THE RECLUSE.
MeanwhileJenny was proceeding homeward in a rather unhappy state of mind. The conversation had left an unpleasant impression, and she was by no means sure what it would lead to. A hundred times did she wish that she had not meddled with the matter; but it was now too late for regrets, and she recognized that she must bear the burden of her wrong-doing. Though, indeed, she could see no reason to characterize her action by so harsh a name.
"A bundle of old papers in a garret," she thought, walking quickly through the lane; "where was the harm in reading them? And, as they contained an interesting story, I fail to see where I acted wrongly in telling it to Frank. The Larcher affair can have nothing to do with papa, even though Kerry was so angry. I'll speak to Kerry, and ask him if I have done wrong."
According to her promise she was determined to say nothing to her father for at least twenty-four hours, for she was curious to see if Mr. Hilliston would call to speak of the matter. If he did so, then would be the time to exculpate herself; but, pending such visit, she saw no reason why she should not consult with Kerry. He had expressed anger at her possession of the papers, so he, if anyone, would be ableto explain if she had been rash. On Kerry's answer would depend the explanation due to her father.
Thus thinking, she speedily arrived in a deep lane, at the end of which she turned into a white gate set in a rugged stone wall. Nut trees bent over this wall, dropping their fruit into the ruts of the road, and on the opposite side rose a steep green bank topped by blackberry bushes. This byway was little frequented, and here quiet constantly reigned, unbroken save by the voices of birds. It was a great place for nightingales, and many a summer evening did Jenny stand under the bending boughs listening to the warblings of those night singers. So bird-haunted was the spot that here, if anywhere, Keats might have composed his famous ode. Indeed, the road was known as Nightingale Lane, for obvious reasons.
Passing through the gate, Jenny saw before her the little garden, odorous with homely cottage flowers—sweet-williams, delicate pea blossom, ruddy marigolds, and somber bushes of rosemary. A hawthorn hedge on the right divided the flowers from the kitchen garden; while to the left grew gnarled apple and pear trees, now white with bloom. A sprawling peach tree clung to the guarding wall of the lane, and beds of thyme and mignonette perfumed the still air. In the center of this sweetness was built the humble cottage of Ferdinand Paynton, a broad, low-roofed building, with whitewashed walls and quaint windows, diamond-paned and snowy curtained. Pots of flowers were set within, and under the eaves of the thatched roof twittered the darting swallows. One often sees such peaceful homesteads in the heart of England, breathing quiet and tranquillity. Rose Cottage, as it wascalled, from the prevailing flower in the garden, was worthy to be enshrined in a fairy tale.
Here lived Ferdinand Paynton, with his only daughter, and two servants, male and female. The one was Kerry, a crabbed old Irishman, stanch as steel, and devoted to his master; the other a withered crone who was never seen without her bonnet, yet who bore the reputation of being an excellent cook, and an economical housekeeper. As Mr. Paynton was poor, and spent more than he could afford on books, Maria was very necessary to him, as she scraped and screwed with miserly care, yet withal gave him good meals, and kept the tiny house like a new pin. Kerry attended principally to the garden and the books; looked after Jenny, whom he was always scolding, and passed his leisure time in fishing in the Lax.
Hot or cold, wet or fine, summer or winter, nothing varied in the routine of Rose Cottage. Mr. Paynton rose at nine, took his breakfast, and read his paper till ten, then walked for an hour or so in the garden with Jenny. Till luncheon he wrote; after luncheon he slept, and then wrote again till dinner time. The evening in summer was spent in the garden, in winter within doors, before a roaring fire in the bookroom. For more than twenty years life had gone on in this peaceful fashion, and during that time Jenny could not remember the occurrence of a single episode worth recording. Rose Cottage might have been the palace of the Sleeping Beauty during the hundred years' spell.
The inhabitant of this hermitage was a puzzle to the gossips of Thorston, for, after the industrious inquiries of twenty years, they were as wise as ever touching hisantecedents. Then he had arrived with Kerry, and his daughter, a child of five, and, staying at the Inn of St. Elfrida, had looked about for a small place in the neighborhood. Rose Cottage, then empty and much neglected, appeared to be the most secluded spot procurable, so Mr. Paynton set it in order, patched the roof, cultivated the garden, and took up his abode therein. Here he had lived ever since, rarely leaving it, seeing few people, and accepting no invitations. The man was a recluse, and disliked his fellow-creatures, so when Thorston became aware of his peculiarities he was left alone to live as he chose. It may be guessed that his peculiar habits made him unpopular.
The vicar was friendly to the misanthrope, for in Paynton he found a kindred soul in the matter of books; and many a pleasant evening did they spend in discussing literary subjects. The bookroom was the pleasantest apartment in the house, cosy and warm, and lined throughout with volumes. In the deep window stood the desk, and here Ferdinand Paynton sat and wrote all day, save when he took his usual stroll in the garden. Jenny had also grown up in the bookroom, and, as her education had been conducted by her father, she was remarkably intelligent for a country maiden, and could talk excellently on literature, old and new. For the softer graces of womanhood she was indebted to the care of Mrs. Linton, who from the first had taken a great interest in the motherless girl.
Into this room came Jenny, with her mind full of the recent conversation with Tait. She threw down her music-book on the table and went to kiss her father. He was seated in his armchair, instead of at his desk as usual, and looked rather sternly at her as she bentover him. Tall and white-haired, with a sad face and a slim figure, the old man looked singularly interesting, his appearance being enhanced by his peculiar garb, a dressing gown and a black skullcap. Indeed, he was more like a mediæval magician than an aged gentleman of the nineteenth century. He looked like a man with a history, which was doubtless the reason Thorston gossips were so anxious concerning his past. In country towns curiosity is quite a disease.
In the hurry of her entrance Jenny had not noticed that a stranger was present, but on greeting her father with a fond kiss, she turned to see an elderly gentleman looking at her intently. Mr. Paynton explained the presence of the stranger with less than his usual suavity, but from the tone of his voice Jenny guessed that he was angry with her. As it afterward appeared he had good reason to be.
"Jenny, this is my friend, Mr. Hilliston."
Hilliston! Jenny could not suppress a start of surprise, even of alarm. The prophecy of Tait had been fulfilled sooner than she had expected. There was something uncanny in the speedy accomplishment of a prognostication in which, at the time, she had hardly believed.
"Hilliston! Mr. Hilliston!" she repeated, with a gasp of surprise, "already!"
This time it was Hilliston's turn to be surprised, and his face darkened with suspicion.
