innocent, as I happen to know."
"Can you prove his innocence?"
"Can you prove his guilt?" retorted the girl spiritedly.
"I saw him enter the Manor on that night."
"You saw a man who resembled him. Mr. Lister was in London and can prove that he was there. It is useless your using threats, Mr. Pence, for had you been able to carry them out you would long since have seen the police."
Pence frowned. "Who is this other man?" he asked.
"You can find out!" said Bella impatiently, "and I am going indoors."
"There is no other man," cried Pence angrily. "Why, I saw Mr. Lister quite clearly. I could not mistake him."
"You did, however."
"The police shall decide that."
"Go to the police. You threatened to do so before. Why don't you do what you say instead of trying to frighten me with stage thunder?"
Silas stamped and raged. "You will find the thunder real enough before I have done with you. This Lister man is guilty, and shall hang. You shall become my wife, my——"
"Never! never! never!" and Bella stamped in her turn.
"You will. As you have no name of your own you should be glad to take that of an honest man."
The girl started and stared. "My name is Huxham," she said angrily.
"It is nothing of the sort. When I wished to marry you, Captain Huxham, your supposed father, told me that you were a nameless waif whom he had adopted out of charity."
"It is wholly false."
"It is true! it is true!" Pence leaped the fence before she knew what was his intention, and caught her in his arms, "and you must become my wife."
"You beast! you villain!" cried the girl, struggling. "How dare——"
She got no further. Even while the words were on her lips a pair of very strong hands caught Pence by the shoulders, and wrenching him from the girl flung him over the fence. The next moment Cyril held Bella in his arms.
"Oh, my dear! my dear!" she sobbed, utterly broken down, "how glad I am that you arrived to punish him."
"I shall punish him more!" cried Cyril, striding towards the gate.
"No, no!" said Bella, stopping him. "Think of my good name. It is useless making a scandal. But ask him if what he says is true."
"What does he say?" questioned Cyril, with a note of savagery in his voice.
"Oh hush! hush!" implored Bella, clinging to him. "Speak lower. I don't wish everyone to hear what Mr. Pence declares."
"But what is it? what is it?"
"Ask him. After all, he may be wrong, and—"
Still holding the girl, Lister, mindful of her wish, spoke in a loud whisper to the dusty figure on the other side of the fence. Pence had just risen, sorely bruised, but, unable to leave his rival with the girl he loved, yet lingered in the roadway.
"Here, you," said Lister sharply, "what have you been saying to Miss Huxham? Speak out, you dog, or I'll thrash you thoroughly. Let me go, Bella; let me go, I say."
"No, no! We must avoid all scandal. Think of what might be—be—" she gasped, and without ending her sentence fell half fainting into Cyril's arms.
Then came Pence's chance to discharge the vials of his wrath, for he saw that Lister, hampered by the fainting girl, could not touch him. Stepping up to the palings with his face distorted with anger, he spoke in low tones of hate. "I say now to you what I shall soon say to all. Captain Huxham adopted the girl, whom you falsely say that you love. She has no position and no name and no money, so if you marry her——"
"Stop," said Cyril imperiously. "Can you swear to the truth of this wild statement? Miss Huxham always passed as the captain's daughter."
"She is not Miss Huxham," said Silas, insistently. "She is Miss—I don't know what. I can prove what I say, if necessary. And I shall, unless——"
"Unless what?"
"Unless you renounce her so that she can become my wife."
Bella heard the words and stood unexpectedly erect with fresh energy, wrathful at Pence's persistency. "Nothing will ever induce me to become your wife. And if what you say is true my aunt would have told me."
"Mrs. Vand is not your aunt and Captain Huxham was not your father," said the preacher sullenly. "If needs be I can prove it."
"Then do so," cried Cyril quickly, "for by doing so you will remove the sole barrier to our marriage."
"What do you mean?" asked Silas, recoiling in sheer surprise.
"Let me speak," said Bella, guessing what her lover meant. "We mean that had you held your tongue Cyril and I might have been forced to part. Now that I know I am not Captain Huxham's daughter I can marry him."
Pence looked from one face to the other in the chill moonlight and drew his own conclusions with swift intuition, sharpened by hate. "Then this Lister man is the murderer of Huxham?"
"You have to prove that," said Cyril cheerfully. "I am not bound to incriminate myself, you know."
Silas raised his hands to the heavens in mute appeal, for he saw that in some way, not entirely clear to him, he had brought about the very thing he had been trying to avert. Enraged at his blunder and despairing of gaining his ends, the man, timid as he usually was, would have sprung over the fence to renew the struggle with his rival, but that many dark figures were seen coming along the road. Apparently the concert was over.
In spite of his anger, Pence retained sufficient sense to decide immediately on a sensible course. He mechanically brushed his clothes, and bent over the palings to speak with Cyril. "To-morrow," he said, in a tense whisper, "you will be arrested, on my evidence, and she"—he pointed a trembling finger at Bella—"will be known as a nameless outcast."
The girl uttered a faint cry at the insult, and Cyril would have struck the man who spoke. But Pence was prepared, and swerved away from the fence with a taunting laugh, to retreat rapidly down the road towards the advancing throng.
"Come inside; come inside," said Bella, plucking at Cyril's sleeve; "you must not be seen here with me at this hour. Mr. Pence will say nothing for his own sake. Come inside until Dora returns."
