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The Solitary Farm

by Fergus Hume · English · Gutenberg #35146 · 523,840 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Solitary Farm

Author: Fergus Hume


        
Release date: February 2, 2011 [eBook #35146]
                Most recently updated: July 7, 2013

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SOLITARY FARM ***




Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)









                          The Solitary Farm

                           BY FERGUS HUME

AUTHOR OF "THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB," "THE SACRED HERB," "THE SEALED
MESSAGE," "THE GREEN MUMMY," "THE OPAL SERPENT," "THE RED WINDOW," "THE
YELLOW HOLLY," ETC., ETC., ETC.


    G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
    PUBLISHERS      NEW YORK

    Copyright 1909 by
    G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY

    _The Solitary Farm_




[Illustration: AS BELLA RAN INTO HIS ARMS HE DRAGGED HER INTO THE
STANDING CORN.]




CONTENTS


I. THE DOMAIN OF CERES

II. THE WOOIN' O'T

III. THE TARDY LOVER

IV. SUDDEN DEATH

V. A MYSTERIOUS CRIME

VI. THE INQUEST

VII. CYRIL AND BELLA

VIII. THE WITCH-WIFE

IX. THE COMING OF DURGO

X. A LOVER'S MEETING

XI. A RECOGNITION

XII. CYRIL'S STORY

XIII. MRS. TUNKS' DISCOVERY

XIV. WHAT SILAS PENCE KNEW

XV. DURGO, THE DETECTIVE

XVI. THE PAPERS

XVII. A CONFESSION

XVIII. THE GHOST

XIX. AN AWKWARD POSITION

XX. THE MASTER MAGICIAN

XXI. A DESPERATE ATTEMPT

XXII. MRS. VAND'S REPENTANCE

XXIII. WHAT LUKE TUNKS SAW

XXIV. A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY

XXV. RUN TO EARTH




THE SOLITARY FARM




CHAPTER I

THE DOMAIN OF CERES


"S' y' want t' merry m' gel, Bella!" remarked Captain Huxham, rubbing
his stout knees slowly, and repeating the exact words of the clerical
suitor. "S' thet she may be yer handmaiden, an' yer spouse, and yer
sealed fountain, es y' put it in yer flowery pulpit lingo. Jus' so! Jus'
so!" and shifting the quid which bulged his weather-beaten cheek, he
stared with hard blue eyes. "Jus' so, Mr. Pence!"

The young minister and the elderly skipper discussed the subject of
marriage in a shabby antique room of small size, which had the
appearance of having been used to more aristocratic company. The
dark-oak panelled walls, the grotesquely-carved ceiling-beams, the
Dutch-tiled fire-place, with its ungainly brass dogs, and the deep
slanting embrasure of the lozenge-paned casement, suggested Georgian
beaux and belles dancing buckram minutes, or at least hard-riding
country squires plotting Jacobite restoration. But these happenings were
in the long-ago, but this stately Essex manor-house had declined
woefully from its high estate, and now sheltered a rough and ready
mariner, who camped, rather than dwelt, under its roof.

Captain Huxham, seated on the broad, low window-sill, thrust his hands
into the pockets of his brass-buttoned pea-jacket, and swung his short,
sturdy legs, which were enveloped in wide blue-cloth trousers. He was a
squat man, with lengthy arms and aggressively square shoulders, and his
large, flat face was as the winter sun for redness. Clean-shaven, save
for a fringe of white hair which curved under his stubborn chin from one
large ear to the other, his tough skin was seamed with innumerable
wrinkles, accumulating particularly thickly about his eyes. He had gold
rings in his ears, and plenteous grey hair hung like seaweed from under
a peaked cap, pushed back from his lined forehead. He looked what he
truly was--a rough, uneducated, imperious old sea-dog, whose knowledge
of strong drink and stronger language was only exceeded by his strenuous
grip of the purse which held the savings of many rapacious years. In
this romantic room he looked entirely out of place. Nevertheless it was
his own property, and while considering his answer to Mr. Pence, he
examined it mechanically.

To the left he beheld a large open fire-place, which gaped under an
ornate oak mantel-piece, carved with the crest and motto of the
dispossessed family. A door appeared on the right, leading to the
entrance hall, and this also was elaborately carved with wreaths of
fruit and flowers, and with fat, foolish Cupids, entangled in knots of
ribbon. The fourth wall was unbroken, and faced the window, but against
it stood a common deal table covered incongruously with an embroidered
Indian cloth. Above this, and leaning forward, was a round convex
mirror, surmounted by a Napoleonic eagle. This was flanked on one side
by an oilskin coat and a sou'-wester, and on the other by a sextant and
a long brass telescope. A Louis Quinze sofa, with a gilt frame, and
covered with faded brocade, fitted into the space between the fire-place
and the casement. In the opposite corner, with its back to the outer
wall, stood a large modern office-desk of mahogany, with a flexible
curved lid, which was drawn down and fastened, because a visitor was in
the room. Captain Huxham never received anyone in his sanctum unless he
first assured himself that the desk was closed, and a small,
green-painted safe near it fast-locked.

There were three or four rush-bottomed chairs, which looked plebeian
even on the dusty, uncarpeted floor. On the mantel-shelf stood a
lyre-shaped clock, bearing the sun symbol of Louis XIV.; several cheap
and gaudy vases, and many fantastic shells picked up on South Sea
beaches. Here and there were Japanese curios, Polynesian mats and war
weapons; uncouth Chinese idols, stuffed birds, Indian ivory carvings,
photographs and paintings of various ships, and all the flotsam and
jetsam which collects in a sailor's sea-chest during endless voyages.
The deal table was littered with old magazines, yellow-backed novels,
and navigation books with ragged covers; while the fire-place was a
species of dust-bin for matches, cigar-ends, torn papers, orange peel,
and such like. Everywhere the dust lay thick. It was an odd room--at
once sumptuous and dingy, markedly chaotic, yet orderly in an untidy
way. It reflected more or less the mind of its present owner, who, as
has been before remarked, camped, rather than lived, amidst his
surroundings. In the same way do Eastern nomads house in the ruined
palaces of kings.

Silas Pence, who was the minister of the Little Bethel Chapel in
Marshely village, curled his long thin legs under his chair and looked
anxiously at his meditative host. That portion of the light from the
casement not intercepted by Huxham's bulky figure, revealed a lean,
eager face, framed in sparse, fair hair, parted in the centre and
falling untidily on the coat collar. The young preacher's features were
sharply defined and somewhat mean, while a short and scanty beard
scarcely concealed his sensitive mouth. His forehead was lofty, his chin
weak, and his grey eyes glittered in a strange, fanatical fashion. There
were exceptional possibilities both for good and evil in that pale
countenance, and it could be guessed that environment would have much to
do with the development of such possibilities. Mr. Pence was arrayed in
a tightly-fitting frock coat and loose trousers, both of worn
broadcloth. He wore also a low collar with a white tie, bow-fashion,
white socks, and low-heeled shoes, and every part of his attire,
although neat and well-brushed and well-mended, revealed dire poverty.
On the whole, he had the rapt ascetic gaze of a mediaeval saint, and a
monkish robe would have suited him better than his semi-ecclesiastical
garb as a Non-conformist preacher.

But if Pence resembled a saint, Huxham might have passed for a grey old
badger, sullen and infinitely wary. Having taken stock of his worldly
possessions, recalling meanwhile a not altogether spotless past, he
brought his shrewd eyes back again to his visitor's attentive face.
Still anxious to gain time for further consideration, he remarked once
more, "So' y' want t' merry m' gel, Bella, Mr. Pence? Jus' so! Jus' so!"

The other replied, in a musical but high-pitched voice almost feminine
in its timbre, "I am not comely; I am not wealthy; nor do I sit in the
seat of the rulers. But the Lord has gifted me with a pleading tongue,
an admiring eye, and an admonishing nature. With Isabella by my side,
Brother Huxham, I can lead more hopefully our little flock towards the
pleasant land of Beulah. What says Isaiah?"

"Dunno!" confessed the mariner. "Ain't bin readin' Isaiaher's log
lately."

"Thou shalt be called Hephzibah," quoted Mr. Pence shrilly, "and thy
land Beulah: for the Lord delighteth in thee, and thy land will be
married."

"Didn't know es Isaiaher knew of m' twenty acres," growled Huxham, with
another turn of his quid; "'course ef it be, es y' merry Bella, th' land
goes with her when I fits int' m' little wooden overcoat. Y' kin take
yer davy on thet, Mr. Pence, fur I've a conscience, I hev,--let 'em say
contrary es likes."

It must have been an uneasy conscience, for Captain Huxham glared
defiantly at his visitor, and then cast a doubtful look over his left
shoulder, as though he expected to be tapped thereon. Pence was puzzled
as much by this behaviour as by the literal way in which the sailor had
taken the saying of the prophet. "Isaiah spoke in parables," he
explained, lamely.

"Maybe," grunted Huxham, "but y' speak sraight 'nough, Mr. Pence.
Touching this merrage. Y' love Bella, es I take it?"

"I call her Hephzibah," burst out the young minister enthusiastically,
"which, being interpreted, means--my delight is in her."

"Jus' so! Jus' so! But does th' gel love you, Mr. Pence?"

The face of the suitor clouded. "I have my doubts," he sighed, "seeing
that she has looked upon vanity in the person of a man from Babylon."

"Damn your parables!" snapped the captain; "put a blamed name t' him."

"Mr. Cyril Lister," began Pence, and was about to reprove his host for
the use of strong language, when he was startled by much worse. And
Huxham grew purple in the face when using it.

It is unnecessary to set down the exact words, but the fluency and
originality and picturesqueness of the retired mariner's speech made
Silas close his scandalised ears. With many adjectives of the most lurid
description, the preacher understood Huxham to say that he would see his
daughter grilling in the nethermost pit of Tophet before he would permit
his daughter to marry this--adjective, double adjective--swab from
London.

"I ain't seen th' blighter," bellowed the captain, furiously, "but I've
heard of his blessed name. Bella met him et thet blamed Miss Ankers',
the school-mistress', house, she did. Sh' wanted him t' kim an' see this
old shanty, 'cause he writes fur the noospapers, cuss him. But I up an'
tole her, es I'd twist her damned neck ef she spoke agin with the
lop-sided--"

"Stop! stop!" remonstrated Pence feebly. "We are all brothers in----"

"The lubber ain't no relative o' mine, hang him; an' y' too, fur sayin'
so. Oh, Lister, Lister!" Huxham swung two huge fists impotently. "I hate
him."

"Why? why? why?" babbled the visitor incoherently.

The surprise in his tones brought Huxham to his calmer senses, like the
cunning old badger he was.

"'Cause I jolly well do," he snorted, wiping his perspiring face with a
flaunting red and yellow bandana. "But it don't matter nohow, and I arsk
yer pardon fur gittin' up steam. My gel don't merry no Lister, y' kin
lay yer soul t' thet, Mr. Pence. Lister! Lister!" He slipped off the
sill in his excitement. "I hates the whole damned breed of 'em;
sea-cooks all, es oughter t' hev their silly faces in the slush tub."

"Do you know the Lister family then?" asked Pence, open-mouthed at this
vehemence.

This remark cooled the captain still further. "Shut yer silly mouth," he
growled, rolling porpoise-fashion across the room, "and wait till I git
m' breath back int' m' bellers."

Being a discreet young man, Pence took the hint and silently watched the
squat, ungainly figure of his host lunging and plunging in the narrow
confines of the apartment. Whatever may have been the reason, it was
evident that the name of Lister acted like a red rag to this nautical
bull. Pence ran over in his mind what he knew of the young stranger, to
see if he could account for this outbreak. He could recall nothing
pertinent. Cyril Lister had come to remain in Marshely some six months
previously, and declared himself to be a journalist in search of quiet,
for the purpose of writing a novel. He occupied a tiny cottage in the
village, and was looked after by Mrs. Block, a stout, gossiping widow,
who spoke well of her master. So far as Pence knew, Captain Huxham had
never set eyes on the stranger, and could not possibly know anything of
him or of his family. Yet, from his late outburst of rage, it was
apparent that he hated the young man.