"What am I to understand by 'already,' Miss Paynton?" he said quickly.
"Why! That is—Mr. Tait——" began Jenny, in excuse, when her father cut her short. He rose from his chair, and exclaimed in a voice of alarm:
"Tait! Then you have seen him already?"
"Yes, father," said the girl, in some bewilderment at his tone.
"Where?"
"In the church, half an hour ago."
"Did he question you?"
"He did."
"And you replied?"
"I answered his questions," said Jenny quietly, "if you refer to the Larcher affair."
"I do refer to it," groaned her father, sinking back into his chair. "Unhappy girl! you know not what trouble you have caused."
Hilliston said nothing, but stood moodily considering what was best to be done. He saw that Tait had been too clever for him, and had anticipated his arrival. Yet he had come as speedily as possible; not a moment had he lost since his arrival in Eastbourne to seek out Jenny and ask her to be silent. But it was too late; he had missed his opportunity by a few minutes, and it only remained for him to learn how much the girl had told his enemy. No wonder he hated Tait; the fellow was too dangerous a foeman to be despised.
"We may yet mend matters," he said judiciously, "if Miss Jenny will repeat so much of the conversation as she remembers."
"Why should I repeat it?" said Jenny, objecting to this interference, as Tait guessed she would. "There was nothing wrong in the conversation with Mr. Tait that I know of."
"There was nothing wrong in your telling Linton the story you found inThe Canterbury Observer,"replied Hilliston dryly; "yet it would have been as well had you not done so."
"Father," cried Jenny, turning toward the old man with an appealing gesture, "have I done wrong?"
"Yes, child," he answered, with a sigh, "very wrong, but you sinned in ignorance. Kerry told me you had found the bundle and read about the trial, but I passed that over. Now it is different. You repeated it to young Linton, and Mr. Hilliston tells me that all London knows the story through his book."
"I am very sorry," said Jenny, after a pause, "but I really did not know that it was wrong of me to act as I have done. A bundle of old newspapers in a garret! Surely I was justified in reading them—in telling Frank what I conceived would be a good plot for a story."
"I don't blame you, Miss Paynton," said Hilliston kindly; "but it so happens that your father did not want that affair again brought before the public. After all, you have had less to do with it than Fate."
"Than Fate," interrupted Paynton, with a groan. "Good Heavens, am I to be——"
"Paynton!" said Hilliston, in a warning voice.
"I forgot," muttered the old man, with a shiver. "No more—no more. Jenny, tell us what you said to Mr. Tait."
Considerably astonished, the girl repeated the conversation as closely as she could remember. Both Hilliston and her father listened with the keenest interest, and seemed relieved when she finished.
"It is not so bad as I expected," said the former, with a nod. "All you have to do, Paynton, is to warn Kerry against gratifying the curiosity of theseyoung men. They will be certain to ask him questions."
"Kerry will baffle them; have no fear of that," said Paynton harshly, "and, Jenny, you are not to refer to this subject again with Mr. Tait."
"Am I not to speak to him?"
Her father interrogated Hilliston with a look, received a nod, and answered accordingly.
"You can speak to Mr. Tait, if you choose, and no doubt you will be introduced by the vicar to Mr. Larcher. I place no prohibition on your speaking to them, but only warn you to avoid the subject of the Larcher affair. Promise!"
"I promise. I am sorry I ever had anything to do with it."
"Say no more about it, my dear," said Hilliston, patting her shoulder. "How could you be expected to know? But now you have been warned, do not speak more of it. We do not wish the unjustifiable curiosity of these idle young men to be gratified."
"If you assist them to learn that which had better be hidden, you will ruin me," cried Paynton, with a passionate gesture.
"Father! Ruin you?"
"Yes! It means ruin, disgrace—perhaps death! Ah!"
He broke down with a cry, and Hilliston, taking Jenny by the hand, led her to the door.
"Go away, my dear. Your father is ill," he said, in a whisper, and pushing her outside the door, locked it forthwith. Jenny stood in the passage, in an agony of fear and surprise. Ruin! Disgrace! Death! What was the meaning of those terrible words?
AN OLD SERVANT.
Leavingthe two men to talk over their dark secrets together, Jenny went into the garden. Her brow burned as with fever, and her understanding was confused by the thoughts which filled her mind. What was the meaning of her father's words? Why had Mr. Hilliston come over from Eastbourne to request her silence? And what was the connection between him and her sole surviving parent? She paced up and down the gravel walk vainly asking herself these questions, and racking her brain as to possible answers. Hitherto the sky of her young life had been pure and serene; but now, by her own act—as though she had unconsciously wrought a malignant spell—a sudden storm had arisen, which threatened to overturn the foundations of her small world. In the very unexpectedness of these events lay their terror.
As Tait shrewdly surmised, Jenny was by no means satisfied with the evidence of Hilliston at the trial of Mrs. Larcher. So far as she could judge from the unsatisfactory report inThe Canterbury Observer, he had given his version of the affair glibly enough; yet there seemed to be something behind which he was anxious to suppress. Definitely enough he stated that he had not been at The Laurels on the fatal night; that he had not seen Captain Larchersince he left for London; that he had not noted whether Mrs. Larcher wore that all-important dagger when she left the ballroom. But, pressed by an evidently suspicious counsel, he accounted so minutely for every moment of his time, his evidence had about it such an air of frank falseness, that even unsophisticated Jenny saw that the man was acting a part. She did not believe him guilty of the crime, but she was certain in her own mind that he knew who had struck the fatal blow; nay more, Jenny thought it not impossible that he had been at The Laurels after three that morning, in spite of his denial, and had seen the tragedy take place. Tait's hints, confirming her own doubts, led her to gravely doubt the purity of Mr. Hilliston's motives then and now.
But what most perplexed the girl was the reason why the lawyer called to see her father on the subject and requested her silence. She knew nothing of the tragedy save through the papers—those old, faded papers, dated 1866, which she had found in the garret. She was not born when the murder took place, so Hilliston could not possibly wish to close her mouth for her own sake. It was on her father's account that Jenny feared. What could he know of an obscure crime perpetrated in a country town so many years ago; she could recall no mention of his name in the report of the trial; yet his words led her to suspect that he was more closely connected with that tragic past than he chose to admit. Could it be that her father was a relative of Jeringham, and, knowing that Jeringham was still alive, wished to stop all inquiries made as to his whereabouts, lest he should be punished for his early sin? This was the onlyfeasible suggestion she could make, and yet it failed to satisfy her too exacting mind.