This was wise counsel, so the pair hastily retreated and closed the door, before they could be seen by the sharp eyes of the village gossips. Bella ran into the dining-room, where supper was laid, and sinking into a chair, mutely pointed to the water jug. Lister, seeing how pale she was, poured out a glass, and held it to her lips. Shortly she was more her old self, as the colour returned to her cheeks and the brightness to her eyes. It was then that she asked a leading question:
"Do you think that what Mr. Pence says is true?"
"I hope so. I fervently hope so," replied Cyril, sitting down to discuss the matter, "for then we can marry, and——" he started and stopped. It occurred to him that Pence's statement might be the cause of Granny Tunks' queer remark, an explanation of which had been prevented by Durgo. Then again, from the negro's action, and from the facts that Mrs. Tunks had seen—so she said—his coming in the crystal, and obeyed him so implicitly, it might be that Durgo knew much that he would only disclose at the proper time. Of one thing Cyril was certain—namely, that Durgo was his friend, and would do his best to put things right, if Lister assisted him to recover traces of his father and the jewels, which Edwin Lister was supposed to possess.
"I shouldn't wonder if Pence's statement was true," said Cyril, musingly, as he reflected on the present position of affairs. "It did seem strange to me that such a rough sea-dog as Huxham undoubtedly was, should have so refined a daughter as you."
"I thought it was my education, and——"
"No," said Cyril, looking at her searchingly in the light of the small lamp. "Your feet and hands are too delicate, and your features too clearly cut, and your whole bearing too well bred, to be the child of such a man. Huxham and his sister are plebeians: you are an aristocrat. I am quite sure."
Bella coloured at his praise of her beauty. "Perhaps what Mr. Pence says may explain why the money was not left to me."
Cyril nodded. "If you are not Huxham's daughter, of course he would not leave you the money. But it was strange that he should tell Pence—why, what is the matter?"
Bella had started to her feet, and was looking at him strangely. "I am unwilling to suspect Mr. Pence, seeing that it seems almost certain your father is guilty, but I don't believe that my father—I mean that Captain Huxham told him."
"Why not?"
"It was not Captain Huxham's way to confide in anyone, and if he had kept silent for so long he certainly would not have told anyone later, especially Silas Pence. If anyone knew the truth it would be my aunt—I mean Mrs. Vand—and she hated me quite sufficiently to tell me that I was no kith or kin of hers. This she did not do."
"Well, and what do you make of the business?"
"This," said Bella, slowly. "I believe that Mr. Pencedoesknow something of the murder, although he may not have struck the blow. Your father may have been disturbed by Mr. Pence, and may have taken the hundred pounds. But I am certain that Mr. Pence found some papers telling that I was not Captain Huxham's daughter, and has them in his possession now."
Cyril shook his head. "You have no proofs of this wild charge."
"No, I have not. All the same, I believe——"
"Belief is one thing, and certainty another," said Lister, decisively, "and, again, I must tell you that my father—if indeed he is guilty—got much more than one hundred pounds"; and he related all that had taken place in Durgo's rooms. Bella listened in silence, and was particularly struck with the use made by the negro of Mrs. Tunks.
"I believe that Granny and this black man are in league," she declared; "you know she foretold his coming by the crystal. And that is all rubbish."
"In this instance she foretold truly," said Cyril drily.
"Because she knew beforehand, and simply made use of the crystal to impress me," retorted the girl. "Do you think Durgo himself is guilty?"
"No, I do not," replied Cyril very decidedly. "He bewailed the fact that my father had not asked him to get Huxham out of the way. No, Bella, in some way, my father managed the matter himself. He might have killed the old sailor during a quarrel, and have secured the jewels and have gone into hiding either here or on the Continent. We can only wait until we hear from him. Then the mystery may be solved."
"I am not so sure that your father got the jewels," said Bella, after a pause. "After all, they were in the chest in the attic by Durgo's showing."
"The papers were, but Durgo was not certain if Huxham left the jewels there, my dear. You see, the old skipper might, and probably did, keep the jewels in his study for safety. But the jewels were in the house I am sure, for Huxham feared lest they should be stolen, and so planted the corn and used the search-light. By the way, I saw that used the other night."
"Henry Vand knows how to use it," said Bella indifferently; "my father showed him how to work it on one occasion. But what is to be done?"
"I must wait and see what Durgo intends to do. He knows much that we are ignorant of, and for my father's sake I think he will help us both."
"And Mr. Pence's statement?"
Cyril took her in his arms. "I believe it," he said, kissing her fondly, "so the barrier between us is removed."
"Thank God for that," said Bella reverently, and being unstrung wept bitterly.
As has been seen, Durgo was no ordinary man, and even had he been white instead of black, would have passed for a clever member of the Aryan race. Undoubtedly the strain of Arab blood in him sharpened his intellectual faculties, and made him ambitious to play a leading part in the history of his tribe. That the members of it were savages mattered very little, since he had been educated in the lore of the ruling race, and could raise them sooner or later almost to his own level. Almost, that is, but not quite, for Durgo had no notion that any individual of his tribe should be as clever as himself. He wished to be a despot, and rule from an autocratic throne.