Lister sometimes went to London, but for the most part remained in the
village, writing his novel and making friends with the inhabitants. At
the house of the board-school mistress he had met Bella Huxham, and the
two had been frequently in one another's company, in spite of the
captain's prohibition. But it was evident that Huxham knew nothing of
their meetings. Pence did, however, and resented that the girl should
prefer Lister's company to his own. He was very deeply in love, and it
rejoiced his heart when he heard how annoyed the captain was at the mere
idea of a marriage between Lister and his daughter. The preacher was by
no means a selfish man, or a bad man, but being in love he naturally
wished to triumph over his rival. He now knew that his suit would be
supported by Huxham, if only out of his inexplicable hatred for the
journalist.

Meanwhile Huxham stamped and muttered, and wiped his broad face as he
walked off his anger. Finally he stopped opposite his visitor and waved
him to the door. "Y' shell merry m' gel, Bella," he announced hoarsely;
"m' conscience won't let me merry her t' thet--thet--oh, cuss him! why
carn't he an' the likes o' he keep away!" He paused, and again cast an
uncomfortable look over his left shoulder. "Kim up on th' roof," he said
abruptly, driving Pence into the entrance hall. "I'll show y' wot I'll
give y' with m' gel--on conditions."

"Conditions!" The preacher was bewildered.

Huxham vouchsafed no reply, but mounted the shallow steps of the grand
staircase. The manor-house was large and rambling, and of great age,
having been built in the reign of Henry VII. The rooms were spacious,
the corridors wide, and the ceilings lofty. The present possessor led
his guest up the stairs into a long, broad passage, with many doors
leading into various bedrooms. At the end he opened a smaller door to
reveal a narrow flight of steep steps. Followed by the minister, Huxham
ascended these, and the two emerged through a wooden trap-door on the
roof. Silas then beheld a moderately broad space running parallel with
the passage below, and extending from one parapet to the other. On
either side of this walk--as it might be termed--the red-tiled roofs
sloped abruptly upward to cover the two portions of the mansion, here
joined by the flat leads forming the walk aforesaid. On the slope of the
left roof, looking from the trap-door, was a wooden ladder which led up
to a small platform, also of wood, built round the emerging chimney
stack. This was Captain Huxham's quarter deck, whither he went on
occasions to survey his property. He clambered up the ladder with the
agility of a sailor, in spite of his age, and was followed by the
preacher with some misgivings. These proved to be correct, for when he
reached the quarter-deck, the view which met his startled eyes so shook
his nerve, that he would have fallen but that the captain propped him up
against the broad brick-work of the chimney.

"Oh, me," moaned the unfortunate Silas, holding on tightly to the iron
clamps of the brick-work. "I am throned on a dangerous eminence," and
closed his eyes.

"Open 'em, open 'em," commanded the captain gruffly, "an' jes' look et
them twenty acres of corn, es y'll git with m' gel when I'm a deader."

Pence slipped into a sitting position and looked as directed. He beheld
from his dizzy elevation the rolling marshland, extending from the
far-distant stream of the Thames to the foot of low-lying inland hills.
As it was July, and the sun shone strongly, the marshes were
comparatively dry, but here and there Pence beheld pools and ditches
flashing like jewels in the yellow radiance. Immediately before him he
could see the village of Marshely, not so very far away, with red-roofed
houses gathered closely round the grey, square tower of the church; he
could even see the tin roof of his own humble Bethel gleaming like
silver in the sunlight. And here and there, dotted indiscriminately,
were lonely houses, single huts, clumps of trees, and on the higher
ground rising inland, more villages similar to Marshely. The flat and
perilously green lands were divided by hedges and ditches and fences
into squares and triangles and oblongs and rectangles, all as
emerald-hued as faery rings. The human habitations were so scattered,
that it looked as though some careless genii had dropped them by chance
when flying overhead. Far away glittered the broad stream of the Thames,
with ships and steamers and boats and barges moving, outward and inward
bound, on its placid surface. The rigid line of the railway shot
straightly through villages and trees and occasional cuttings, across
the verdant expanse, with here and there a knot representing a station.
Smoke curled from the tall chimneys of the dynamite factories near the
river, and silvery puffs of steam showed that a train was on its way to
Tilbury. All was fresh, restful, beautiful, and so intensely green as to
be suggestive of early Spring buddings.

"When I took command of this here farm, ten years back," observed
Captain Huxham, drawing in a deep breath of moist air, "it were
water-logged like a derelict, es y' might say. Cast yer weather-eye over
it now, Mr. Pence, an' wot's yer look-out: a gardin of Edin, smilin'
with grain."

"Yet it's a derelict still," remarked the preacher, struggling to his
feet and holding on by the chimney; "let me examine your farm of
Bleacres."

Bleacres--a corruption of bleakacres--consisted of only twenty acres not
at all bleak, but a mere slice out of the wide domains formerly owned by
the aristocratic family dispossessed by Huxham. It extended all round
the ancient manor-house, which stood exactly in the centre, and every
foot of it was sown with corn. On every side waved the greenish-bluish
crop, now almost breast high. It rolled right up to the walls of the
house, so that this was drowned, so to speak, in the ocean of grain. The
various fields were divided and sub-divided by water-ways wide and
narrow, which drained the land, and these gave the place quite a Dutch
look, as fancy might picture them as canals. But the corn grew
everywhere so thick and high, in contrast to the barren marshes, that
the farm looked almost aggressively cultivated. Bleacres was widely
known as "The Solitary Farm," for there was not another like it for many
miles, though why it should have been left to a retired sailor to
cultivate the soil it is hard to say. But Huxham for many years had sown
corn on his twenty acres, so that the mansion for the most part of the
year was quite shut off from the world. Only a narrow path was left,
which meandered from the front door and across various water-ways to
Marshely village, one mile distant. In no other way save by this path
could the mansion be approached. And as guardian of the place a
red-coated scarecrow stood sentinel a stone-throw from the house. The
bit of brilliant colour looked gay amidst the rolling acres of green.

"The domain of Ceres," said Pence dreamily, and recalling his meagre
classical studies; "here the goddess might preside. Yet," he added
again, with a side glance at his rugged host, "a derelict still."

"Mr. Pence don't know the English langwidge, apparently," said Huxham,
addressing the landscape with a pitying smile. "A derelict's a ship
abandoned."

"And a derelict," insisted Pence, "can also be described as a tract of
land left dry by the sea, and fit for cultivation or use. You will find
that explanation in Nuttall's Standard Dictionary, captain."

"Live an' larn; live an' larn," commented Huxham, accepting the
explanation without question; "but I ain't got no use for dix'onaries
m'self. Made m' dollars to buy this here farm without sich truck."

"In what way, captain?" asked Silas absently, and looked at the view.

Had he looked instead at Huxham's weather-beaten face he might have been
surprised. The captain grew a little trifle paler under his bronze, an
uneasy look crept into his hard blue eyes, and he threw another anxious
glance over his shoulder. But a stealthy examination of the minister's
indifferent countenance assured him that the question, although a
leading one, had been asked in all innocence. And in all innocence the
captain replied, for the momentary pause had given him time to frame his
reply.

"I arned m' dollars, Mr. Pence, es an honest man should, by sweatin' on
th' high an' narrer seas these forty year'. Ran away fro' m' father, es
wos a cobbler," added Huxham, addressing the landscape once more, "when
I wos ten year old, an' a hop-me-thumb et thet, es y' could hev squeezed
int' a pint pot. Cabin boy, A.B., mate, fust an' second, and a skipper
by m' own determination t' git top-hole. Likewise hard tack, cold
quarters, kickin's an' brimstone langwidge es would hev made thet hair
of yours curl tremenjous, Mr. Pence. I made 'nough when fifty an' more,
t' buy this here farm, an' this here house, th' roof of which I've
walked quarter-deck fashion, es y' see, these ten years--me bein' sixty
odd, so t' speak. Waitin' now fur a hail t' jine th' angels, an' Mrs.
Arabeller Huxham, who is a flier with a halo, an' expectin' me aloft, es
she remarked frequent when chokin' in her engine pipes. Asthma et wos,"
finished the widower, spitting out some tobacco juice, "es settled her
hash."

This astonishing speech, delivered with slow gruffness, did not startle
Silas, as he had known Captain Huxham for at least five years, and had
before remarked upon his eccentric way of talking. "Very interesting;
very commendable," he murmured, and returned to the object of his visit.
"And your daughter, sir?"

"Y' shell hev her, an' hev this here," the captain waved his hand to the
four points of the compass, "when I jine the late Mrs. Arabeller Huxham,
ef y'--ef y'--thet is----" he halted dubiously.

"If what?" demanded Pence, unsuspiciously.

"Ef y' chuck thet Lister int' one of them water-ways," said Huxham.

"What?" cried the preacher, considerably startled.

"I want him dead," growled Huxham gruffly, "drown dead an' buried."

Perhaps his sojourn in distant lands on the fringes of the empire had
familiarised the captain with sudden death and murder, for he made this
amazing proposition in a calm and cheerful voice. But the minister was
not so steeled to horrors.

"What?" he repeated in a shaking voice and with dilated eyes.

"All fur you," murmured the tempter persuasively, "every blamed acre of
et, t' say nothing of Bella es is a fine gel, an'----"

"No, no, no!" cried Silas vehemently, spreading his hands across his
lean, agitated face, "how dare you ask such a thing?"

"Jus' a push," went on Huxham softly, "he bein' on the edge of one of
them ditches, es y' might say. Wot th' water gits th' water holds. He'd
go down int' the black slime an' never come up. It 'ud choke him. Cuss
me," murmured Huxham softly, "I'd like t' see the black slime choke a
Lister."

Pence gasped again and recalled how the Evil One had taken the Saviour
of men up to an exceedingly high mountain, to show Him the kingdoms of
the world and the glory of them. "All these things will I give thee,"
said Satan, "if----"

"No!" shouted Silas, his eyes lighting up with wrath. "Get thee behind
me----" Before finishing his sentence, and before Huxham could reply, he
scrambled down the ladder to rush for the open trap. The captain leaned
from his quarter-deck scornfully. "Y' needn't say es I gave y' the
chance, fur no one 'ull believe y'," he cried out, coolly, "an' a
milksop y' are. Twenty acres, a house, an' a fine gel--y'd be set up for
life, ef y'd only push----"

Pence heard no more. In a frenzy of horror he dropped through the
trap-door, inwardly praying that he might be kept from temptation.
Huxham saw him vanish and scowled. "Blamed milky swab," he grumbled,
then turned to survey the bribe he had offered for wilful murder. He
looked at the corn and across the corn uneasily, as though he saw danger
in the distance. "No cause to be afeared," muttered the ex-mariner; "he
can't get through the corn. It keeps me safe anyhow."

But who the "he" referred to might be, Huxham did not say.




CHAPTER II

THE WOOIN' O'T


Imagine a man wrapped from infancy in the cotton wool of civilisation
suddenly jerked out of the same into barbaric nakedness. Deprived of the
strong protection of the law, brought suddenly face to face with the
"might-is-right" theory, he would have to fight for his own land, even
to the extent of slaying anyone who thwarted his needs. Such a man,
amazed and horrified at first, would gradually become accustomed to his
Ishmael existence, since habit is second nature. Silas Pence felt sick
when he reflected on the offer made by Captain Huxham, and to him of all
people--a minister of the Gospel, a follower of the Prince of Peace. For
the first time in his guarded life, he became aware of the evil which
underlies the smiling surface of things, and it was as though an abyss
had opened suddenly at his feet. But although he did not know it at the
time, the seed had been sown in his heart at the right moment, and would
germinate almost without his knowledge. In a few days Silas could look
back at the horrifying suggestion with calmness, and could even consider
the advantages it offered.