Again, there was Kerry. Kerry certainly had a personal interest in the case; else he could scarcely have related the episode of the scarfpin. Moreover, he had been very angry when he found her with the papers in her possession; and putting these two things together it would seem as if he knew more than he chose to tell. Jenny thought, for the gratification of her own curiosity, she would ask Kerry to explain these matters; and so went to the kitchen in search of him. Maria was there, cross and deaf as usual, and intimated that Kerry had been out some two hours on a message. This sounded extraordinary to Jenny, who knew that the old servant rarely left the house; but it argued that her father was anxious to have him out of the way during the visit of Hilliston. What did it all mean? A horrible fear seized the girl, lest she should have set some machinery in motion which would end in crushing her unhappy father. Unhappy he had always been, and given to seclusion. There must be some reason for this, and Jenny felt a vague alarm, which she could neither express nor display. Dearly enough had she paid for meddling with that old bundle of papers.
Again she returned to the garden, and went outside into the lane in order to see if Kerry was in sight. In a few minutes he came shuffling round the corner, and his withered face relaxed into a grin when he saw her standing by the gate. She was the apple of his eye, and though he scolded her often himself, yet he never let anyone say a word against her. To look askance at Jenny was to lose Kerry's favor and win his enmity forever.
"Ah! there ye are, me darling Miss Jenny," he said, with the familiarity of an old servant, "watching and waiting for poor old Kerry. Sure it is a sunbeam you are in this dark lane."
"Kerry! I want to speak to you."
The change in her tone struck him at once, and he peered sharply into her fresh face with his bleared eyes. A look of wonder stole into them at the sight of her white cheeks, and he crossed himself before replying so as to avert any evil that might befall. Kerry always lived in a state of suspense, waiting for a bolt from the blue. Jenny's scared face almost assured him that it had fallen.
"What is it,alannah?" he asked, pausing at the gate. "Is anything wrong?"
"Oh, no! nothing is wrong, Kerry! What could be wrong?" said Jenny nervously; "only papa has a visitor."
"Augh! His riverence?"
"No; not the vicar. A stranger—or at least almost a stranger," she said, half to herself. "It is many years since Mr. Hilliston came here."
"Mr. Hilliston!" cried Kerry, with an ashen face. "The black curse on him and his! What is he doing with the master?"
"I don't know, Kerry," replied Jenny, rather astonished at the old man's vehemence; "he has been with father over two hours."
"And I was sent away," muttered Kerry, under his breath. "Sorrow befall you, black attorney that you are. Never did you cross a threshold without bringing grief to all hearts. It was an evil day we saw you, and an evil day when we see you again."
He uplifted his hands as though about to invoke a curse on Hilliston, then, unexpectedly letting them fall, he turned sharply on Jenny.
"How did he come, miss?"
"By train from Eastbourne—no doubt he walked from the station."
"I'll drive him back," exclaimed Kerry, in quite an amiable voice. "Sure he'll be weary on his legs. Why not? I'll borrow his riverence's trap and the little mare with the white foreleg, but——"
"Kerry, father might not like it."
"Get along with ye," said Kerry cheerfully; "sure his riverence has offered the trap a hundred times. I'll take it on myself to explain to the master. Keep Mr. Hilliston here till he sees me arriving up this road—a dirty one it is, too, bad cess to it!"
He was hurrying off, when Jenny stopped him. She saw that his borrowing of the vicar's honey trap was a mere excuse to get Hilliston to himself for half an hour, and, rendered more curious than ever by Kerry's artful way of arranging matters, she ran after him and pulled his sleeve.
"Kerry! Kerry! Has Mr. Hilliston come over to see papa about the Larcher affair?"
"How should I know," retorted Kerry, relapsing into his crusty humor; "for shame, Miss Jenny! Is it your business or mine?"
"It is mine," said the girl, with a resolute look on her face. "Mr. Hilliston came over to ask me to be silent about what was contained in those papers you took from me."
"How does he know of that, miss?"
"Because all London now knows the story of the Larcher affair."
"Augh! Get away with ye. Sure it's a fool you're making of old Kerry," said the servant, in an incredulous and angry tone.
"Indeed, I am doing no such thing. I did not know there was any harm in reading those papers, and I did so. But I did more than that, Kerry. I told the story of the tragedy to Frank Linton; and he has written a book on the trial."
"A book! With the real names?"
"No! The names are fictitious, and the scene is laid in a different place. But the whole story is told in the novel."
"Does the master know?" asked Kerry, muttering something between his teeth.
"He does now. Mr. Hilliston saw the book in London, and came over to tell him, and to ask me to say no more about it."
"What's that for, anyhow," demanded Kerry, who seemed to scent new danger.
"Because Mr. Larcher is here!"
Kerry flung up his hands with a cry of astonishment. "Mr. Larcher, miss! Who are you telling about?"
"Oh, Mr. Claude Larcher," said Jenny, rather alarmed, for he had gripped her arm, "the son of the deceased man. He is staying at the Manor House with Mr. Tait."
For a few minutes Kerry stood looking at the ground in silence. Up to the present he had succeeded in preserving his calm, but the last piece of news upset him altogether, and he burst into violent speech.
"Augh! it's sorrow that is coming to this house, and the black curse will be on the threshold. Cold will the hearth be soon, and the old master will be driven out. Ohone! and we and time will have sent him into the cold world. Whirra! whirra!"
Jenny was so dumfounded by the unexpected eloquence of the old man that she could do nothing but stare at him. He caught her eye, and seeing that he had been indiscreet in so betraying himself, he cut short his lamentations, wiped his eyes, and relapsed once more into the crusty, faithful Kerry whom she knew. But he gave her a word of warning before he took his departure. "Say nothing of this, Miss Jenny," he remarked; "sure it's an old fool I am. Keep a silent tongue as the master and lawyer wishes you to do, and then, please the saints, things will go the better."
"But, Kerry, before you go, tell me. What is Mr. Hilliston to my father?"
"He is your father's best friend, miss," said Kerry, with emphasis; "his best and his worst," and with that enigmatic reply he hurried off down the lane in the direction of the vicarage, leaving Jenny in a state of bewilderment.