The one weak point in his character—if gratitude can be called weakness—was his adoration of Edwin Lister. That gentleman had undoubtedly saved his life, and assuredly had aided him to attain to his present position of culture by inducing the old chief to send his clever son to England. But Cyril knew, what Durgo in his blind idolatry did not—that Edwin Lister was not a man to work for nothing, and wanted much more than he ever gave. There was every chance that he would abuse the gratitude of Durgo, when the negro's ambition was achieved, and if his protégé revolted from complying with the exorbitant demands which would surely be made on his generosity, he would speedily be reminded of what had been done for him. With an ordinary man this would have mattered little as such a one would decline unreasonable exactions. But Durgo's strongest trait was gratitude, and it was probable that in spite of his clever brain and European education, he would become the mere puppet of his benefactor. Thus the very nobility of Durgo's nature would reduce him to slavery, and he would be ruined because he possessed the rarest of all virtues.
Little as Cyril had seen of his father, he knew his character thoroughly, being able to read by intuition, as well as by observation. Edwin had only one god to worship, and that was himself—a deity so congenial that the egotist was most devout in his religion. Of course, Durgo's enslavement and Edwin Lister's tyranny had nothing to do with Cyril, as father and son had long since gone on their several ways. But Cyril liked the negro, and swore to himself that if Durgo aided him to marry Bella, he would stand by him when Edwin Lister played the tyrant. As yet—so much Cyril gathered—the trader had not shown the cloven foot, but he would do so sooner or later, and then Cyril hoped to open Durgo's eyes to the fact that his gratitude was being abused.
But there was much to be done before affairs arrived at this point, and the first necessary step to take was to discover the whereabouts of Edwin Lister. Durgo had learned much from Cyril, and something from Granny Tunks; now it was necessary that he should be informed by Bella of the accusation of Pence, and of her doubts about the preacher. She resolved to see Durgo for herself, and when Dora was at school, she watched at the window of the cottage for the coming of the negro. She did not even tell Cyril of her intention, as he disbelieved her statement that Pence had stolen certain papers and was connected in some way with the murder. That she had absolutely no grounds for such a belief troubled Bella very little, since she was very much the woman. All she knew was, that Pence could not have heard the truth about her not being Huxham's daughter from Huxham himself and it was necessary to find out how he came to know, let alone the necessity of making certain of its truth. Cyril would have scruples in assaulting Pence, and learning the truth at the sword's point, as it were. Durgo, being uncivilised, for all his education would have no such scruples, and therefore was the best person to apply to. He would undoubtedly twist Pence's slender neck as he would that of a rabbit, if he could force from him any information likely to forward his aims. And unless some such brutal course was taken Bella felt sure that Pence would hold his tongue. In her exasperation against the troublesome preacher, all the girl's worst traits came uppermost.
Durgo did not pass along the road in the morning, and Bella almost despaired of seeing him. She nearly decided to go to "The Chequers Inn," but a memory of Mrs. Giles' gossiping tongue prevented her risking so much. In the afternoon, however, Durgo lounged along the road, in his lazy, heavy, massive fashion, arrayed in his rough tweed clothes, and looking very much like a burly prize-fighter. Luckily there was no one in sight, as Miss Ankers' cottage was in a solitary corner on the outskirts of Marshely, so Bella ran hatless into the garden to beckon the negro into the cottage.
"Come in! come in! I wish to speak to you," she said hurriedly, when he stepped up to the white palings; and she glanced right and left, to be sure that no curious eyes were on her.
Durgo stared and frowned, as education in a world-famous University had not quite eradicated his contempt for women. However, when Bella ran inside again, and stood beckoning him in the passage, he resolved to enter, if only to learn why she acted in this bold way. So tall was Durgo, and so low the door, that he had to stoop considerably to enter, and when in the little drawing-room he bulked hugely as Gulliver in the Lilliputian temple.
"What is it, missy?" asked Durgo roughly, for he was not inclined to waste his time in saying pretty nothings to this Englishwoman, when so much was at stake. "I cannot stay here; I am busy."
"I wish to help you," said Bella, going straight to the point.
"In what way?" Durgo stared at her peremptory tone.
"I wish to help you on condition that you help me."
"In what way?" he asked again, and sat down on a chair, which creaked under his mighty weight.
"Listen," said Bella, speaking very slowly, and with her eyes on his strong, black face. "You are not of my colour or race, yet I am going to trust you, as Cyril told me all about you. Besides, we are both working for the same end—that is, we both wish to find Edwin Lister. Cyril told me what Mrs. Tunks discovered."
"He had no right," frowned Durgo; "I want no women——"
"Don't despise women," said Bella drily, "for you may need the help of one woman, and she is my own self. You know that I am supposed to be Captain Huxham's daughter?"
"Supposed to be?" Durgo noted the way she placed her words at once, which said much for his powers of observation, and the quick working of his brain.
"Yes, Silas Pence, the preacher——"
"I know him, missy. Go on."
"Loves me," continued Bella, with a blush; "and to marry me he would stop at nothing. Last night he declared that I was not the daughter of Captain Huxham, and that Captain Huxham had told him as much."
"Do you believe that?"
"Yes. That is, I believe I am not Captain Huxham's daughter, since the money was not left to me. But I do not believe that Captain Huxham told this to Silas Pence. I believe," Bella bent forward, "that Mr. Pence is concerned in this murder, and stole certain papers, which revealed the truth."