But just now he felt sick, physically sick, and descending with
trembling limbs to the ground floor of the house, staggered towards the
hall and door. All he desired was to get away, and put the corn-fields
between himself and the evil atmosphere of Bleacres. But his legs failed
him as he laid hands on the latch, and he sank white-faced and shaking
into a chair. In this state he was discovered by Mrs. Coppersley, the
captain's sister and housekeeper. She was a buxom, amiable woman, with a
fixed smile meaning nothing. The expression of her rosy face changed to
one of alarm when she saw the heap in the chair. "Save us, Mr. Pence,
what's wrong?"

Pence was about to break forth into a denunciation of Huxham's
wickedness, but a timely recollection of the captain's last words--that
his story would not be believed--made him pause. After all, Huxham was
well known as a decent man and an open-handed friend to one and all, so
there was nothing to be gained by telling a truth which would certainly
be scoffed at. The preacher changed his mind in one swift instant, and
replied nervously to Mrs. Coppersley's inquiry. "I have been on the
quarter-deck, and it made me dizzy. I am not accustomed to----"

"Drat that brother of mine," interrupted Mrs. Coppersley angrily, "he
got me up there once, and I thought I'd never come down. Here, Mr.
Pence, you hold up while I get you a sup of rum."

"No, no! Strong drink leads us into desperate ways," protested the
preacher. But Mrs. Coppersley was gone, and had returned before he could
make up his mind to fly temptation. Silas was not used to alcohol, but
the shock he had sustained in learning so much of Huxham's true nature
prevented his exercising his usual self-control. With his highly strung
nerves he was half-hysterical, and so, when forced by kindly Mrs.
Coppersley, readily drank half a tumbler of rum slightly diluted with
water.

"Drink it all, there's a good soul," entreated the housekeeper, forcing
the glass to his lips.

"No!" He pushed it away. "I feel better already!" and he did, for the
strong spirit brought colour to his cheek and new strength to his limbs.
He stood up in a few minutes, quite himself, and indeed more than
himself, since the rum put into him more courage than came by nature.
"Wine maketh glad the heart of man," said Silas, in excuse for his
unusual indulgence.

"Rum isn't wine," said Mrs. Coppersley, with a jolly laugh, "it's
something much better, Mr. Pence. Now you go home and lie down."

"Oh, no! I feel as though I could charge an army," said Pence valiantly.

"Then wait in the study." She indicated the panelled room with a jerk of
her head. "Jabez will be down from his quarter-deck soon."

"No." Pence shivered, in spite of the rum, at the thought of again
having to face his tempter. "I must go now. My presence is required in
the village."

"Then you can take a message for me to Mr. Vand," said Mrs. Coppersley,
with a slight accession of colour to her already florid face. "Say that
I am coming to Marshely about seven o'clock, and will call at the shop."

This request changed Pence into the preacher and the leader of the godly
people who called his chapel their fold. Vand was the son of the woman
who kept the village grocery shop, and a cripple who played the violin
at various local concerts. He was at least ten years younger than Mrs.
Coppersley, who confessed to being thirty-five--though probably she was
older--and the way in which the widow ran after him was something of a
scandal. As both Mrs. Coppersley and Henry Vand were members of Little
Bethel, Silas felt that he was entitled to inquire into the matter. "You
ask me to take such a message, sister?" he demanded austerely.

The widow's face flamed, and her eyes sparkled. "There is no shame in it
that I am aware of, Mr. Pence," she declared violently; "if I choose to
marry again, that's no one's business but mine, I take it."

"Oh, so you desire to marry Henry Vand?" said Pence, amazed.

"It's not a question of desiring," said the buxom woman impatiently.
"Henry and I have arranged to be married this summer."

"He is a cripple."

"I know that," she snapped, "and therefore needs the care of a wife."

"His mother looks after him," protested Pence weakly.

"Does she?" inquired Mrs. Coppersley. "I thought she looked after no one
but herself. She's that selfish as never was, so don't you go to defend
her, Mr. Pence. Henry, poor boy, who is an angel, if ever there was one,
is quite neglected; so I am going to marry him and look after him. So
there!" and Mrs. Coppersley, placing her hands akimbo, defied her
pastor.

"Henry has no money," said Pence, finding another objection.

"As to that," remarked Mrs. Coppersley indifferently, "when my brother
dies I'll have money for us both, and this house into the bargain."

"You will have nothing of the sort," said Silas, surprised into saying
more than was wise. "Your brother's daughter will inherit this----"

"Oh, will she?" cried Mrs. Coppersley violently, "and much you know
about it, Mr. Pence. "When my late husband, who was a ship's steward, and
saving, died ten year ago, I lent my brother some money to add to his
own, so that he might buy Bleacres. He agreed that if I did so, I should
inherit the house and the land. I promised to look after Bella until she
got married, and----"

"Mrs. Coppersley," said Pence, with an effort at firmness, "your brother
told me only lately that if I married Bella, he would give her the farm
and the house when he died, so----"

"Ho, indeed," interrupted Mrs. Coppersley wrathfully, "pretty goings on,
I'm sure. You call yourself a pastor, Mr. Pence, and come plotting to
rob me of what is mine. I take everything, and Bella nothing, so you can
put that in your pipe and smoke it, though you ain't man enough to smoke
even a penny cigar. You marry Bella? Why, she's as good as engaged to
that young Lister, who has got more gumption about him than you have."

"I advise you," said Pence, and his voice sounded strangely in his own
ears, "not to tell your brother that his daughter is engaged to Mr.
Lister."

"I never said that she was. But----"

"There is no but. The mere mention of such an engagement would send
Captain Huxham crazy."

"In heaven's name, why?" gasped Mrs. Coppersley, looking the picture of
stout amazement and sitting down heavily.

"Because for some reason he hates Mr. Lister, and would kill him rather
than accept him as his son-in-law."

Mrs. Coppersley's florid face turned quite pale. Evidently she knew what
her brother was like when roused. "Why should Jabez hate Mr. Lister?"
she asked.

"You had better ask him," said Pence, opening the hall door; then to
soften his abruptness he added, "I'll tell Henry Vand that you will see
him." After which he departed, leaving Mrs. Coppersley still pale and
still gasping.

After all there was no reason why the ship steward's widow would not
marry the young man. Vand was handsome in a refined way, and very clever
as a musician. He was only slightly crippled, too, and could get about
with the aid of a stick. All the same, he needed someone to look after
him, and as his own mother did not do so--as was notorious--why should
he not become Mrs. Coppersley's husband? The disparity in age did not
matter, as Vand, in spite of his good looks, was club-footed and poor.
But Pence doubted if Mrs. Coppersley would inherit Bleacres after
Captain Huxham's death, in spite of the arrangement between them.
Unless--and here was the chance for the housekeeper--unless Bella
married Lister, notwithstanding her father's opposition. In that event,
Huxham would assuredly disinherit her. "I'll point this out to her,"
said the preacher, as he left the manor-house, "and urge my suit.
Common-sense will make her yield to my prayers. Moreover, I can plead,
and----" here he smiled complacently as he thought of his pulpit
eloquence. Besides, the unaccustomed spirit of the rum was still keeping
him brave.

Pence sauntered in the glowing sunshine down the narrow path which ran
between the standing corn. The path was not straight. It wound
deviously, as though Huxham wished to make the approach to his abode as
difficult as possible. Indeed, it was strange that he should sow corn at
all, since corn at the time was not remunerative. But every year since
he had entered into possession of Bleacres the owner had sown corn, and
every year there had only been the one meandering path through the same,
the very path which Pence was now taking. There was evidently some
purpose in this sowing, and in the fact that only one pathway was left
whereby to approach the mansion. But what that purpose might be, neither
Pence, nor indeed anyone else, could guess. Not that they gave it a
thought. Huxham was presumed to be very wealthy, and his farming was
looked upon more as a hobby than a necessity.

The preacher brushed between the breast-high corn, and walked over two
or three narrow planks laid across two or three narrow ditches. But
where the corn ended was a wide channel, at least ten feet broad, which
stretched the whole length of the estate and passed beyond it on its way
under the railway line to the distant river. The water-way ran
straightly for some distance, and then curved down into the marshes at
its own will, to spread into swamps. On one side sprang the thick green
corn, but on the other stretched waste-lands up to the outskirts of the
village, one mile distant. There was no fence round Bleacres at this
point. Apparently, Huxham deemed the wide channel a sufficient
protection to his corn, which it assuredly was, as no tramps ever
trespassed on the land. But then, Marshely was not a tramp village. The
inhabitants were poor, and had nothing to give in the way of charity.
The loafer of the roads avoided the locality for very obvious reasons.

Before crossing the planks, which were laid on mid-channel supporting
tressels over the water-way, Pence looked from right to left. The
evening was so very beautiful that he thought he would prolong his walk
until sundown, and it wanted some time to that hour. He was still
indignant with Captain Huxham for his base offer, and came to the
conclusion that the ex-mariner was mad when he made it. Pence, in his
simplicity, could not think that any man could ask another to kill a
third in cold blood. All the same, the offer had been made, and Silas
found himself asking why Huxham should desire the death of a stranger
with whom--so far as the preacher knew--he was not even acquainted.
Huxham had always refused to permit Bella to bring Lister to Bleacres,
and indeed had forbidden her even to speak to the young man. He
therefore could not be cognisant of the fact, stated by Mrs. Coppersley,
that Lister and the girl were on the eve of an engagement.

Thus thinking, Pence mechanically wandered along the left bank of the
boundary water-way, and found himself near a small hut, inhabited by the
sole labourer whom Huxham habitually employed. He engaged others, of
course, when his fields were ploughed, and sown, and reaped, but
Tunks--such was the euphonious name of the handy-man--was in demand all
the year round. He resided in this somewhat lonely hut, along with his
grandmother, a weird old gipsy reputed to be a witch, and it was this
reputation which set Mr. Pence thinking.

Remembering that Mrs. Tunks was of the Romany, he thought, and blushed
as he thought, that it would be worth while to expend a shilling in
order to learn if his suit with Bella would really prosper. The temple
of fate was before him, and the Sibyl was probably within, since the
smoke of cooking the evening meal curled from the chimney. It was only
necessary to lift the latch, lay down a shilling, and inquire. But even
as the temptation drew him, he was seized with a feeling of shame, that
he--a preacher of the Gospel, and the approved foe thereby of
witches--should think for one moment of encouraging such traffic with
the Evil One. Pence, blushing as red as the now setting sun, turned away
hastily, and found himself face to face with the very girl who was
causing him such torment.

"How are you, Mr. Pence?" said Bella Huxham, lightly. "A lovely evening,
isn't it?" and she tried to pass him on the narrow path. Probably she
was going to see the Witch of Endor.

The preacher placed himself directly before her.

"Wait for one moment."

The girl did not reply immediately, but looked at him earnestly, trying
to guess what the usually nervous preacher had to say. Bella looked more
lovely than ever in Pence's eyes, as she stood before him in her white
dress and bathed in the rosy glory of the sunset. She did not in the
least resemble her father or her aunt, both of whom were stout, uncomely
folk of true plebeian type. Bella was aristocratic in her looks, as tall
and slim and willowy as a young sapling. Her hair and eyes were dark,
her face was a perfect oval of ivory-white delicately flushed with red,
like a sweet-pea, and if her chin was a trifle resolute and hard, her
mouth was perfect. She carried herself in a haughty way, and had a habit
of bending her dark brows so imperiously, that she reminded Pence of
Judith, who killed Holofernes. Judith and Jael and Deborah must have
been just such women.

"Well?" asked Bella, bending her brows like an empress, "what is it?"

"I--I--love you, Miss Huxham."

She could not be angry at so naive a declaration, and one coming from a
man whom she knew to be as timid as a hare. "I am somewhat surprised,
Mr. Pence," she replied demurely, "are you not making a mistake?"