She could understand nothing, and at that moment sorely needed some friend with whom she could consult. Kerry gave her no satisfaction, and spoke so indefinitely that his conversation mystified in place of enlightening her; it was no use to make a confidant of Frank Linton, as notwithstanding his London reputation, which she had greatly contributed to, Jenny did not consider him sufficiently steady to be told of the commotion raised by his novel in her immediate circle.She could, therefore, discuss the matter with no one, and so annoyed was she by the whole affair that she by no means could bring herself to go back to the house while Hilliston was yet there. He would be gone, she trusted, in another half hour or so, and pending his departure she strolled along the lane in the hope of evading him.
But she only escaped Scylla to fall into Charybdis, for, as she turned the corner, Tait and Claude met her almost face to face. Jenny would have given much to escape this awkward meeting, and intimated her wish for solitude by passing the young men with a curt bow. The sight of Claude, the memory of his father's death, coupled with the suspicions she entertained, wrought her up to a pitch of excitement which she had great difficulty in concealing. She was, therefore, greatly annoyed when Tait took off his hat, and placed himself directly in her path. The little man thought it was too favorable an opportunity for introduction to be overlooked.
"Don't go away, Miss Paynton," he said, smiling. "I wish to introduce you to my friend Mr. Larcher. Claude, this is Miss Paynton, of whom you have heard me speak."
"How do you do, Miss Paynton?" said Claude, with a suave bow. "I hope you will pardon the irregularity of this introduction."
This remark made Jenny laugh, and set her more at ease. She was not particular as to forms and ceremonies herself, and the idea that a young man should apologize for such a trifle struck her as ridiculous. Moreover, a glance assured her that Mr. Larcher was by no means a formidable person. He was decidedlygood-looking, and had pleasant blue eyes, with a kindly look, so speech and glance broke the ice at once between them.
"Do you stay here long, Mr. Larcher?" she asked, pointedly ignoring her previous conversation with Tait.
"As long as I may," he replied, smiling. "London does not invite me at this time of the year. I prefer the fragrant country to the dusty town."
"He is a true lover of the fields, Miss Paynton," broke in Tait, admiring her self-possession, "and insisted that I should come out for a walk, so that he might lose no time in steeping himself in the sweetness of nature. Quite idyllic, isn't it?"
"Quite!" said Jenny lightly. "Good-by at present, Mr. Larcher! I am going to the vicarage, and have not a moment to spare. Mr. Tait, can I speak with you a minute?"
Tait obeyed with alacrity, and Claude was left to muse on the fresh charm of Jenny, and the sweetness of her voice. Her trim figure, her exquisite neatness, and springing gait made him admire her greatly, and when she tripped away with a smiling nod, he was so taken up in watching her that he failed to observe the grave face with which Tait joined him.
"As I thought," said the latter, when they resumed their walk.
"What is up now?"
"Oh, nothing more than usual! Hilliston has called on Paynton already. He is there now."
"You don't say so! I did not think he would have been so smart. However, you have stolen a march onhim. Do you intend to see him now? To wait his coming out?"
"Why, no," said Tait, after a moment's deliberation. "Rather let us go home again that Hilliston may not see us. I wish to wait and see what excuse he will make for not calling on you. You'll get a letter full of lies to-morrow, Claude."
A GLIMPSE OF THE PAST.
Hillistonremained a considerable time with his friend, and it was not until sunset that he left the house. He had a satisfied look on his face, as though the interview had answered his expectations; and so lifted up in spirit did he appear that he stepped out into the lane as jauntily as though he were quite a young man. It was over three miles to the railway station, and he would be obliged to walk back; but the prospect did not annoy him in the least; on the contrary so great a load had been removed from his mind by the late conversation that he felt fit to walk twice the distance. Yet such unusual light-heartedness might have recalled to his mind the Scotch superstition regarding its probable reason.
As he walked smartly to the end of the lane, the sun had just dropped behind the hills, leaving a trail of red glory behind him. Against the crimson background rose the gables and chimney of the Manor House, and the sight recalled to Hilliston the fact that young Larcher was staying in the mansion. He paused doubtfully, not certain whether to go in or pass on; for in his many schemes the least slip might prove prejudicial to their accomplishment.
"If I call in I can say my visit here was to do so,"he thought; "but it is too late; and though Claude might believe me, the little man would certainly be suspicious. Besides they are sure to find out from Jenny Paynton that I have seen her father. No! I shan't go in, but to-night I will write a letter stating that Paynton is a client whom I called to see about business. I have made it all right there, and it will take a cleverer man than Tait to upset my plans this time."
His meditations were interrupted by the rattle of wheels, and he turned to see Kerry driving a dappled pony in a small chaise. The old man distorted his withered face into a grotesque grin of welcome, and jumped out with extraordinary alacrity, when he came alongside Hilliston.
"Augh! augh, sir!" said Kerry, touching his hat in military fashion. "It's a sight for sore eyes to see ye. Miss Jenny told me you had walked over from the station, so I just borrowed the trap of his riverence, the vicar, to take you back."
"That is very kind of you, Kerry," replied Hilliston, in his most genial manner; "I am glad to accept your offer and escape the walk. You drive and I'll sit beside you."
Kerry did as he was told, and in a few minutes the trap containing the pair was rattling through the street at a good pace. Shortly they left the village behind and emerged into the open country. The road wound to right and left, past farmhouses, under bending trees, behind hedgerows, and occasionally passed over a stone bridge spanning a trickling brook matted with cresses. All this time neither of them had spoken, as each was seemingly wrapped up in his own thoughts,but as a matter of fact they were thinking of each other. Kerry wished to speak to Hilliston, but did not know how to begin; while Hilliston was in the same predicament regarding Kerry.
It was the latter who finally began the conversation, and he did so in a way which would have startled a less brave man than the lawyer. At the moment they were crossing a rather broad stream with a swift current, and Kerry pulled up the pony midway between the parapets of stone which protected the sides of the rude bridge. Rather astonished at this stoppage, for which he could assign no reason, Hilliston roused himself from his musings and looked inquiringly at Kerry. The man's eyes, significant and angry, were fixed on him in anything but a friendly manner.
"Do you know what I'm thinking, sir?" he said, coolly flicking the pony's back with the whip.
"No, Kerry," replied Hilliston, with equal coolness. "Is it of anything important?"
"It might be to you, sir," replied Kerry dryly. "I was just thinking whether it wouldn't be a good thing to send horse and trap and you and I into the water. Then there would be an end to your black heart and your black schemes."
"That is very possible, Kerry," said Hilliston, who knew his man, "but before going to extremities you had better make certain that you are acting for the best. Without me your master is ruined."