Durgo's eyes flashed. He saw at once the value of such information. "Can you prove this?" he asked in his throaty tones.
"That's just where it is," she answered quickly. "I wishyouto prove it."
"How can I do that?"
"Question Mr. Pence, and make him answer. Force him, in whatever way you like, to show how he actually obtained the information. If he stole the papers stating the fact—and this I believe—he must have been in the room where the murder was committed some hour during that night. If so, he must have seen Edwin Lister, and must know where he is."
"Hai!" Durgo leaped to his feet. "That is true: that is probable. Perhaps he can say if my master got the jewels."
"Perhaps he can, but I am certain that he will not."
"Oh, I think he will! I think he will," said Durgo significantly.
"Don't hurt him," cried Bella, alarmed, for much as she disliked the preacher she did not wish him to come to harm at the hands of this African semi-savage. As a matter of fact, she was sorry to enlist Durgo's services at all; but, under the circumstances, there seemed to be no help for it.
"I shall not hurt him more than is necessary," said Durgo, catching up his bowler hat and placing it on his woolly head; "if he speaks plainly I won't hurt him at all. You have helped me, missy, and you will find that I am not ungrateful. When you marry the son of my master, you will be rich. I, Durgo, the king, will make you rich," he ended arrogantly.
"One moment," said Bella, detaining him; "these jewels belong to Captain Huxham. Have you any right to take them?"
"Every right, since they never belonged to Captain Huxham," said the negro decisively. "My father, the great chief Kawal, gave them to Maxwell Faith, and from Maxwell Faith they were stolen by Huxham. If Faith were alive I would return the jewels to him, and ask him to help me with my expedition. But he is dead; Huxham murdered him, and stole the jewels. Edwin Lister came to get back what belongs to me, and I think he has them."
"Supposing you find Mr. Lister, and learn that he has not the jewels?"
Durgo rolled his eyes ferociously. "I shall then enter the Manor-house by force, and learn where they are hidden."
"You would only be handed over to the police by Mrs. Vand and her husband, Henry. It will be better for me to search."
"How can you, since you are not friendly with Mrs. Vand?"
Bella laughed. "I know much more about the Manor-house than Mrs. Vand does, I assure you," she said significantly. "There are all manner of secret passages and unknown chambers in that ancient mansion. If I desired to enter, I could do so in the night-time by a secret door hidden behind the ivy at the back of the house."
"Then do so," said Durgo eagerly, "and search for the jewels."
"Not yet. Wait until you see Edwin Lister, and learn if he procured the jewels. By the way, where did your father get them?"
Durgo reflected for a few minutes. "I have heard much talk of my father's treasure, of which these jewels were part. You know how rich the Northern part of Africa was in the time of the Romans?"
"Yes. Cyril made me read Gibbons' History."
"Well, when the Arabs swept across Northern Africa, they looted the Roman cities, then possessed more or less by the Goths and Vandals. Many of the Arabs came South to Nigeria, and brought their plunder with them. I think that these jewels, which my father gave to Maxwell Faith, came into his possession from some remote ancestor, who so brought them. But I cannot say. Still, that is my opinion."
"It is a feasible idea, certainly," said Bella musingly, and astonished at the knowledge of the negro, quite forgetting that he had been educated at Oxford; "but where the jewels came from, matters little. What we have to find out, is where they are, and Mr. Pence——"
"I shall see this man," interrupted Durgo quietly; "he may lie to others: he will tell the truth to me."
"No violence," warned Bella anxiously.
Durgo nodded. "I fear your police too much," said he, with an ironical grin, and strode out of the house, looking more burly and defiant than ever. Bella had regretted her employment of his services, but what else could she do when so much was at stake? Bella wished to marry Cyril, and, to do so, desired to be certain that she was not Captain Huxham's daughter. The papers—if her wild surmise was correct—would prove if what Pence said was true. Then, since Cyril's father had not murdered her father—she put it in this confused way—she would be able to marry her lover with a clear conscience. That he might be the son of an assassin troubled her very little. To get her way after the manner of a woman deeply in love, she would have set the world on fire, or would have wrecked the solar system. And in placing the safety of Pence in the hands of a semi-civilised negro, she undoubtedly was risking his life. But she did not care, so long as she attained to the knowledge which she was confident he possessed.
It will be seen that Bella Huxham was no Sunday-school angel, or even the amiable heroine of aFamily Heraldnovelette, who never by any chance does wrong. She was simply an average girl, with good instincts, brought up so far as school-training was concerned in a conventional way. At home no one had taught her to discern right from wrong, and, like the ordinary healthy young animal of the human race, she had not passed through sufficient sorrow to make her inquire into the truths of religion. Bella needed trouble to train her into a good, brave woman, and she was certainly getting the training now. But she made mistakes, as was natural, considering her inexperience.