"No," he stuttered, flushing with eagerness, for amorous passion makes
the most timid bold. "I have loved you for months, for years. I want you
to be my wife--to share with me the glorious privilege of leading my
flock to the land of Beulah, and----"

"Stop, stop!" She flung up her hand. "I assure you, Mr. Pence, that it
is impossible. Forget that you ever said anything."

"I cannot forget. Why should I forget?"

"You must not ask a woman for her reasons, Mr. Pence," she answered
drily, "for a woman never gives the true ones."

"Bella!"

"Miss Huxham to you, Mr. Pence." She spoke in a chilly manner.

"No," he cried wildly; "to me you are Bella. I think of you by that
sweet name day and night. You come between me and my work. When I
console the afflicted I feel that I am talking to you. When I read my
Bible, your face comes between me and the sacred page. To me you are
Hephzibah--yes, and the Shulamite. The Angel of the Covenant; the joy of
my heart. Oh, Bella, I love the very ground that you tread on. Can you
refuse me? See!" He threw himself on the path, heedless of the fact that
Mrs. Tunks might be at her not far distant window. "I am at your feet,
Bella! Bella!"

The girl was distressed by this earnestness. "Rise, Mr. Pence, someone
will see you. You must not behave like this. I cannot be your wife."

"Why not? Oh, why not?"

"Because I am not fit to be a minister's wife."

The young man sprang to his feet, glowing with passion. "Let me teach
you."

Bella avoided his extended arms. "No, no, no!" she insisted, "you must
take my answer once and for all, Mr. Pence. I cannot marry you."

"But why?" he urged despairingly.

"I have a reason," she replied formally; "don't ask me for it."

"I have no need to. I know your reason."

Bella flushed, but overlooked the bitterness of his tone because she
guessed what he suffered. "In that case, I need not explain," she said
coldly, and again tried to pass. Again he prevented her.

"You love that man Lister," he said between his teeth.

"That is my business, Mr. Pence."

"Mine also," he cried, undaunted by her haughtiness. "Your father's
business, too. Mrs. Coppersley said that you were almost engaged to this
man Lister. But you shall not marry him; you will not even be engaged to
him."

"Who will prevent me?" asked Bella angrily.

"Your father. He hates this man Lister."

"How can my father hate a man he has never even seen?" she demanded;
"you are talking rubbish."

"Miss Huxham"--Pence detained her by laying his thin fingers on her
arm--"if you marry this man Lister"--he kept to this sentence as though
it were a charm--"you will be a pauper."

She flashed up into a royal rage and stamped. "How dare you say that?"

"I dare tell the truth."

"It is not the truth. How can you tell if----"

"Your father told me," insisted the preacher, hotly.

Bella withdrew a step or so, her eyes growing round with surprise.
"My--father--said--that?"

"Yes, yes, yes!" cried Silas feverishly. "I went to him this very
afternoon to ask permission to present myself to you as a suitor. He
consented, but only when he heard that you loved this man who----"

"You told him that?" demanded Bella, her breath coming quick and short.

"Yes," said Pence, trying to be courageous, "and it is true."

"Who says that it is?"

"Everyone in the village."

"The village has nothing to do with my business," she declared
imperiously, "and even if I do love--but let that pass. You told me that
my father said I should be a pauper."

"If you married the man Lister," he reminded her. "Yes, he did say so,
and declared also that he would give me the manor-house and the farm
when he died, if I made you my wife."

Bella shrugged her shoulders. "My father does not mean what he says,"
she remarked disbelievingly; "as I am his only child, the Solitary Farm,
as they call it, comes to me in any case. And I see no reason why I
should discuss my father's business with you. Stand aside and let me
pass."

"No." Silas was wonderfully brave for one of his timid soul. "You shall
not pass until you learn the truth. You think that I am a fool and weak.
I am not. I feel wise and strong; and I am strong--strong enough to
withstand temptation, even when you are offered as a bribe."

Bella grew somewhat alarmed. She did not like the glittering of his
shallow, grey eyes. "You are mad."

"I am sane; you know that I am sane, but you think to put me off by
saying that I am crazy. I have had enough to make me so. Your
father"--here his voice took on the sing-song pulpit style--"your father
took me up to an exceedingly high mountain, and showed me the kingdoms
of the world. All of them he offered me, together with you, if I
murdered Lister."

"What!" Bella's voice leaped an octave; "you--you--murder Cyril?"

"Yes, Cyril, the man you love. And if I dared----"

"Mr. Pence"--Bella saw the necessity of keeping herself well in hand
with this hysterical youth, for he was nothing else, and spoke in a
calm, kind voice--"my father has not seen Mr. Lister, and cannot hate
him."

"Go and ask him what he thinks," said Pence fiercely. "I tell you that
to-day I was offered everything if I would kill this man Lister."

"You are talking at random," she said soothingly; "go home, and lie
down."

"I am talking of what may come to pass. Your father wishes it, so why
not, when I love you so deeply? I offer you the heart of an honest man,
and yet you would throw that aside for this profligate."

"Cyril is not a profligate," interrupted Bella, and could have bitten
out her tongue for the hasty speech.

"He is. He comes from London, the City of Evil, that shall yet fall like
Babylon the Great. But your soul shall not be lost; you shall not marry
him."

"I shall!" cried Bella, indignantly, and becoming rash again in her
anger; "and what is more, I am engaged to him now. So there! Let me
pass."

She slipped deftly past him, and walked swiftly homeward. Silas Pence
stood where he was, staring after her, unable to speak or move or to
follow. Then the sun sank, leaving him in the twilight of sorrow.




CHAPTER III

A TARDY LOVER


Miss Huxham did not credit for one moment the story which Pence had told
her. It was ridiculous to think that her father would even hint at the
murder of an unoffending man whom he had never seen, and to hesitating,
timid Silas, of all people. Bella remembered that, months previously,
when she had mentioned a chance meeting with Lister--then a stranger--at
the cottage of the Marshely school-mistress, Captain Huxham had not only
forbidden her to bring him to Bleacres, which the young man desired to
see, but had ordered her to discontinue the acquaintance. Evidently the
retired mariner deemed this prohibition sufficient, for he made no
further mention of the matter. That he gave no reason for his tyrannical
edict, did not trouble him; but because of this very omission, his
daughter took her own way. By stealth, it is true, lest Huxham should
exhibit annoyance--for annoyance with him meant wild-beast rage.

Now the girl felt puzzled. According to Silas, her father knew that she
had disobeyed him, and she returned to the Manor in a somewhat nervous
state of mind, quite prepared to do battle for her lover. But, to her
surprise, Captain Huxham made no remark, and behaved much the same as
usual, save that at odd times he was more observant of her comings and
goings. In the face of his newly-acquired knowledge this very unusual
demeanour should have made Bella more circumspect, but, being
high-spirited, she did not change her life in any way. Also she believed
that Silas had greatly exaggerated the captain's anger, and argued from
his quietness that he cared very little what she did. She had reason to
take this view, for Huxham was not an affectionate parent, and, save
when things interfered with his own comfort, usually ignored his
daughter. And on her side, Bella could not subscribe to the fifth
commandment. It was impossible to honour King Log, who had an unpleasant
way of becoming King Henry VIII. when contradicted.

Several times, Bella, needing sympathy, was on the point of reporting
Pence's conversation to Mrs. Coppersley, so as to learn her opinion as
to the truth of the preacher's preposterous statement. But the buxom
widow was too much taken up with her own love-affairs to trouble about
those of her niece, for whom she displayed no great affection. She
attended to the house-keeping, cajoled her brother into a good humour
when necessary, and nearly every evening slipped out to meet Henry Vand,
who usually awaited her arrival on the hither side of the boundary
channel. He did not dare to venture nearer to the lion's den, as Captain
Huxham, aware of his sister's desire to contract a second marriage,
discouraged the idea. The captain being aggressively selfish, did not
intend to lose Mrs. Coppersley, whose services were necessary to his
comfort. Besides, as she managed everything connected with the domestic
arrangement of Bleacres, assisted by Bella, Huxham was spared the
necessity of paying a servant. It was better, from the captain's point
of view, to have two slaves who asked for no wages, and who could be
bullied when he felt like playing the tyrant.

To a young girl in the first strong flush of womanhood, life at the
solitary farm was extremely dreary, Captain Huxham rose early and
strolled round his wealthy acres until breakfast, which for him was a
Gargantuan meal. He then shut himself for the whole morning in his den,
where he laboured at his accounts, with a locked door. In the afternoon
he ordinarily walked to Marshely and conversed over strong drink with
cronies at the village public-house. He returned to walk around the farm
again, and after supper again sought his room to smoke and drink rum
until bedtime, at ten o'clock. The routine of the captain's life never
varied in any particular, even to seeking the quarter-deck once a day
for the purpose, apparently, of viewing the results of his life's work.
Also from his eyrie, the captain, armed with a long telescope, could
gaze at outward and homeward-bound ships, and so enjoy vicariously the
sea-life he had abandoned these ten years. Of Bella he took scarcely any
notice.

It was indeed a dull life, especially as Bella was intellectual, and
felt that she required food for her active brain. For some odd reason,
which did not suit with his rough nature, Huxham had given his neglected
daughter a first-class education, and only within the last two years had
she returned from a fashionable Hampstead school to live this
uneventful, unintellectual life on an Essex farm. She possessed a few
books, and these she read over and over again. Huxham was not actively
unkind, and gave her plenty of frocks, ribbons, hats, gloves, and
such-like things, which he presumed were what the ordinary girl wanted.
But he overlooked the fact that Bella was not an ordinary girl, and that
she hungered for a more moving life, or, at least, for one which would
afford her an opportunity of displaying her social abilities. Bella sang
excellently, and played the piano unusually well; but her uncouth father
did not care for music, and Mrs. Coppersley scorned it also. The girl
therefore allowed her talents to lie dormant, and became a silent,
handsome image of a woman, moving ghost-like through the dreary mansion.
But her chance meeting with the clever young man aroused all her disused
capabilities; aroused also her womanly coquetry, and stimulated her into
exhibiting a really fascinating nature. Warned that her father would
have no strangers coming to the manor, by his own lips, she kept secret
the delightful meetings with Lister, and only when the two met at the
cottage of Miss Ankers could they speak freely. Bella thought that her
secret attachment was unknown, whereas everyone in the village watched
the progress of Lister's wooing. It came as has been seen, to Pence's
jealous ears, and he reported the same to Captain Huxham. Knowing this,
Bella was more perplexed than ever, that, as time went on, Huxham did
nothing and said nothing. At one time he had been peremptory, but now he
appeared inclined to let her act as she chose. And the mere fact that he
did so, made Bella feel more than ever what an indifferent father she
possessed.

For quite a week after his interview with the captain, and his futile
wooing of Bella, the lovesick preacher kept away from the farm and
attended sedulously to his clerical duties in connection with Little
Bethel. The truth was, that he felt afraid of Huxham, now knowing what
use the captain desired to make of him. For this reason also, Silas did
not report that Bella was engaged to Lister. He feared lest Huxham, in a
rage at such disregard of his wishes, should slay the young journalist,
and perhaps might, in his infernal cunning, lay the blame on Silas
himself. At all events, Pence was wise enough to avoid the danger zone
of the farm, and although, after reflection, aided by jealousy, he was
not quite so shocked at the idea of thrusting Lister to a muddy death,
he yet thought it more judicious to keep out of Huxham's way. The old
mariner, as Pence knew, possessed a strong will, and might force him to
be his tool in getting rid of the journalist. Silas was wiser than he
knew in acting so discreetly, for the sailor-turned farmer was a more
dangerous man than even he imagined, despite the glimpse he had gained
of Huxham's possible iniquity.