"We'll talk it over, sir," answered Kerry, and with a smart flick of his whip sent the pony across the bridge. When they were over and were trotting between hedgerows he resumed the conversation. "Why have ye come here again, sir?" he askedabruptly. "We were quit of you five years ago, and now you come to harry the master once more."
"I come for his own good, Kerry."
"Ah, now don't be after calling me Kerry. There's no one here, and it is Denis Bantry I am to you, Mr. Francis Hilliston."
The lawyer winced at the satirical emphasis placed on the name, but judged it wise to humor the old man. Kerry, as he called himself now, could be very obstinate and disagreeable when he chose, so knowing his powers in this respect Hilliston wisely conducted the conversation on as broad lines as was possible. Nevertheless, he carried the war into the enemy's camp by blaming Kerry for not taking better care of the bundle of papers which, through his negligence, had fallen into the hands of Jenny.
"And how was I to know, sir?" retorted Kerry querulously. "The papers were safely put away in the garret, and Miss Jenny had no call to go there."
"Well, Kerry, you see what it has led to. The account of the tragedy is all over London."
"And what of that, sir? Wasn't the account of it all over Horriston twenty-five years ago?"
"No doubt," said Hilliston coolly; "but that is all over and done with. It is useless to dwell on the past and its errors. But now Captain Larcher's son is bent on finding out the truth."
"And why shouldn't he, sir?"
"I don't think you need ask the question, Kerry," replied the lawyer, in so significant a tone that the old servant turned away his head. "It is not desirable that Claude Larcher should be enlightened. We know what took place on that night if no one else does, andfor more reasons than one it is advisable that we should keep our knowledge to ourselves."
"Augh," said Kerry gruffly, "you don't want it known that you were in the garden on that night, sir?"
"I do not," answered Hilliston, with hasty emphasis. "I spoke falsely at the trial to save Mrs. Larcher. I rather think you did so yourself, Kerry."
"For the master's sake—for the master's sake! As for the mistress she brought all the trouble on our heads. I lied, sir, and you lied, but she wasn't worth it. But is there to be trouble over it now, Mr. Hilliston?"
"No. Not if you baffle the inquiries of those young men at the Manor House. They will meet you and question you, and get the truth out of you if they can. Whether they do or not all depends upon yourself."
"You leave it to me, sir," said Kerry confidently. "I'll manage to send them away without being a bit the wiser. And now, Mr. Hilliston, that this is settled, I would speak to you about my sister Mona."
Hilliston changed color, but nevertheless retained sufficient composure to fix his eyes on the man's face with a sad smile. "What of her, Kerry?" he asked, in a melancholy tone; "you know she is dead and gone."
"Augh! Augh! But her grave, sir. You must tell me where it is, for I have it in my mind to go and see it."
"What would be the good of you doing that," said Hilliston disapprovingly.
"Because I was harsh with her, sir. If she did wrong, she suffered for it, and it was wicked of me to let her go as I did. Where is her grave, sir?"
"In Chiswick Cemetery," said Hilliston, as the chaise stopped at the railway station; "if you come up to London and call at my office I will tell you where to find it."
Kerry was profuse in his thanks, and, touching his hat gratefully, accepted the shilling which Hilliston put into his hand; but when the train containing Hilliston started for Eastbourne, he threw away the money, and shook his fist after the retreating carriages. Not a word did he say, but the frown on his face grew deeper and deeper as he got into the trap again, and drove slowly back to Thorston. Evidently he trusted Hilliston no more than did Tait or Jenny.
It was now quite dark, for the daylight and afterglow had long since vanished from the western skies, and the moon was not yet up. Only the stars were visible here and there in the cloudy sky, and finding their light insufficient to drive by, Kerry got down and lighted the carriage lamp. Heaven only knows of what he was thinking as he drove along the dusky lanes. The past unrolled itself before his eyes, and what he saw there made him groan and heave deep sighs. But there was no use in so indulging his memories, and thinking of his master, Kerry braced himself up to see what could be done toward meeting the dangers which seemed to threaten on all sides. When he delivered the trap again to the groom of the vicar, he hit on an idea which he proceeded to carry out.
Instead of going back at once to Rose Cottage, he borrowed a piece of paper and a pencil from the groom, and laboriously traced a few lines by the light of the stable lantern. Putting this missive in his pocket, hewent off in the direction of the Manor House; but leaving the public road he skirted the low stone wall which divided it from the adjacent fields. Kerry knew every inch of the ground, and even in the darkness had no difficulty in guiding himself to his destination. This was a vantage point at the end of the wall, whence he could see into a sitting room of the house. In a few minutes Kerry was perched on this wall, busily engaged in tying his letter to an ordinary sized stone.
Almost immediately below him the mansion stretched in a kind of abrupt right angle, in which was set two wide windows overlooking a bed of flowers. These were open to the cool night air, and the blinds had been drawn down, so that Kerry from his lofty hiding-place could see right into the room. A tall brass lamp stood at one end, and under this sat Claude Larcher, smoking and thinking. The glare of the lamp fell full on his fresh-colored face and light hair, so that Kerry felt as though he were gazing at a phantom out of that dread past.
"He's as like his father as two peas," muttered Kerry, devouring the picture with his eyes; "a fine boy and an honest gentleman. Augh! augh! To think that I have nursed him on my knee when he was a bit of lad, and now I'm here telling him to go away. But it's better that than the other. A curse on those who brought him here and put sorrow into his heart."
Thus muttering, Kerry threw the stone lightly through the window. It fell heavily on the floor within a few feet of Claude, who sprang to his feet with an exclamation. Not waiting to see the result, Kerry hastily tumbled off the wall, jumped the ditch,and made off in the darkness. By a circuitous route he regained Rose Cottage, and entered into the kitchen worn out in body and mind. He had done his duty so far as in him lay, and mentally prayed that the result might tend to remove the threatened danger.
Meanwhile Claude had picked up the stone and ran to the window. He could see nothing, for Kerry was already halfway across the fields; he could not even guess whence the stone had been thrown. All was silent, and though he listened intently, he could not hear the sound of retreating footsteps. With some wonderment he untied the paper from the stone and smoothed it out. It was badly written and badly spelled, and ran as follows:
"Bewar of danger, Claude Larcher, tak a frind's advise and go quick away."
"Bewar of danger, Claude Larcher, tak a frind's advise and go quick away."
There was no signature, and the young man was looking at it in growing perplexity when Tait entered the room.
"What did you shout out about?" he asked carelessly. "I heard you in the next room."
"You would have shouted also," replied Larcher, holding out the paper. "This was flung into the room tied round a stone."