That same evening, Mr. Silas Pence was seated in his shabby sitting-room, making notes for his next Sunday sermon. He occupied lodgings in a lonely cottage on the verge of the common, and did so because his landlady was a member of the Little Bethel congregation, who boarded and lodged him cheaply in order to have the glory of entertaining the minister. The landlady was a heavy-footed, heavy-faced woman, with two great hulking sons, and occupied the back part of the premises. Silas inhabited the best sitting-room and the most comfortable bedroom. There was no fence round the front of the cottage, although there was a garden of vegetables at the back, so the sitting-room window looked straight out on to the purple heather and golden gorse of the waste land. An artist would have delighted in the view, but Silas had no eye for anything beautiful in nature, and paid very little attention to the changing glories of the year. The lodging was cheap, and the situation healthy, so he was perfectly satisfied.
On this especial evening, the young preacher sat at the red-repp covered table, reading his Bible and making his notes. It was after ten o'clock, and his landlady was asleep, as were her two sons, both agricultural labourers worn out with the heavy toils of the day. The sitting-room window was wide open, and the blind was up, so that the cool night breeze was wafted faintly into the somewhat stuffy room, which was crowded with unnecessary furniture. Silas made a few notes, then threw down his pencil and sighed, resting his weary head on his hand.
Pence was by no means a bad man, but he was weak and excitable. The pursuit of Bella aroused the worst part of his nature, and made him think, say, and do much which he condemned. The better part of him objected to a great deal which he did, but the tide of his passion hurried him away and could not be checked by the dykes of common-sense. At times—and this was one of them—he bitterly blamed himself for giving way to the desire for Hepzibah, as he called Bella Huxham, in his own weak mind. But, sane in all other ways, he was insane on this one point, and felt that he would jeopardise his chance of salvation to call her wife. Nevertheless he was sane enough to know his insanity, and would have given much to root out the fierce love which was destroying his life.
But the insane passion which he cherished for a woman who would have nothing to do with him led him deeper and deeper into the mire of sin, and in spite of his prayers and cries for help, the Unseen would do nothing to extricate him from the morass of difficulties into which he had plunged himself. At times Silas even doubted if God existed, so futile were his attempts to gain comfort and guidance. Much as he loved Bella, he desired to win clear of the unwilling influence which she exercised on his nature, and vainly prayed for light whereby to know the necessary means to get rid of the tormenting demon. But no answer came, and he relapsed into despair, wondering what his congregation would say if any member knew the unmastered temptations of his inner life. The struggle made him weak and ill and thin and nervous, and but that deep in his heart he knew vaguely that God was watching over him, and would aid at the proper time, he would have taken his own miserable life.
With his head buried in his hands, Silas thought thus, with many groans and with many bitter tears, the shedding of which made his eyes burn. Occupied with his misery, he did not see a dark, massive form glide towards the open window, nor did he hear a sound, for Durgo stepped as light-footed as a cat. The sill of the window was no great distance from the ground, and the big negro flung his leg over the sill and into the room. But in getting hastily through, he was so large and the window so small, that he made a sliding noise as the window slipped still further up. Silas started to his feet, but only to see Durgo completely in the room, facing him with a grim smile.
"I have come to speak with you, sir," said the negro.
Silas turned white, being haunted by a fear known only to himself. But he read in the eyes of this black burglar—or, rather, he guessed by some wonderful intuition, that his fear and the cause of his fear were known to this man. Durgo saw the look in the preacher's eyes, and read his thoughts in his turn. The negro was not boasting when he hinted that he possessed certain psychic power. "Yes," he said, keeping his burning gaze directly on the miserable white man; "you stole papers from Captain Huxham's room, and I——"
"I did not," interrupted Pence wildly, and making a clutch at his breast coat-pocket. "How dare you—"
"The papers are in your pocket," interrupted Durgo, advancing, as he noted the unconscious action and guessed its significance. "Give me those papers."
"I have no papers. I will alarm the house——"
"Do so, and you shall be arrested."
"What do you mean?"
"You saw my master, Edwin Lister, enter the Manor-house, and thought that he was his son. Cyril Lister told me as much. From what you said to Miss Huxham about her not being the daughter of the sailor, I believe that you followed my master into the house. What took place?"
"Nothing! nothing! I swear that I did not——"
"Those papers," said Durgo, pointing to the white hand which still clutched feebly at the breast-pocket, "say that the girl is not Captain Huxham's daughter. I want to know whose daughter she is."
"You are talking rubbish. I have no papers."
"I am making a guess, and I believe my guess is a true one. Will you give up those papers, or must I wring your neck?"
With widely-open eyes, the preacher flung himself against the mantel-piece and clutched at a handbell. Just as he managed to ring this feebly, for his hands were shaking, and he was utterly unnerved, Durgo, seeing that there was no time to be lost, sprang forward and laid a heavy grasp on the miserable man's throat, ripping open his jacket with the other hand. In less than a minute he had the papers in his hand.
"No! no! no!" shouted Silas, and made a clutch at them.
Durgo thrust the papers into his pocket, and raising Pence up shoulder high, dashed him down furiously. His head struck the edge of the fender, and he lay unconscious. But Durgo did not wait to see further. He glided out of the window like a snake—swift, silent, stealthy, and dangerous.
Next morning the news was all over the village, that Silas Pence had been seized with epilepsy, and in falling had cut his head open against the old-fashioned fender. He had just time—said the gossips—to ring the bell before the catastrophe, and the landlady being, fortunately, awake, had rushed into the room to his assistance. In an hour he had become conscious, and had been put to bed, after giving the explanation of how he came by the wound in his head. As Silas was fairly popular, everyone was more or less sorry, and many were the callers at the cottage on the common.