Things were in this position when Bella, rendered reckless by her
father's indifference, actually met Cyril Lister in a secluded nook of
the corn-field, and on the sacred ground of Bleacres itself. Usually the
lovers met in Miss Ankers' cottage, or in Mrs. Tunks' hut, but on this
special occasion the weather was so hot that Lister proposed an
adjournment to the open field. "You will be Ruth, and I Boaz," suggested
the young man, with a smile.

Bella shivered even in the warm air into which she had stepped out of
the malodorous gloom of Mrs. Tunks' hut. "What an unlucky comparison,"
she said, leading the way along the bank of the boundary channel.

"Ruth left her people and her home, to go amongst strangers, and earn
her living as a gleaner."

"But she found a devoted husband in the end," Cyril reminded her.

"Peace and happiness also, I hope," sighed Bella. "I have plenty of
peace, but very little happiness, save of the vegetable sort."

"When we are married," began Lister, then stopped short, biting his
moustache--"we shall be very happy," he ended lamely, seeing that Bella
looked inquiringly at him.

"That is obvious, since we love one another," she said somewhat tartly,
for his hesitation annoyed her. "Why did you change the conclusion of
your sentence?"

Lister threw himself down on the hard-baked ground and under the shadow
of the tall blue-green corn stalks. "It just struck me that our marriage
was very far distant," he said gloomily.

Bella sat beside him shoulder to shoulder, and hugged her knees. "Why
should it be far distant?" she inquired. "If I love you, and you love
me, no power on earth can keep us apart."

"Your father----"

"I shall disobey my father if it be necessary," she informed him
serenely.

Lister looked at her through half-shut eyes, and noticed the firmness of
her mouth and the clear, steady gaze of her eyes. "You have a strong
will, I think, dear," he murmured admiringly.

"I have, Cyril--as strong as that of my father. When our two wills
clash"--she shrugged--"there may be murder committed."

"Bella!"--the young man looked startled--"what dreadful things you say."

"It is the truth," she insisted quietly; "why shirk obvious facts? For
some reason, which I cannot discover, my father detests you."

"By Jove!" Cyril sat up alertly. "And why? He has never seen me, as I
have kept well out of his way after your warning. But I have had a sly
glimpse of him, and he seems to be a jolly sort of animal--I beg your
pardon for calling him so."

"Man is an animal, and my father is a man," said the girl coolly, "a
neolithic man, if you like. You are a man also, Cyril--the kind of firm,
bold, daring man I like. Yet if you met with my father, I wonder----"
She paused, and it flashed across her brain that her father and her
lover would scarcely suit one another. Both were strong-willed and both
masterful. She wondered if they met, who would come out top-dog; so she
phrased it in her quick brain. Then abruptly she added, before Cyril
could speak. "Be quiet for a few minutes. I wish to think."

Lister nodded, and, leaning on one elbow, chewed a corn-stalk and
watched her in silence. He was a slim, tall, small-boned young man of
the fairskinned type, with smooth brown hair, and a small, drooping
brown moustache. His present attitude indicated indolence, and he
certainly loved to be lazy when a pretty girl was at his elbow. But on
occasions he could display wonderful activity, and twice had been chosen
as war correspondent to a London daily, when one or two of the little
wars on the fringe of the Empire had been in progress. He was not
particularly good-looking, but the freshness of his five-and-twenty
years, and the virility of his manner, made women bestow a great deal of
attention on him. Much more than he deserved, in fact, as, until he met
with Bella, he had given very little attention to the sex. He had
flirted in many countries, and with many women; but this was the first
time he had made genuine love, or had felt the genuine passion. And with
a country maiden, too, unsophisticated and pathetically innocent. So he
meditated as he watched her, until, struck by the firm curve of the chin
and the look of resolve on the tightly-closed lips, he confessed
privately that if this country maiden were placed in the forefront of
society, the chances were that she would do more than hold her own.
There were Joan-of-Arc-like possibilities in that strongly-featured
face.

"But, upon my word, I am quite afraid," he said aloud, following up his
train of thought and speaking almost unconsciously.

"Of what?" asked Bella, turning quickly towards him.

"Of you. Such a determined young woman, as you are. If I make you my
wife, I know who will be master."

"My dear," she said quietly, "in marriage there should be neither a
master nor a mistress. It's a sublime co-partnership, and the partners
are equal. One supplies what the other lacks, and two incomplete persons
are required to make one perfect being."

Lister opened his brown eyes. "Who told you all this?"

"No one. I have ample time to think, and--I think."

"You asked me to be quiet, so that you could think," he remarked lazily;
"may I ask what you have been considering?"

She surveyed him quietly. "You may ask; but I am not sure if I will
reply."

"See here, my dearest"--Cyril struggled to his knees, and took her hand
firmly within his own--"you are altogether too independent a young
woman. You always want your own way, I perceive."

"It will never clash with yours," said Bella, smiling.

"Why not?"

"Because you will always wish to do what I desire, and I will always be
anxious to act as you indicate. You have your line of life, and I have
mine, but the two are one."

"Humph! At school I learned that two parallel straight lines never met."

"Ah, Euclid was a bachelor, and ignorant. They meet in marriage, for
then the two lines blend into one. What's the matter?"

She asked this question because Cyril suddenly let go her hands and
swerved, blinking his eyes rapidly. "A sudden flash almost blinded me.
Some one is heliographing hereabouts." He stood up, considerably taller
than the already tall corn, and stared in the direction of the manor,
shading his eyes with one slim hand. "There's someone on the roof there
and----"

Bella pulled the sleeve of his coat, with a stifled cry. "Oh, sit down,
do sit down," she implored. "It must be my father on his quarter-deck.
The flash, perhaps, came from his telescope, and if he sees you--do sit
down."

Cyril laughed and relapsed into a sitting position. "Dearest, your
father cannot harm me in any way. I have heard of his quarter-deck. I
suppose he has it to remind him of the bridge of a steamer when he was
skipper."

"I hope he hasn't seen you," said Bella anxiously, "for then he would
come straight here, and----"

"Let him come, and then I shall ask him to let me marry you."

"He will refuse. He wants me to marry Mr. Pence."

"What!" Lister frowned. "That half-baked psalm-singer? What nonsense,
and what cheek. The idea of that Pence creature aspiring to your hand. I
wish we could marry at once. But----" He paused, and shook his head.
Lines appeared on his forehead, and a vexed look in his eyes. "It's
impossible," he said with a deep breath.

"Why is it impossible?" asked Bella imperiously and very directly.

"My dear, I am very poor, and just make enough to keep my head above
water. Besides, there is another reason."

"What is it?"

"I can't tell you," he said in low voice, and becoming suddenly pale;
"no one but the wearer knows where the shoe pinches, you know."

"Cyril." Bella wreathed her arms around his neck. "You have a secret. I
have noticed several times that you have been worried. Sometimes you
forget everything when we are together, and your face becomes like that
of an old man. I must know your secret, so that I can help you."

"God forbid." Lister removed her arms, and grew even paler than he was.
"The kindest way I can act towards you, Bella, is to go out of your
life, and never see you again."

"Cyril, how can you when I love you so?"

"Would you love me if you knew of my troubles?"

"Try me. Try me," she implored, clasping his hand warmly.

"There are some things which can't be told to a woman," he said sternly.

"Tell them to a comrade, then. I wish to be your comrade as well as your
wife. And I love you so that anything you say will only make me love you
the more. Tell me, Cyril, so that I can prove my love."

"Upon my soul, I believe you'd go to hell with me," said Lister
strongly.

"Yes, I would. I demand, by the love which exists between us, to be told
this secret that troubles you so greatly."

Lister frowned, and meditated. "I cannot tell you everything--yet," he
remarked, after a painful pause, "but I can tell you this much, that
unless I have one thousand pounds within a week, I can never marry you."

"One thousand pounds. But for what purpose?"

"You must not ask me that, Bella," and his mouth closed firmly.

"'Trust me all in all, or not at all,'" she quoted.

"Then I trust you not at all."

"Oh!" She drew back with a cry of pain like a wounded animal.

In a moment he was on his knees, holding her hands to his beating heart.
"My dearest, if I could I would. But I can't, and I am unable just now
to give you the reason. Save that I am a journalist, and your devoted
lover, you know nothing about me. Later I shall tell you my whole story,
and how I am situated. Then you can marry me or not, as you choose."

"I shall marry you, in any case," she said quickly.

"Do you think that I am a poor, weak fool, who demands perfection in a
man. Whatever your sins may be, to me you are the man I have chosen to
be my husband. We are here, in the corn-fields, and you just now called
me Ruth. Then, like Ruth, I can say that 'your people will be my people,
and your God will be my God.'"

"Dearest and best," he kissed her ardently, "what have I done to deserve
such perfect love? But do not think me so very wicked. It is not myself,
so much as another. Then you----"

"Is it a woman?" she asked, drawing back.

Lister caught her to his breast again. "No, you jealous angel, it is not
a woman. The thousand pounds I must have, to save--but that is neither
here nor there. You must think me but a tardy lover not to carry you
off, forwith, and----" he rose, with Bella in his arms--"oh, it's
impossible!"

"Do carry me off," she whispered, clinging to him. "Let us have a Sabine
wedding. As your wife, you can tell me all your secrets."

"Bella, Bella, I cannot. I am desperately poor."

"So am I, and if I marry you my father will leave all his money to my
aunt, for he told Mr. Pence so. But what does poverty matter, so long as
we love one another with all our hearts and souls."

"Oh!" Cyril clenched his hands desperately. "Do not tempt me. Only one
thousand pounds stands between us. If I had that I could make you my
wife within a week. I would steal, or murder, or do anything in the
world to get the money and remove the barrier. But"--he pushed her away
almost brutally, and frowned--"you are making me talk rubbish. We must
wait."

"Until when, Cyril?" she asked sadly.

"Until Destiny is kinder."

"You will tell me----"

"I tell you nothing. Give me one kiss, and then good-bye for----"

He bent to touch her lips, but was caught and hurled back. Bella uttered
a cry of astonishment and dread, for between Cyril and herself stood
Captain Huxham, purple with anger.




CHAPTER IV

SUDDEN DEATH


"Y' shell not kiss m' gel, or merry her, or hev anything t' do with m'
gel," said Captain Huxham, in a thick voice. "Oh, I saw y' fro' th'
quarter-deck with m' gel. Jus' y' git, or----"

He made a threatening step forward, while Cyril waited him without
flinching. What would have happened it is hard to say, for Captain
Huxham was in a frenzy of rage. But Bella, recovering from her first
surprise, threw herself between the two men.

"Father," she cried passionately, "I love him."

"Oh, y' do, do y'?" growled the fireside tyrant, turning fiercely on
her, "an' arter I told y' es y'd hev t' leave the swab alone. Did I, or
did I not?"

"Yes, but you assigned no reason for asking me to avoid Cyril, so----"

"Cyril! Cyril!" The captain clenched his huge hand, and his little eyes
flashed with desperate anger. "Y' call him Cyril, y'--y'--slut." He
raised a mighty fist to strike her, and the blow would have fallen, but
that Lister suddenly gripped Huxham's shoulder and twitched him
unexpectedly aside.

"If you blame anyone, sir, you must blame me."

"I'll break yer neck, cuss y'," raged the older man.

Cyril shrugged his shoulders, indifferently. "You can try, if you like,
but I don't propose to let you do it. Come, Captain Huxham, let us both
be reasonable and talk matters over."

"Y're on m' land; git off m' land," shouted Huxham, swinging his fists
like windmills.

"Go, Cyril, go," implored Bella who was terrified lest there should be a
hand-to-hand struggle between the two men. That was not to be thought
of, as if Lister killed the captain, or the captain killed Lister, there
would be no chance of her becoming the wife of the man she loved.

"I am quite ready to go," said Cyril, keeping a watchful eye on Huxham;
"but first I should like to hear why you, sir, object to my marrying
Bella." He spoke quietly and firmly, so that the level tones of his
voice, and the admirable way in which he kept his temper, had a cooling
effect on the enraged sailor.