"You don't say so! Who threw it?"
"I can't say. I rushed to the window at once, but saw no sign of anyone. What do you think of the hint therein contained?"
Tait read the anonymous communication, pondered over it, and finally delivered his opinion by uttering a name. "Hilliston," he said confidently, "Hilliston."
"Nonsense!" said Claude sharply; "why should he deal in underhand ways of this sort. If he wanted me to go away, he could have called and urged me to do so. But this—I don't believe Hilliston would condescend to such trickery."
"When a man is in a fix he will descend to anything to get himself out of it," replied Tait, placing the paper in his pocketbook. "I'll keep this, and, perhaps, before many days are over I'll have an opportunity of proving to you that I speak truly. Who else wants you to go away besides Hilliston."
"Kerry—Denis Bantry might!"
"I doubt whether Kerry knows that you are here. You must give matters time to develop themselves, as the inmates of Rose Cottage can't know all about us within twenty-four hours."
"What between your confessions to Jenny, and Hilliston's own knowledge, I think they'll know a good deal in one way or another."
"They can know as much as they like," said Tait quietly, "but we know more, and if it comes to a tug of war I think you and I can win against Hilliston and Co. But come outside and let us examine the top of the wall."
"Do you think the stone was thrown from there?" asked Claude, as they went out into the garden.
"I fancy so from your description. Light this candle."
The night was so still that the flame of the candle hardly wavered. Tait gave it to Claude to hold, and easily climbed up the wall by thrusting the toes of his boots in among the loose stones. He examined the top carefully, and then getting the light tied it to apiece of string and lowered it on the other side. In a few minutes he came down again with a satisfied look.
"As I thought," he said, blowing out the candle. "Someone has been on that wall and thrown the stone from there. I saw the marks of feet on the other side. The man who delivered the letter jumped the ditch and made off across the fields."
"You don't think it is Hilliston?" said Claude doubtfully.
"No; but I think it is an emissary of Hilliston. Perhaps Denis Bantry."
"Tait!" said Larcher, after a pause, "from Hilliston's visit to Paynton, from the way in which Paynton persistently secludes himself from the world; and from the knowledge we possess that the information for Linton's book came out of that cottage, I have come to a conclusion."
"What is that?"
"I believe that Ferdinand Paynton is none other than Mark Jeringham, who killed my father."
PREPARING THE GROUND.
Awarethat Claude would hear sooner or later of his visit to Paynton, the lawyer wrote to forestall the information, skillfully alleging a business engagement as his excuse for the visit. "I would have called on you," he continued, "but that it was already late when I left my client, Mr. Paynton, and I had to return to Eastbourne in time for dinner. However, I hope to come over again shortly, and then you must tell me how you are getting on with your case. I am afraid you will learn nothing at Thorston."
"He knows better than that," said Tait, to whom the letter was shown; "he is aware that we have cut the ground from under his feet so far as Jenny is concerned. Moreover, I am certain that he is the author of that anonymous letter of a few days since."
"Do you really think he came here to ask Miss Paynton to keep silence?" asked Claude, returning the letter to his pocket.
"My dear fellow, I am certain of it. And he also wishes to show us that he knows Paynton, so as to warn us against asking questions in that quarter."
"Indeed, I think it is useless to do so," said Larcher doubtfully; "you know we called yesterday and were refused admittance."
"Oh, I spoke to Mr. Linton about that," repliedTait easily; "it seems that such is invariably the case, as this hermit will see no one."
"Why? What can be his reason for such persistent seclusion?"
"I can't say, unless your surmise is correct, and he is Jeringham."
"I am sure he is," said Claude emphatically. "Why was the bundle of newspapers containing an account of the murder found in his house? What is Denis Bantry doing there if Paynton is not Jeringham?"
"The shoe is on the other foot," remarked Tait dryly. "What is Denis Bantry doing there if Paynton is Jeringham? You forget, Claude, that we suspect Jeringham as the criminal. If this were so, or if Paynton were Jeringham, I hardly think your father's devoted servant would be at his beck and call, unless," added Tait, as an after thought, "Denis Bantry is also implicated, as we imagine."
"I can't understand it," cried Claude, catching up his hat; "in place of growing clearer, the matter seems to become more involved. How do you intend to proceed? It seems to me that we are at a dead stop."
"By no means, my dear fellow. There is Kerry, alias Denis Bantry, to be examined. We must learn the truth from him."
"He won't tell it! Particularly if our suspicions are correct."
"Perhaps not, but I have provided against that failure. You must appeal to him as the son of his old master, while I am absent."
"Absent! Where are you going?"
"Can't you guess? To Horriston, of course, in order to pick up what information I can. There are sure to be people still alive who remember your father and mother; who recollect the trial, and are still acquainted with Mr. Hilliston. I expect to learn a good deal about that gentleman there; and perhaps something about Jeringham and his disappearance."
"Humph! I doubt if you will be successful," replied Claude gloomily; "however, there is no harm in trying. Where are we going now?"
"I told you before we set out. To call on the vicar. As we can't see Jenny at her father's house we must meet her in another person's. She is like a daughter to Mrs. Linton, and is constantly at the vicarage."
"And no doubt young Linton loves her."
"I'm sure he does. Have you any objection?" demanded Tait slyly.
"None! None!" said Claude hastily. "I have only met her for a few minutes, you know. But she is a remarkably pretty girl, and from what you say seems to be clever. Too good by half for that idiot."
"Idiot! John Parver, novelist, the lion of the season, an idiot? You forget he wrote the book of the year."
"So he says," responded Larcher dryly. "But for my part, I believe Jenny Paynton has more to do with it than he. I have no doubt she wrote it."
Further conversation was put an end to for the time being by their arrival at the vicarage. Mr. Linton, a stiff old gentleman with a severe face, received them very kindly, and unbent so far as in him lay. He had been acquainted with Tait for many years, and it was during a visit to him that the little man had seen andpurchased Thorston Manor. Knowing him to be wealthy, and being well disposed toward him for his own sake, Mr. Linton was anxious to make the Lord of the Manor at home in his house. Vicars cannot afford to neglect opulent parishioners.
"I hope, Mr. Tait, that you will shortly take up your abode altogether at the Manor," said he pompously. "I am not in favor of an absentee landlord."
"Oh, you'll see a good deal of me, Mr. Linton, I assure you. I am too much in love with the beauties of the place to stay long away. Moreover, I am not a roamer like my friend Larcher here."