Dora heard the news from one of her scholars, and retailed it to her friend when she came home to luncheon. Bella turned pale when she heard of the affair. She guessed that this was the work of Durgo, and reproached herself for having enlisted his services. But then, she argued, that if Durgo really was responsible for the preacher's sickness, he would have appeared in Miss Ankers' cottage in the morning, to explain what had taken place, and possibly—supposing he had been successful—to show the papers. Then again, if this was Durgo's work, Bella wondered why the preacher had not denounced him. It seemed to her, on this assumption, that Pence feared to say too much, lest he should be questioned too closely. Dora certainly had no more suspicions than had anyone else, but what the story of the young man was absolutely true.
"He neverdidlook healthy," said Dora, when the meal was ended, "so I am not surprised to hear that he has these epileptic fits."
"Perhaps he'll get over them," hinted Bella feebly, and not looking at her friend, lest she should betray herself.
"My dear, people with epilepsy never recover," rebuked Dora seriously, "and I wonder that the man dared to ask you to marry him, seeing what he suffered from. What a terrible thing to have a husband with fits."
"Are you sure that it was a fit?" asked Bella, trying to salve her conscience with the idea that Durgo had nothing to do with the matter—a vain attempt.
"My dear, am I sure that the hair grows on my head? Of course, I am sure. The man himself explained how he fell, just as he clutched at the bell. He hit his poor head against the iron fender—you know, dear, one of those old-fashioned kitchen fenders, now out of date. It's a mercy there was no fire in the grate, or he would have been burnt to death. Why, a cousin of mine once"—and Dora went off into a long and wearisome tale of a member of her family who had suffered in the same way.
When the little old school-mistress returned to her duties, Bella sat down to consider things. On the face of it, Durgo had done nothing, and Silas really might suffer from fits. But as he had never fallen before, and as Bella knew that Durgo would stop at nothing to get the papers, which she believed existed, she began to believe that the fall was by design and not by accident. This belief taking full possession of her, she longed feverishly to see the negro, and to ask questions. But, although she watched for quite two hours at the window, he never appeared. Then—as her nerves were strung up nearly to snapping pitch—she determined to call round at Cyril's lodgings and tell him of her interview with the black man. For the moment, she was unwilling to do this, as she guessed that Cyril would be angry. Still, as it was more or less certain that Durgo himself would tell her lover—always supposing the papers existed and had been obtained—Bella thought it would be wiser to be first in the field with her story. Besides, in any case, she would have to confess to Cyril, so why not now? The only chance of getting at the truth of the matter of the murder lay in herself and Durgo and Cyril working amicably together, and in keeping nothing back from one another.
There was a certain amount of risk in going to Cyril's lodgings, as his landlady, Mrs. Block, was one of the most notorious gossips in the village. She would be certain to talk of the visit, and to make unkind comments on the fact of a young lady choosing to visit a bachelor without a chaperon. And a chaperon Bella could not have, since she wished no one else to be present during her conversation with Cyril. A third party would mean that she would be unable to speak plainly and all knowledge of the case—inner knowledge that is—must be confined to herself, her lover, and to the negro. It would never do to let the outside world know of the means they were taking to arrive at the truth, and a chaperon might easily play the part of a she-Judas.
And after all—as Bella reflected, when hurrying along the road—she had no one to consider but herself, since it mattered very little what was said about her, so long as Cyril was true. She was at war with her aunt—if, indeed, Mrs. Vand was her aunt—she had no friend but Dora, and there was really no person whom she desired to conciliate. Under these circumstances, she took her courage in both hands and with a calm face, but with her heart in her mouth, she rapped at the door of Lister's lodgings. Luckily he had observed her from the window, and opened the door himself.
"I am so glad to see you Bella," he said, shaking hands in a conventional manner, as the stout form of Mrs. Block appeared at the end of the passage, "for I was just coming round to propose a walk on the common."
"It is a beautiful day," said Bella, likewise conventional.
"Very. Wait until I get my hat and stick. Mrs. Block, if anyone calls, I am going to the common with Miss Huxham."
"And a very lovely sweet walk it is," said Mrs. Block, coming nearer to see if Bella was dressed in sufficiently deep mourning for her presumed father, "as I said to Block, if he'd only make the money a man like him ought to make, I'd be strolling on that there common, dressed up as fine as nine-pence. But there, you never get what you want in this world, and ain't it dreadful, Miss Huxham, about poor Mr. Pence?"
"Very dreadful!" assented Bella politely, then as Cyril was ready, she went with him out of the gate, leaving Mrs. Block looking after them. Luckily for the couple, Mrs. Block had nothing to say against the visit. Indeed it was in her heavy mind that Cyril, having failed to take Bella out as promised, had been called upon by a young lady weary of waiting.
"So like a man," soliloquised Mrs. Block, standing on her door-step, broom in hand, "they never thinks, never, never! And if this Mr. Lister commences neglect afore marriage, what will it be when the honeymoon's over. Ah, poor Miss Huxham! what with her pa dying, and her aunt robbing, and him as should love her neglecting—it's a miserable life she'll have. Ah, well, there's always the grave to look forward to," and ending her soliloquy thus cheerfully, Mrs. Block entered the house and shut the door with a bang.