Huxham, born bully as he was, found that it was difficult for him to
storm at a man so cool, and calm, and self-controlled. "Y' ain't m'
chice," said he in lower but very sulky tones; "m' gel's goin' t' merry
th' sky-pilot, Silas Pence."

"Oh, no, she's not," said Lister smoothly; "she will marry me."

"If she does, she don't get no money o' mine."

"That will be no hindrance," said Bella, who was rapidly regaining her
colour. "I am willing to marry Cyril without a penny."

"Y' shent, then," grumbled her father savagely.

"I have yet to hear your objections, sir."

"Yer name's Lister, and----"

The objection was so petty, that Bella quite expected to see Cyril
laugh. But in place of doing so, he turned white and retreated a step.
"What--what do you know of my name?" he asked, with apparent
nervousness.

"Thet's my business," snapped Huxham, seeing his advantage, "an' I
shen't tell y' m' business. Y' git off m' land, or----" he suddenly
lunged forward in the attempt to throw Lister when off his guard.

But the young man was watchful, and, unexpectedly swerving, dexterously
tripped up his bulky antagonist. Huxham, with a shout, or rather a
bellow of rage like a wounded bull, sprawled full length amongst the
corn. Bella pushed her lover away before the captain could regain his
feet. "Go, go, I can see you to-morrow," she said hastily.

"Y' shell never see the swab again," roared Huxham, rising slowly, for
the fall had shaken him, and he was no longer young. "I'll shut y' in
yer room, an' feed y' on bread an' water."

"If you dare to say that again, I'll break your head," cried Lister,
suddenly losing his temper at the insult to the girl he loved.

"Oh, will y'?" Huxham passed his tongue over his coarse lips and rubbed
his big hands slowly. Apparently nothing would have given him greater
pleasure than to pitch this man who dared him into the boundary channel;
but he had learned a lesson from his late fall. Lister was active and
young; the captain was elderly and slow. Therefore, in spite of his
superior strength--and Huxham judged that he had that--it was risky to
try conclusions of sheer brute force. The captain therefore, being a
coward at heart, as all bullies are, weakened and retreated. "Y' git off
m' land," was all that he could find to say, "an' y' git home, Bella. Es
m' daughter I'll deal with y'."

"I am quite ready to go home," said Bella boldly; "but you are not going
to behave as though I were one of your sailors, father."

"I'll do wot I please," growled Huxham, looking white and wicked.

Bella laughed somewhat artificially, for her father did not look
amiable. "I don't think you will," she said, with feigned carelessness.
"Cyril, go now, and I'll see you again to-morrow."

"Ef y' come here again," shouted Huxham, boiling over once more, "I'll
kill y'--thet I will."

"Take care you aren't killed yourself first," retorted Lister, and was
surprised at the effect the threat--an idle one--had on the ex-sailor.

Huxham turned pale under his bronze, and hastily cast a look over his
left shoulder.

"Why do you hate me so?" asked the young man sharply. "I never met you
before; you have never set eyes on me. Why do you hate me?"

"Ef I'd a dog called Lister, I'd shoot it; if I'd a cat called Lister,
I'd drown it; and if I'd a parrot named Lister, I'd twist its blamed
neck, same es I would yours, ef I could. Bella, come home;" and casting
a venomous look on the astonished Cyril, the captain moved away.

It was useless to prolong the unpleasant scene, since Huxham declined to
explain his objection to the young man's name. And again, as she took a
few steps to accompany her father, Bella noticed that Cyril winced and
paled at the coarse taunts of his antagonist. "What is the matter with
your name?" she asked sharply.

Lister strode forward and caught her in his arms. "I shall explain when
next we meet," he whispered, and kissed her good-bye, while Huxham
grated his strong white teeth at the sight. Indeed, so angry was the
captain, that he might again have assaulted his daughter's lover, but
Cyril walked rapidly away, and without even a backward glance. Bella
watched him with a heavy heart: there seemed to be something sinister
about this mystery of the name. Huxham's inexplicable hatred appeared to
be foolish; but Lister undoubtedly took it seriously.

"Kim home," breathed the captain furiously in her ear; "you an' me hes
t' hev a talk."

"It will be a last talk if you do not behave properly," retorted Bella,
walking proudly by his side, "even though I have the misfortune to be
your daughter, that does not give you the right to treat me so rudely."

"I'll treat y' es I blamed well like, y' hussy. Y'll go t' yer room, an'
eat bread an' drink water t' cool yer hot blood."

Bella laughed derisively. "There is law in this country, father," she
said quietly. "I shall go to my room certainly, as I have no wish to
remain with you. But there need be no talk of bread and water."

"Tea an' dry toast, then," grunted Huxham, looking at her savagely with
his hard blue eyes. "Y' shell be punished, y' slut."

"Because I have fallen in love? Nonsense."

"Because y've disobeyed me in seein' this blamed Lister."

"Father"--Bella stopped directly before the front door of the
manor-house--"why do you hate Cyril? What have you against his name?"

The captain quivered, blinked his eyes, cast his usual look over the
left shoulder, and then scowled. "Shut yer mouth," he growled, "an' go
t' yer room, cuss y'. This house is mine. I am master here." He rolled
into the doorway and suddenly turned on the threshold. "I'd ruther see
y' dead an' buried than merried t' a man of t' name of Lister," he
snarled; and before Bella could recover from her astonishment, he
plunged into his den and shut the door with a noisy bang.

The girl passed her hand across her forehead in a bewildered way. The
mystery was becoming deeper, and she saw no way of solving it. Huxham
would not explain, and Cyril evaded the subject. Then Bella remembered
that her lover had promised an explanation when next they met. A
remembrance of this aided her to possess herself in patience, and she
tried to put the matter out of her head. But it was impossible for her
to meet her father at supper and forbear asking questions, so she
decided to obey him ostensibly, and retire to her bedroom. The next day
she could have an interview with her lover, and then would learn why the
captain stormed and Cyril winced when the name was mentioned.

Bella's room was on the first floor, and in the front of the mansion, so
that she had an extended view of the corn-fields, of Mrs. Tunks' hut
near the boundary channel, and of the pathway through the wheat leading
deviously from the front door of Bleacres, across the channel, and to
the distant village of Marshely. Standing at the window, she could see
the red-roofed houses gathered round the square tower of the church, and
the uncultivated fields, green and moist, spreading on all sides. The
sun was setting, and the landscape was bathed in rosy hues. Everything
was peaceful and restful outside, but under the manor roof was discord
and dread. Huxham in his den paced up and down like a caged bear,
angered exceedingly by his daughter's obstinacy, as he termed it. And
Bella, in the seclusion of her own room, was trying to quieten her
fears. Hitherto, she had lived what she termed a vegetable life; but in
these ominous hints it seemed as though she would very shortly have more
than enough to occupy her mind.

As the twilight darkened, Bella still continued to sit at the window
vainly endeavouring to forecast a doubtful future. It was certain that
Huxham would never agree to her marriage with Lister, and would probably
insist that she should become the wife of Pence. As Bella had no money,
and no expectations of any, save by obeying her father, she did not know
what to do unless the captain ceased to persecute her. He would possibly
turn her out of doors if she persisted in thwarting his will. In that
event she would either have to earn her bread as a governess, or would
be forced to ask Lister to marry her--a direct question which her
maidenly pride shrank from putting. Moreover--as she recollected--Cyril
had plainly told her, only a few hours previously, that he could not
marry her unless he obtained one thousand pounds within the week. It was
now Tuesday, and it was not easy to raise such a large sum within the
next few days. Of course, Bella did not know what resources Cyril had to
draw upon, and it might be that he would gain what he wanted. Then he
could take her away and marry her: but until the unexpected happened,
she did not know what to say or how to act. It seemed to her that she
had come to the cross-roads of life, and that all her future depended
upon the path she now chose. Yet there was nothing to show her how to
select the direction.

Her idle eyes caught at the vivid spot of scarlet which came from the
red coat of the martial scarecrow. There it stood, bound stiffly to a
tall pole in the midst of the corn--the sentinel of those prosperous
acres. Bella wondered that her father, having been a sailor, had not
arrayed the figure in nautical dress. As it was, the red hue annoyed
her, for red was the colour of blood, and there lingered in her mind the
ominous speeches which had been made by her father and Lister, when
quarrelling. "I'll kill y'!" said the captain; and "Take care," Cyril
had replied, "that you aren't killed yourself first!" Also there was the
wild tale of Pence regarding the offer made by Huxham to compass the
death of Lister. These things flashed into Bella's uncomfortable mind,
as she looked at the red and ominous figure of the scarecrow. Then, with
a shudder, she rose and dismissed these evil fancies.

"I am growing morbid," she thought, looking at her anxious face in the
glass. "To-morrow, when I see Cyril--oh, come in!" said she aloud.

She broke off to give the invitation, as a sharp knock came to the door,
and it opened almost immediately to admit the plump figure of Mrs.
Coppersley, carrying a tray. "Here's some dry toast and a cup of tea,"
said the widow severely; "your father says you are not to come to
supper."

"I shouldn't come if he wanted me to," retorted Bella, as Mrs.
Coppersley set down her burden; "and if he thinks to punish me in this
way, he is very much mistaken. Does he think that I am a child, to
submit to his tyranny?"

"He thinks that you are a disobedient daughter," said Mrs. Coppersley,
drily.

"And what do you think, aunt?"

The older woman coughed. She thought that her niece was much too pretty,
and much too independent, but had no ill-feeling toward her, save a
natural petty feminine jealousy. "I don't know what to think," she said,
sitting down to gossip. "Of course, your father is impossible, and
always wants his own way. I don't see why folks should not be allowed to
choose husbands for themselves. Jabez"--this was Huxham's Christian
name--"objects to my marrying Henry, and to your becoming the wife of
this Lister person."

"Don't speak of Cyril in that way," said Bella, with some impatience;
"he is a gentleman, and the man I love. By the way, aunt, you might have
brought up the teapot. I dislike anyone else to pour out my tea."

"Your father poured it out himself while I went to the kitchen for the
toast," snapped Mrs. Coppersley; "he said you were to have only this one
cup."

"What a petty tyrant he is," sighed Bella, pushing the cup away. "Aunt,
what do you think of Cyril?"

"He is very handsome," rejoined Mrs. Coppersley cautiously, "but I don't
know anything about his position or disposition."

"I know he is the dearest fellow in the world, aunt; but, like yourself,
his position is unknown to me."

Mrs. Coppersley rose aghast. "Do you mean to say that you would marry a
man about whom you know nothing?" she demanded.

"I know sufficient to choose him for my husband," retorted Bella,
spiritedly; "and I intend to marry him, in spite of my father's
bullying."

"Then your father will not give you a single penny," cried Mrs.
Coppersley. "I approve of his doing so. You can't marry this man."

"Oh!" said Bella, bitterly. "I thought you agreed that a woman should
choose her own husband."

"A woman like myself, who knows life, Bella--not a chit of a girl like
you."

"I am twenty years of age," flashed out her niece.

"And have the sense of a babe of three," scoffed Mrs. Coppersley, moving
towards the door. "Perhaps a night of loneliness will bring you to your
senses, my dear." She passed through the door and closed it. "I am
locking you in, by your father's wish," said Mrs. Coppersley from the
other side.

Bella, white with rage at this indignity, sprang to wrench open the
door, but almost before she reached it, the key clicked in the lock, and
she knew that she was a prisoner. And the door was so stout and strong
that there was no chance of a frail girl, such as she was, breaking it
down. But Bella was in a royal rage, and it was in her mind to scramble
out of the window and escape.

"But what's the use!" she thought, her eyes filling with impotent tears.
"I have no money, and no friends, and no other home. What a shame it is
for me to be at the mercy of my father in this way! I shall have to
submit to this insult. There is nothing else I can do. But oh, oh!"--she
clenched her hands as she again returned to the window and looked out
into the rapidly darkening night. "I shall insist upon Cyril marrying me
at once. If he loves me he surely will not stand by idly, when I am
treated in this way."