"It is necessary with me," said Claude, smiling; "I assure you, sir, I am not the wandering vagabond Tait would make me out to be."
"It is proper to see the world," said the vicar, with heavy playfulness, "and when you have made your fortune in far countries, Mr. Larcher, you may settle down in this favored spot."
"I could wish for nothing better, Mr. Linton. But the time is yet far off for that."
"My son is also fond of traveling," continued Mr. Linton. "Now that he is making a good income he tells me that it is his intention to go to Italy."
"You are proud of your son, Mr. Linton," said Tait genially.
"Without doubt! Without doubt! The book he wrote is clever, although I do not care for sensational writing myself."
"It pays. The taste of the age is in the direction of sensationalism."
"Certainly, certainly. And I suppose it is only natural that Francis should write some frivolity. Hewas never a deep scholar. What does astonish me," added the vicar, raising his eyebrows, "is that a student like Mr. Paynton should desire to read the book."
Tait and Claude glanced at one another with the same thought in their minds respecting this information. Informed by Hilliston of the use made by Linton of the Larcher affair, Paynton was anxious to see in what light the case had been placed. This curiosity argued that the recluse had been one of the actors in the tragedy; if so, he could only be Jeringham, since Captain Larcher was dead, and they knew both Denis Bantry and Francis Hilliston. The vicar, worthy man, was quite ignorant of the effect produced by this announcement; nor was he undeceived by the artful reply of Tait.
"Naturally Mr. Paynton wants to read the book," said the latter diplomatically. "If I mistake not, he has a great liking for Frank."
"Indeed, yes," responded Mr. Linton thankfully. "He taught Francis Latin along with Jenny. He would have made a scholar of him. I am indeed sorry that my son failed to profit by his association with so brilliant a student. He might have written a better book."
Clearly the vicar was by no means impressed with the sensationalism of "A Whim of Fate," and would rather his son had written an honest pamphlet or a grave tragedy than have produced so meretricious a piece of three-volume frivolity. However, he had no time to talk further on this matter, for as he ended his speech the subject of it entered the room with Jenny and Mrs. Linton. The former started and flushed as shesaw Claude, and remembered his romantic history and their former meeting.
"My wife, Mr. Larcher. You know Mr. Tait of course, my dear. Miss Paynton, Mr. Larcher, and my son."
"I have already had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Frank Linton in town," said Claude, holding out his hand. The young author took it willingly enough, and then the company resolved itself into two groups; the vicar and his wife conversing with Tait, while Claude, seconded by Frank, made himself agreeable to Jenny. Neither the lady nor the author were pleased with this arrangement, as the former felt uneasy when she remembered her father's position, while the latter felt jealous of Claude's superior good looks. Frank Linton was, of course, ignorant that he was in the company of the son of the Horriston victim; he did not even know the names of the people or that of the place, and had simply written the story on the meager information afforded by Jenny. He could not, therefore, understand the interest which those two displayed in one another, and so grew jealous on seeing it.
It would be useless to report this conversation, which in the main consisted of frivolities. Warned by her father, Jenny was on her guard, and carefully avoided any allusion to the Larcher affair. On his part, not knowing the reticence Jenny had practised with regard to Linton, Claude tried to lead the conversation into a grove likely to deal with the novel and case. At one point he did this so clumsily that Jenny spoke outright on the subject.
"Let us talk no more of that, Mr. Larcher," she said quietly. "I told Mr. Tait all I knew the other day."
"I have to thank you——" began Claude, when she cut him short, and turned the conversation into another channel. The young man was disappointed in this, but nevertheless fell in with her humor, and when, following Tait's example, he arose to go, he was quite charmed with this country girl.
"I hope you will come soon again," said the vicar hospitably, as he shook hands. "We must have a party shortly. Our friends, Mr. and Mrs. Hilliston, have promised to come and stay the night during next week."
"Another move, and a foolish one," thought Tait, but said aloud: "We will be charmed, Mr. Linton, the more so as Mr. Hilliston is my friend's guardian—or rather was."
Jenny looked startled at this, and her rich color faded when she said good-by to Claude. The mystery of the affair was beginning to worry her, and she could by no means understand the relation of Hilliston to Larcher; Hilliston, who was the guardian and friend; Hilliston who, judging from the veto put on her speaking, was inimical to Claude. Untroubled by their conversation Claude held but one idea when he left the house with Tait.
"I'm afraid I am in love," said he, looking at his friend.
"What! at first sight? Impossible!"
"Shakspere did not think so, or he would not have written 'Romeo and Juliet.' Yes, I believe I am in love. Jenny is as fresh and fair, and pure and sweet as a mountain daisy."
"You had better tell Linton so," said Tait dryly, whereat Larcher laughed. He was too confident in hisown powers to be timorous of rivalry with the celebrated individual.
"There is no need to tell him," he said lightly; "the poor man was eaten up with jealousy when I spoke to Miss Paynton. By the way, did you see that she changed color when you mentioned that Hilliston had been my guardian?"
"It was natural that she should. Hilliston is a suspicious person in her eyes, and this discovery will perplex her still more regarding his relations with you. Jenny is a very clever young woman, but I wonder if she is clever enough to put this and that together."
"To arrive at what conclusion?"
"At the most logical conclusion. That her father is Jeringham, whom she suspects of the crime."
KERRY.
Having, as he considered, prepared the ground by acquainting Claude with the notabilities of the neighborhood, Tait next proceeded to secure an interview with Kerry. This was by no means an easy matter, as, either by accident or design, Kerry eluded all the young men's attempts to interview him. Hitherto he had been accustomed to fish daily in the Lax, but now, doubtless by direction of his master, he forsook his customary sport for some considerable time. His absence speedily roused Tait's suspicions.
"Hilliston has succeeded well," said he, after one of these futile attempts to see the old servant. "He has put Jeringham on his guard."
"Paynton, you mean," observed Claude, looking up from his plate. They were at breakfast when this conversation took place.
"I thought you had determined in your own mind that he was Jeringham."
"No," said Claude, coloring a little; "I have come round to your opinion in the matter. If Paynton were Jeringham, I don't think Denis Bantry would be in his service."
"Ah!" remarked Tait sarcastically, "is that the result of reflection or of love?"
"Of love? I don't understand you."
"Yes, you do, Claude. You are in love with Jenny. The last week has only deepened your first impressions. I believe she likes you also, and so I foresee a marriage which will rob me of my friend."