Meanwhile the lovers, quite ignorant of Mrs. Block's opinion, walked along the village street, and soon emerged on to the common. They passed the cottage wherein Silas Pence lodged, and this recalled the episode of the so-called fit to Cyril, as he had heard all particulars from his garrulous landlady. "I'm sorry for Pence," said Cyril, glancing at the cottage.
"Why?" asked Bella nervously.
"It's such an awful thing for a person to have fits. If I'd known that I should not have pitched him over the fence last night. Of course, he's a rotter, and a blighter, and a nuisance; but he's weak, and I shouldn't have treated him so roughly. I only hope," said Cyril gloomily, "that it wasn't the fall I gave him which brought about this beastly fit."
"You can be quite sure of that," said Bella sharply; "in fact," she hesitated, then spoke out boldly, "I don't believe he had a fit."
"My dearest girl, he said so himself, according to Mrs. Block."
"I know he did, as Dora told me. And that makes me the more certain of his connection with the murder of my father. I suppose I must call Captain Huxham my father until I am certain of the truth of what Mr. Pence said."
"I don't know what you are talking about," said Cyril, stopping to stare at the down-cast, flushed face under the black hat. "Why should Pence tell a lie about his fall?"
"Because he didn't want anyone to know that Durgo had thrown him down."
Cyril stared harder. "Would you mind explaining?" he said politely, "I still cannot understand your meaning."
"I don't know that I understand myself," she replied nervously. "The fact is, Cyril, I believe that Durgo threw Mr. Pence down when he refused to give up those papers."
"What papers?" asked Lister, still bewildered.
"The papers which tell the truth about me."
"But, my dear girl, that is all supposition. We don't know if any papers exist, after all. Pence may have spoken at random."
"You believed that he spoke the truth."
"I did. I want to believe, as only by learning that you are not Captain Huxham's daughter can we marry," said Cyril dismally; "but the wish is father to the thought, in my case."
"Well," said Bella, plunging into her confession, "you had better ask Durgo if he assaulted Mr. Pence last night."
"Why should he?"
"I asked him to."
Cyril, who had walked on, stopped once more and stared. "You asked him to?"
"Yes." Bella was less nervous now. "I told him all that Mr. Pence said, and suggested that he should get the papers."
Cyril's face grew stern, as she knew it would. "Tell me everything that passed between you and that nigger."
"I have not said that I saw him," said Bella evasively.
"You could scarcely have asked him to assault Pence, unless you had seen him," retorted Cyril, who looked displeased, "come, be frank. Tell me all."
Bella did so, omitting nothing, although she every now and then stole a glance at Cyril's compressed lips and corrugated brow. At the end of her explanation he looked up, and his eyes were hard. "You have acted very wrongly," he said sternly.
"I know I have: I admit as much," said the girl penitently, "but, after all, I only asked him to get the papers. I did not tell him to hurt Mr. Pence."
Cyril shook his head impatiently. "You should not have seen this infernal nigger. I don't like any white woman to talk to niggers."
"I don't like them myself," said Bella quietly, "and you may be sure, had I not been anxious to learn the truth, I should not have spoken to Durgo."
"You could have asked me to speak."
"Would you have done so, seeing that you did not believe that the papers existed?"
"Nor do I believe now," replied Cyril, walking on quickly. "It is all guess work on your part."
"No, no, no!" insisted the girl, as they arrived at their favourite spot under a giant gorse bush; "the mere fact that Mr. Pence told a lie about his injury shows me that I am right."
"We don't know for certain that he met with his injury at Durgo's hands."
"Then I have done no wrong," said Bella promptly.
"Indeed you have," said Cyril in vexed tones, as they sat down. "You spurred on that infernal nigger to do what was wrong."
"I understood that you liked Durgo, and thought him a well-educated man."
"So I do like him; so I do consider him wonderfully well educated. He is an Oxford M.A., you know. But I daresay if you scratched him you would find that he is a common nigger after all."
"The son of a king?"
"An African king. Pooh! what's that? You must promise me, Bella, not to have anything more to do with him."
"But I have promised to seek for the jewels in the Manor-house," and Bella went on to state how she could enter Bleacres by the secret door. Cyril nodded and approved of the idea.
"But you must come to me and tell me what you find out. I don't want you to speak to Durgo more than you can help."
"That is racial instinct and injustice."
"Racial instinct is never unjust. I don't care if Durgo was a black Homer and Bismark and Napoleon rolled into one. He is a man of colour, and I detest the breed. Promise not to have anything to do with him—at all events unless I am present."
"I promise if you will not scold so much," said Bella wilfully.
"I am not scolding. If I did you would cry."
The girl slipped her arm within that of her lover's, pleased to have escaped so easily. "I begin to think that I am marrying a tyrant."
"You are marrying a man who loves you, and who wants to protect you from all dangers. Oh, Bella, Bella! I wish we could go away to London and get married quietly. Then we could go to Australia and leave this bad past behind. Will you come? I have money enough for a year, and by that time I'll be able to get something to do in Melbourne or Sydney."
Bella shook her head. "Dear, I love you dearly, but I can't marry you until I am quite sure that I am not Captain Huxham's daughter."
"In any case," said Cyril bitterly. "You will marry the son of a man who has committed a murder."