Trying to calm herself, she walked up and down the room. The one slice
of toast and the one cup of tea were on the table, but anger had taken
her appetite. Inexperienced in the troubles of life, she was like a
newly-captured bird dashing itself against the wires of its hateful
cage. To and fro the girl walked, revolving plans of escape from her
father's tyranny, but in every direction the want of money proved an
obstacle impossible to surmount. Nothing remained but for her to wait
patiently until she could see Cyril the next day. Then an exhaustive
talk might lead to the formation of some plan whereby her future could
be arranged for.

Faint and far, she heard the clock in Marshely church-tower strike the
hour of eight, and began to think of retiring to bed. The night was hot,
so she flung up the window, and permitted the fresh air to circulate in
the close room. The atmosphere was luminous with starlight, although
there was no moon visible. A gentle wind bent the rustling stalks of the
vast corn-fields, and their shimmering green was agitated like the waves
of the sea. White mists rose ghost-like on the verge of the farm, and
into them the ocean of grain melted faintly. What with the mists and the
luminous night and the spreading wheat-fields phantom-like in the
obscurity, Bella felt as though she were in a world of vague dreams.

Looking down the narrow path, which showed a mere thread in the
semi-gloom, she beheld a tall, dark figure advancing towards the house.
It was that of a man, and by the way in which he walked, Bella felt sure
that he was her lover. Her heart beat wildly. Perhaps Cyril had come,
or, rather, was coming, to see the captain, and to plead his suit once
more. Greatly agitated by this unforeseen visit, she leaned out of the
window as the man came almost directly under it. He was Cyril, she felt
certain, both from his carriage and from the fact that she vaguely saw
the grey suit he wore. During the afternoon, Lister had been thus
dressed.

"Cyril! Cyril!" she called out cautiously.

The man looked up, and in the faint light she saw that he was indeed
Cyril, for the eyes of love were keen enough to pierce the obscurity,
and also her window was no great height from the ground. But the man
looked up, making no sign of recognition, and stepped into the house
without knocking at the door. Bella started back in surprise. She knew
that the front door was always unlocked until ten, when her father
usually retired to bed. But it seemed strange that Cyril, who had
quarrelled with the captain that very day, should choose to risk his
further wrath by entering the house uninvited. Also, it was stranger
still that Cyril should have looked up without making some sign. He must
have known who she was, for, failing sight, he had his hearing to
recognise her voice. It was all very strange.

Bella twisted up her hair, which she had let down, and walked to the
table to take up the now cold cup of tea. Her throat was parched with
thirst by reason of her nerves, and she wished to refresh herself so
that she might think of what was best to be done. Cyril and her father
had quarrelled, and again she remembered the ominous threats they had
used to one another. It was inconceivable madness for Lister to to beard
the captain in his den, knowing what a vile temper the old man
possessed. It was not at all impossible, or even improbable, but what
the afternoon quarrel might be renewed, and then heaven only knew what
might happen.

Drinking the cup of tea hastily, Bella thought over these things and
resolved, if she could not escape by the door, to scramble out of the
window. Then she could enter the house, and appear in the captain's den,
to be present at what would probably be a stormy interview. Already she
was straining her ears to catch the faintest sound of quarrelling, but
as yet she could hear nothing. Certainly Cyril had closed the front
door, for immediately he had entered she had heard him do so. And again,
the walls of the old mansion were so thick, that it was impossible she
could hear, when shut up in her bedroom, what was taking place below.

Anxiously she tried the door, but in spite of all her efforts, she
failed to open it. Wild with alarm as to what might be happening, she
crossed to her bed, intending to twist the sheets into a rope for
descent from the window. But as she caught at the linen, she felt a
drumming in her ears, and sparks seemed to dance before her eyes.
Apparently the strain on her nerves was making her ill. Also she felt
unaccountably drowsy, and in spite of every effort to keep awake, she
sank beside the bed, with the sheets still grasped in her hands. In two
or three minutes she was fast asleep.

The window was still open, and a bat swept into the room. He flitted
round the motionless figure, uttering a thin cry, and again passed out
into the starry night. The silvery voices of the nightingales in the
copses round Marshely village came faintly across the meadows mingled
with the cry of a mouse-hunting screech-owl. Still Bella slept on.

Hour after hour passed, and the night grew darker. The wind died away,
the corn-fields ceased to rustle, the nightingales to sing. It became
colder, too, as though the breath of winter was freezing the now moist
air. The stars yet glittered faintly, and the high-pitched whistle of a
steamer could be heard from the distant river, but on the whole, the
earth was silent and weirdly gloomy for summer-time. During the small
hours there came an ominous hush of expectant dread, which lasted until
the twittering birds brought in the dawn.

Bella opened her eyes, to find her room radiant with royal red light.
She felt sick and dizzy, for over her stood Mrs. Coppersley, shaking her
vigorously by the shoulder. "Bella, Bella! Your father is dead. Murder,
murder! Oh, come to the study and see the murder!"




CHAPTER V

A MYSTERIOUS CRIME


"Murder!" The ominous word struck at Bella's heart, in spite of the fact
that her dazed brain could scarcely grasp its significance. With
unseeing eyes she stared at her terrified aunt. Mrs. Coppersley, in her
usual morning dress, simply made, for domestic purposes, fell back from
the motionless girl, and gripped the table in the centre of the room.
Her face was white, her figure limp; and almost crazy with alarm, she
looked twice her age. Nor did the sight of her niece's bewildered gaze
reassure her. With a quick indrawn breath of fear, she lurched forward
and again shook the girl.

"Bella! Bella! what's come to you? Don't you hear me? Don't you
understand, Bella? Jabez is dead! your father has been murdered. He's
lying a corpse in his study. And oh--oh--oh!"--Mrs. Coppersley reeled
against the table again, and showed signs of violent hysteria.

This spectacle brought back Bella with a rush to the necessities of the
moment. She sprang to her feet, with every sense alert and ready to be
used. Seizing the ewer from the wash-stand, she dashed the water over
the sobbing, terrified woman, then braced herself to consider the
situation.

Bella's thoughts reverted to the events of the previous night.
She remembered that Cyril had come to the house and, without a
sign of recognition had entered. She had not seen him depart,
because--because--oh, yes, she had fallen unaccountably asleep. Slumber
had overtaken her at the very moment when she was preparing to descend
from the window, in order to--to--to----. Bella uttered a wild cry, and
the ebbing blood left her face pearly white. The interview between her
father and Cyril had taken place; she had not been there, and now--and
now----. "What do you say?" she asked her aunt, in a hard, unemotional
voice.

Mrs. Coppersley, quite unnerved, and drying her scared face with the
towel, gasped and stared. "Didn't you hear? What's come to you, Bella?
Your father has been murdered. I got up this morning as usual, and went
into the study. He's lying there, covered with blood. Oh, who can have
killed him?"

"How should I know?" cried Bella, harshly. "I was locked up in this room
by you, Aunt Rosamund. I fell asleep after--after----" she stopped,
aware that she might say something dangerous.

"After what?" asked Mrs. Coppersley, curiously.

"After you left--after I drank the tea. Oh, how could I fall asleep,
when--when--ah!" Bella made a bound for the table, and took up the empty
cup. Some dregs of tea remained, which she tasted. They had a bitter
flavour, and a thought flashed into her mind. "You drugged this tea!"
she cried.

Mrs. Coppersley flapped her plump hands feebly, and gasped again. Never
a very strong-minded woman, she was now reduced to a markedly idiotic
condition under the strain of the tragic circumstances. "I drug your
tea? Save us, Bella, what do you mean?"

"I drank this tea and fell asleep," said the girl sharply; "although
before drinking it, I did not feel at all sleepy. Now I have a
disagreeable taste in my mouth, and my head aches. There is a queer
flavour about what is left in the cup. I am sure this tea was drugged.
By you?"

"Good Lord!" cried Mrs. Coppersley indignantly. "Why should I drug your
tea, Bella? Your father poured it out himself in the study, when I was
getting you toast in the kitchen. I told you so last night."

"Yes, yes. I remember." Bella passed her hand across her forehead. "My
father evidently drugged the tea to keep me quiet. And so he has met
with his death by violence."

"Bella," Mrs. Coppersley screamed, and made for the door, "what do you
mean?"

Again the girl felt that she was talking too freely. If Cyril was
implicated in the crime reported by Mrs. Coppersley, she must save
Cyril. Or at least, she must hold her peace until she heard from her
lover what had taken place during that fatal interview. It was just
possible that Cyril had slain the captain in self-defence, and knowing
her father's violent character, the girl could scarcely blame the young
man. She expected that this would happen, and so had been anxious to
intervene as a peacemaker. But the drugged tea--she felt certain that it
had been drugged by her father--had prevented her doing what she wished.
Now Huxham was dead, and Lister, whether in self-defence or not, was his
murderer. The thought was agony. Yet in the midst of the terror
engendered by her surmise, Bella found herself blaming her father. If he
had not drugged the tea in order to keep her in her room, this tragedy
would not have happened. Captain Huxham had paved the way to his own
death.

But, after all, there might be extenuating circumstances, and perhaps
Cyril would be able to explain. Meantime she would hold her tongue as to
having seen him enter the house. But if anyone else had seen him? She
turned to Mrs. Coppersley. "Where were you last night?" she demanded,
suspiciously.

"I was with Henry Vand from seven until after ten," said the woman
meekly, and evidently unaware why the leading question had been put. "I
left your father in his study, and when I returned I let myself in by
the back door and went to bed quietly. You know, Jabez always objected
to my seeing Henry, so I wished to avoid trouble. This morning, when I
went into the--ugh! ugh! come and see for yourself!" and Mrs. Coppersley
gripped Bella's wrist to draw her towards the door--"It's murder and
robbery!"

Bella released her wrist with a sudden jerk, but followed the elder
woman down the stairs. "Robbery! What do you mean?"

"Come and see!" said Mrs. Coppersley hysterically. "We must send for the
police, I suppose. Oh, my poor nerves! Never, never shall I get over
this shock, disagreeable as Jabez always was to me. And he wasn't ready
for heaven, either; though perhaps he did send for Mr. Pence to talk
religion to him."

"Did my father send for Mr. Pence?"

"Yes. He asked me to go to the village with a note for Mr. Pence. I
could not find Mr. Pence at home, so left the note for him. Then I met
Henry, and returned, as I told you, after ten o'clock."

"Did Mr. Pence come to see my father?" asked Bella anxiously. She was
wondering if the preacher had by any chance seen Cyril enter the house.

"I don't know--I can't say--oh, dear me, how dreadful it all is!"
maundered Mrs. Coppersley, opening the door of the study. "Just look for
yourself, Bella. Your father lies dead in his blood. Oh, how I hope that
the villain who killed and robbed him will be hanged and drawn and
quartered! That I do, the wretch, the viper, the beast! I must get some
rum. I can't stay in this room without some rum. I shall faint, I know I
shall. What's the time? Seven o'clock. Oh, dear me, so late! I must send
Tunks for the police. He has to be here to see your father, and oh, dear
me, he can't see your father unless he goes to heaven, where I'm sure I
hope Jabez has gone. But one never knows, and he certainly was most
disagreeable to me. Oh, how ill I am! oh, how very, very bad I feel!"
and thus lamenting Mrs. Coppersley drifted out of the room, towards the
back part of the premises, leaving Bella alone with the dead man.