"I am not so certain of that as you are," said Larcher, after a pause. "Miss Paynton has given me no hint of her feelings, and our acquaintance is yet young. Even if I did design to make her my wife, I would have to gain her consent, and that of her father. Judging from Paynton's present attitude that consent would most probably be refused."
Tait did not immediately reply, but stared out of the window with an absent look in his eyes. The remark changed the current of his ideas.
"I wonder who Paynton can be?" he said at length, with some hesitation. "That he is connected with the case I am certain from the way in which he has profited by the warning of Hilliston. Like yourself, I have my doubts regarding his identity with Jeringham, because of Denis Bantry. Who is he? I must go to Horriston to-morrow and find out."
"And what am I to do in the meantime?"
"Hunt out Kerry and learn the truth," said Tait coolly. "I think, after all, it will be best for you to see him alone. I am a stranger, and he won't speak before me; but to you, the son of his old master, he may open his heart. Once he does that you may learn the truth."
"I doubt it."
"Well, there is a chance. Whatever tie binds Denis to Paynton, you must not forget that he is Irish. The Irish are an impulsive and excitable race, so it is just possible that his feelings may carry him away inyour presence, and he may tell you all we wish to know."
"Do you think he can solve the mystery?"
"Yes. He was in the house when Jeringham came home with your mother; he picked up the garnet pin, and, it may be, can tell us to whom it belongs. It may be the property of Hilliston, as is stated in the novel; on the other hand it may belong to your father or to Jeringham. Of one point I am sure, the person who owned the pin killed your father. Kerry, or rather Denis Bantry, knows the owner, and consequently the murderer."
"If so, why did he not denounce him?"
"There you puzzle me," said Tait, rising to his feet; "that is one of the many mysteries of this case. Only Denis can explain, and he may do so to you. I shall stay at home this morning, and prepare for my journey to Horriston; but you had better take your fishing rod and go to your post."
The post alluded to was on the banks of the Lax, where for the past week the young men had patiently waited for the appearance of Denis. On this morning Claude found himself alone for the first time; and sat down with a disconsolate air, for he had little hope that Denis would make his appearance. In this surmise he was wrong, for scarcely had he been seated half an hour when the Irishman came slowly along on the opposite bank of the river.
He was a little old man, gray as a badger, with stooped shoulders, and a cross-looking face. Without vouchsafing a look in Claude's direction, he prepared his fishing tackle and began industriously to whip the stream. Hardly knowing how to break the ice, Larchersilently continued his sport, and the two, divided by the water, stood like statues on opposite banks.
After a time Denis, who had been cunningly taking stock of Claude, and wondering why his letter had not produced the effect intended, moved down to where the stream narrowed itself between large stones. Determined to invent some excuse for speaking, Larcher followed after a time, and stepped out on to a bowlder, apparently to throw his line into a likely looking pool. Being within reach, he flung his line, and the next moment it was entangled in that of Kerry's.
"I'm sorry! Quite an accident," said Claude, noting the wrath on Kerry's face. "Let me disentangle it."
He jumped into the brown water and, before Kerry could make any objection, was across on the other side, gripping the lines. Without a word the Irishman let him separate the two lines, and then busied himself with fixing a fly. Nettled at this determined silence Claude spoke.
"I wish to speak with you," he said, tapping the other on the shoulder.
"Is it to me ye speak?" replied Kerry, with an admirable look of surprise; "and what has the like of you, sir, to say to me?"
"A great deal. Do you know who I am?"
"Sure, an' I do, sir. The friend of Mr. Tait, you are no less."
"But my name. Do you know it?"
"Bad luck to this stream, there's never a fish in it," grumbled Kerry, with a convenient attack of deafness.
Claude was in nowise angered.
"That is very clever, Kerry," he said; "but——"
"An' how do you know my name is Kerry?"
"Are you surprised that I should know it?"
"I am that," replied Kerry sharply. "I never set eyes on you before."
"Oh, yes, you did—twenty-five years ago."
"Begorra, that's a lie, anyhow!" muttered Kerry, under his breath, with an uneasy wriggle.
"It is not a lie, and you know it, my man," said Larcher firmly; "it is no use your pretending ignorance. I know who you are."
"Devil a doubt of it! Kerry, you called me."
"Yes! Because you are known by that name here. But at Horriston——"
Claude stopped. He saw the hands of the old man grip the rod so tight that the knuckles whitened. The name had produced the effect he intended. So, almost without a pause, he continued, and aimed another blow at Kerry's imperturbability. "At Horriston," he resumed, "you were known as Denis Bantry."
"Was I, now?" said Kerry, prepared for the attack. "Augh, to think of it! And where might Horriston be, sir?"
"You ought to know that, Denis."
"Your honor will be after giving me the name of a friend of yours."
"Quite right," rejoined Claude, seizing the opportunity. "You were—nay, you are—a friend of mine. I am the little lad you carried in your arms—to whom you told stories, and sang songs. Children forget a great deal, but I have not forgotten you, Denis."
In dogged silence the old man turned his head away, intently bent on his sport, but suddenly he raised thecuff of his coat and wiped away a betraying tear. Seeing that he had touched the man's sympathy, Claude followed up his advantage.
"You are not going to deny me, Denis, are you?" he said entreatingly. "I am down here on an errand which you must guess. If Hilliston——"
"The curse of Cromwell on him!" said Kerry, under his breath.
"If Hilliston told you to keep silent," said Claude, affecting to take no notice of the interjection, which confirmed his suspicions, "I, the son of your dead master, want you to speak. I wish to find out who killed my father. I wish to punish him, for you know his name."
Kerry turned furiously on the young man, but it seemed to Claude that his anger was feigned to hide a deeper emotion.
"It is a dirty informer you'd have me be," he cried, with a stamp of his foot, "to betray him whose bread I eat. I'll tell you nothing, for it's that much I know."
"Denis——"
"I'm not Denis! It's Kerry I am. I know nothing of Horriston, or of you, sir. Go away with ye, young gentleman, and don't be after disgracing an old servant to play the spy and cheat."
Then, still breathing fury, he rushed away, but paused some distance off to raise his hands to the sky with an appealing gesture. The impulsive Irish nature had broken through diplomatic reserve, and, fearful of saying too much, Kerry saved himself by flight. Claude guessed this and forebore to follow him.
"I have broken the ice at all events," he said to himself, when returning to the Manor to tell Tait. "The next time I may be fortunate enough to force the truth out of him. He knows it, I am certain. He hates Hilliston and loves me. I can easily guess with whom he sympathizes, in spite of his master. He is Denis, sure enough, but who is Paynton?"