"I am not so sure of that. Now that Mr. Pence has told a lie I think that he may have something to do with the matter. He may be guilty."
Cyril groaned. "I have no ill-will towards Pence, in spite of his insolence to you, but for the sake of my name I wish I could think so."
There was silence for a few moments, and then Bella, who was looking along the path, spoke to her lover in a frightened whisper. "Here is Durgo!"
And indeed it was. The negro swung along bluff, heavy and ponderous. He was in dark clothes, and these, with his black face, made him look like a blot on the sunshiny beauty of the summer world. At once, with his keen eyesight, he caught a glimpse of the lovers and strode towards them, smiling and bland. Cyril nodded coldly. He could not forgive the black man's impertinence in speaking to Bella, quite forgetting that Bella was to blame and had sought the interview. Bella herself, remembering Cyril's warning and her own promise, did not dare to welcome the man.
"I went to see you," said Durgo, addressing Cyril, "and your landlady told me that you had gone to the common with Miss Huxham. I followed. I am glad to find you both together. I have much to say."
Bella could not contain her curiosity. "Did you——"
"Yes," said Durgo coolly, "I did. He would have made a noise, so I had to dash him to the ground. He hit his head against the fender. Mrs. Giles," he added with a grim laugh, "tells me that he accounts for the knock on his head by saying that he had a fit."
"What do you make out of that?" asked Cyril, casting a glance at Bella warning her to hold her tongue.
"Oh"—Durgo glanced from one to the other—"so Miss Huxham has told you?"
"About her interview? Yes! I am sorry you took her advice and saw Pence, for I knew that ill would come of it."
Durgo leisurely took a bundle of papers from his pocket. "Much good has come of it, as I am here to explain," said he quietly. "You were right, Miss Huxham. Pence had certain papers stolen from Captain Huxham's safe."
"Then he is guilty of the——"
"I can't be certain of that," interrupted the negro sharply. "I had no time to question Pence. As soon as I got the papers which he carried in his breast-coat pocket I slipped through the window. Lucky that I did so, for his landlady came in almost immediately in answer to the ring of the handbell. If he hadn't sounded it I should not have rendered him insensible, but I had to do so for my own safety."
"Well, well, well!" said Cyril impatiently, and looking at the papers, "we can talk of this later. You say that Miss Huxham's guess is correct?"
"It is. And I congratulate Miss Huxham on her clever brain. Pence was certainly a fool to say as much as he did, and especially to so talented a lady who guessed——"
"There! there! No more compliments. Tell us both at once. Did he speak truly when he stated that Miss Huxham was not the captain's daughter?"
"He spoke absolutely truly, as you will find when you read this," and Durgo placed a bulky roll of paper in Bella's hands.
"Oh!" she said, flushing a bright pink, "how glad I am. But whose daughter am I?" and she made to open the paper.
Cyril laid his hand on the bundle. "We haven't time to read all that now," he said gruffly. "Tell us shortly what you have discovered, Durgo?"
The negro nodded, and addressed himself to the girl. "Your name is Isabella Faith," he stated, "and you are the daughter of Maxwell Faith, who was my father Kawal's firm friend."
The lovers looked at one another. "But how did I come to pass as Captain Huxham's daughter?" she asked breathlessly.
Durgo shrugged his shoulders. "So far as I can read the story, which Captain Huxham has set down in that bundle you hold, he was smitten with compunction for having murdered your father and so adopted you."
Bella shuddered. "How terrible to have lived with such a wicked old man," she said. "I never liked Captain Huxham, but thinking him my father I tried my best to do my duty. No wonder he would not leave the property to me!"
"I think he intended to leave you the jewels, though," said Durgo, thoughtfully. "He mentions in those papers that he intended to make a will leaving them to you, since his sister, Mrs. Vand, claimed Bleacres and his income. It's my opinion that Mrs. Vand learned how her brother had murdered Maxwell Faith, and so forced him to make that will."
"Then the jewels really belong to you, Bella?"
"Yes," said Durgo, rising and making a courteous bow. "And when we find Edwin Lister, my master, he shall restore the jewels."
"But your expedition?" asked Bella in surprise.
The negro looked at the lovers humorously. "I fear that there will be no expedition," he said seriously. "I cannot rob you of your fortune, Miss Faith. Marry our friend here and be happy."
"But what will you do?" asked Cyril, touched by this self-abnegation.
Durgo shrugged his shoulders again. "I shall search out Edwin Lister and return to Africa. In one way or another I daresay we can manage to get back to my tribe. Then I shall measure my strength and education against my cousin, who is wrongfully chief. For the rest, there is no more to be said. The papers you have, Miss Faith, will prove your birth and reveal all the doings of Huxham. There is no more for me to do, so I shall bid you both good-day and wish you all good luck."
The lovers stared to one another and then at the retreating form of Durgo, who had so delicately left them together. It was Cyril who spoke first.
"He is a good fellow, after all," he said. "That black skin covers a white heart. Oh! Bella, how strange it all is."
"Take me home," said the girl faintly, and with white cheeks. "I can bear no more at present. Isabella Faith is my name now——"
"Until you change it to that of Isabella Lister," said Cyril, kissing her.
But she only wept the more, broken down by the unexpected revelation.