And Captain Huxham was dead, stone dead. His body lay on the floor
between the desk and the chair he had been sitting on. From the position
of the corpse, Bella judged that her father had suddenly risen to meet
the descending weapon, which had pierced his heart. But not being able
to defend himself, he had fallen dead at his murderer's feet. With a
cautious remembrance that she must not remove anything until the police
came, Bella knelt and examined the body carefully, but without laying a
finger on the same. The clothes over the heart had been pierced by some
extremely sharp instrument, which had penetrated even through the thick
pea-jacket worn by the dead man. There was blood on the cloth and on the
floor, and although ignorant of medical knowledge, Bella judged that
death must have been almost instantaneous. Otherwise there would have
been signs of a struggle, as Captain Huxham would not have submitted
tamely to death. But the casement was fast closed, the furniture was
quite orderly. At least, Bella judged so when she first looked round,
for no chairs were upset; but on a second glance she became aware that
the drawers of the desk were open, that the flexible lid of the desk was
up, and that the pigeon-holes had been emptied of their papers.
Also--and it was this which startled her most--the green-painted safe
was unlocked, and through the door, which stood ajar, she could see that
the papers therein were likewise in disorder. In fact, some of them were
lying on the floor.

Strongly agitated, Bella constructed a theory of the murder, and saw, as
in a vision--perhaps wrongfully--what had taken place. The captain had
come to his desk for some purpose, but hearing a noise, or perhaps
suspecting that there was danger, had unexpectedly turned, only to be
stabbed. When he fell dead, the criminal took the keys of the safe from
the dead man's pocket, and committed the robbery. Then he examined the
pigeon-holes of the desk, and afterwards departed--probably by the front
door, since the casement was closed. Robbery, undoubtedly, was the
motive for the commission of the crime.

The girl rose to her feet, drawing a long breath of relief. Cyril
certainly could not have slain her father, since Cyril would not have
robbed. The young man assuredly had come to the house--she could swear
to that herself--and if he had quarrelled with Huxham, he might have
struck him in a moment of anger. But there was no reason to believe that
Cyril would rob the safe. Hence there must be another person, who had
committed both the murder and the robbery. Who was that person?

Mrs. Coppersley had stated plainly that Huxham had sent a message to
Pence, asking him to call. Perhaps he had obeyed the summons, after
Cyril left, and then had murdered the captain. But there was no motive
for so timid and good-living a man as the preacher to slay and rob. So
far as Bella knew, Pence did not want money, and--since he wished to
make her his wife--it was imperative that Huxham should live in order to
forward his aims. And it was at this point that the girl recalled, with
a shudder, the fact that Cyril had confessed his need for one thousand
pounds. Could Lister be the culprit, after all?

"No," cried Bella aloud, and in an agony of shame; "the man I love could
not be guilty of so vile an act." So she tried to comfort herself, but
the fact of Cyril's visit to the house still lingered in her mind.

Shortly Mrs. Coppersley returned with Tunks at her heels. The handy-man
of Bleacres was a medium-sized individual, with a swarthy skin and beady
black eyes peering from under tangled black hair. Lean and lithe, and
quick in his movements, he betrayed his gypsy blood immediately, to the
most unobservant, for there was something Oriental in his appearance.
Just now he looked considerably scared, and came no further than the
door of the room.

"There's your master," said Mrs. Coppersley, pointing to the dead, "so
just you go to the village and tell the policeman to come here. Bella,
you have not touched anything, have you?"

Bella shook her head. "I have not even touched the body," she confessed
with a shudder. "Tunks, were you about the house last night?"

"No, miss," said the man, looking more scared than ever. "I went home
nigh on seven o'clock, and was with my granny all the evening. I know
nothing about this, miss."

"I don't suppose you do," rejoined the girl tartly, "but I thought you
might have seen my father later than Mrs. Coppersley here."

"I left the house last night at the same time as you, ma'am," said
Tunks, addressing himself to the housekeeper. "You locked the back door
after me."

"Yes," acknowledged Mrs. Coppersley promptly, "so you did. That would be
at seven, as I came up and saw you, Bella, a few minutes before, with
the tea and toast. You didn't come back, Tunks?"

"No, I didn't," retorted the gypsy sullenly. "You went on to Marshely,
and I got back home. I never came near this house again until this
morning. You can ask my granny if I wasn't in bed early last night."

"When did you see your master last?" questioned Bella.

Tunks removed his dingy cap to scratch his untidy locks. "It would be
about six, just before I had my tea. He wanted to reduce my wages, too,
and I said I'd give him notice if he did. But I suppose," growled Tunks,
with his eyes on the remains, "it's notice in any case now."

"Never you mind bothering about yourself," cried Mrs. Coppersley
sharply. "Go to Marshely, and tell the policeman to come here. Bella,"
she moved to the door, "let us leave the room and lock the door. Nothing
must be touched until the truth is known."

"Will the truth ever be known?" asked the girl drearily, as she went
into the hall, and watched her aunt lock the door of the death-room.

"Of course," retorted the elder woman, "one person cannot murder another
person without being seen."

"I don't know so much about that, Aunt Rosamund. You and Tunks were
away, and I was locked in my room, so anyone could enter, and----" she
glanced towards the study door and shuddered.

"Did _you_ see anyone?" asked Mrs. Coppersley quickly.

Bella started. "No," she replied, with unnecessary loudness; "how could
I see anyone when I was drugged?"

"Drugged, miss?" cried Tunks, pricking up his ears.

Mrs. Coppersley turned on the handy-man, and stamped. "How dare you
linger here?" she cried. "You should be half way to the village by this
time. Miss Bella was having wakeful nights, and her father gave her a
sleeping draught. Off with you," and she drove Tunks out of the front
door.

"Why did you tell such a lie?" asked Bella when the man was hurrying
down the path, eager, like all his tribe, to carry bad news.

"A lie! a lie!" Mrs. Coppersley placed her arms akimbo and looked
defiant. "Why do you call it a lie? You _did_ complain of sleepless
nights, and you did say that the tea, poured out by Jabez, was drugged."

"That is true enough," admitted the girl quietly, "but I merely slept
badly because of the hot weather, and never asked my father for a
sleeping----"

"Oh!" interrupted Mrs. Coppersley, tossing her head. "What does it
matter. I can't even say if the tea was drugged."

"I'll learn that soon," replied Bella drily, "for I have locked up the
cup containing the dregs of tea. My father no doubt feared lest I should
run away with Cyril, and so drugged it."

"The least said the soonest mended, Bella. Say nothing of the drugging
at the inquest, as there is no need to blacken your father's character."

"I don't see that anything I could say would blacken my father's
character, Aunt Rosamund. Of course, he had no business to drug me, but
if I am asked at the inquest I shall tell the truth."

"And so your connection with that Lister person will come out."

Bella turned on her aunt in a fury. "What do I care?" she cried,
stamping. "I have a right to marry him if I choose, and I don't care if
all the world knows how I love him. In fact, the whole world soon will
know."

"Well," said Mrs. Coppersley, with an air of washing her hands of the
entire affair, "say what you like; but don't blame me if you find
yourself in an unpleasant position."

Bella, who was ascending the stairs, turned to answer this last remark
promptly. "Why should I find myself in an unpleasant position?" she
demanded. "Do you accuse me of murdering father?"

"God forbid! God forbid!" cried Mrs. Coppersley piously and with a
shudder, "but you cannot deny that you were alone in the house."

"And locked in my bedroom, as you can testify."

"Oh, I'll say that willingly. But you'd better wash out that cup of
dregs, and say nothing more."

"I have already mentioned the matter in Tunks' hearing, so I must
explain further if necessary. But I'll say why I believe my father acted
so. Your story of sleepless nights will not do for me."

"You'll blacken the memory of the dead," groaned Mrs. Coppersley
dismally. "Ah, you never loved your poor father."

"Did you?" asked Bella suddenly.

"In a way I did, and in a way I didn't," said her aunt evasively. "Jabez
never was the brother he should have been to me. But a daughter's nearer
than a sister, and you should have loved him to distraction."

"In spite of the way he behaved to me."

"He had to keep a firm hand over your high spirit."

"Aunt Rosamund," burst out Bella at white heat. "Why do you talk in this
silly way? You know that both to you and to me my father acted like a
cruel tyrant, and that while he was alive we could do nothing to please
him. I don't want to speak ill of the dead, but you know what I say is
true."

"We are none of us perfect," snuffled Mrs. Coppersley, wiping her eyes,
"and I daresay Jabez was worse than many others. But I was a good sister
to him, in spite of his horrid ways. I'm sure my life's been spent in
looking after other people: first my mother, then my husband, and
afterwards Jabez. Now I'll marry Henry Vand, and be happy."

"Don't talk of happiness with that"--Bella pointed downward to the
study--"in the house. Go and make yourself tidy, aunt, and I'll do the
same. We have a very trying day before us."

"So like Jabez, so very like Jabez," wailed Mrs. Coppersley, while Bella
fled up the stairs. "He always brought trouble on everyone. Even as a
little boy, he behaved like the pirate he was. Oh, dear me, how ill I
feel. Bella! Bella! come down and see me faint. Bella! Bella!"

But the girl did not answer, as she knew that Mrs. Coppersley only
wished to gossip. Going to her own room, she again examined the cup with
the dregs, which she had not locked up, in spite of her saying so to
Mrs. Coppersley. Undoubtedly, the tea tasted bitter, and she resolved to
have it analysed so as to prove to herself the fact of the drugging. She
knew perfectly well that her father had attended to the tea himself,
evidently to render her helpless in case she meditated flight with
Cyril. And in dong so, he had indirectly brought about his own death,
for had she been awake she could have descended from the window to be
present at the interview which had ended so fatally. And at this
point--while she was locking up the cup in a convenient cupboard--Bella
became aware that she was thinking as though her lover were actually
guilty of the deed.

Of course he could not be, she decided desperately, even though things
looked black against him. Lister, honest and frank, would not murder an
old man in so treacherous a manner, however he might be goaded into
doing so. And yet she had assuredly seen him enter the house. If she
could only have seen him depart; but the drug had prevented that welcome
sight. Pence might have struck the blow, but Pence had no reason to do
so, and in fact had every inducement to keep Huxham alive. Bella could
not read the riddle of the murder. All she knew was that it would be
necessary for her to hold her tongue about Lister's unexpected visit to
the Solitary Farm.

"But I shall never be able to marry him after this," she wailed.




CHAPTER VI

THE INQUEST


Tunks lost no time in delivering his gruesome message and in spreading
the news of the death. While the village policeman telegraphed to his
superior officer at Pierside, the handy-man of the late Captain Huxham
adopted the public-house as a kind of St. Paul's Cross, whence to
promulgate the grim intelligence. Here he passed a happy and exciting
hour detailing all that had happened, to an awe-stricken crowd, members
of which supplied him with free drinks. The marsh-folk were a dull,
peaceful, law-abiding people, and it was rarely that crimes were
committed in the district. Hence the news of the murder caused a
tremendous sensation.

Captain Jabez Huxham was well known, and his eccentricity in the matter
of planting Bleacres with yearly corn had been much commented upon. In
Napoleonic times the fertile marsh farms had been golden with grain, but
of late years, owing to Russian and American competition, little had
been sown. Huxham, as the rustics argued, could not have got even
moderate prices for its crops, so it puzzled one and all why he
persisted in his unprofitable venture. But there would be no more sowing
at Bleacres now, for the captain himself was about to be put under the
earth. "And a grand funeral he'll have," said the rustics, morbidly
alive to the importance of the grim event. For thirty years no crime of
this magnitude had been committed in the neighbourhood, and the violent
death of Huxham provided these bovine creatures with a new thrill.

Meanwhile the policeman, Dutton by name, had proceeded to Bleacres,
followed--when the news became more widely known--by a large and curious
throng. For that day and for the following days, until Huxham's body was
buried, Bleacres could no longer be called the solitary farm, in one
sense of the word. But the inherent respect of the agriculturist for
growing crops kept the individual members of the crowd, male and female,
to the narrow path which led from the boundary channel to the front door
of the Manor-house. When Inspector Inglis arrived with three or four
policemen from Pierside, he excluded the public from the grounds, but
the curious still hovered in the distance--beyond Jordan as it
were--with inquisitive eyes fastened on the quaint old mansion. To them,
one and all, it now assumed portentous proportions as the abode of
terror.

Inspector Inglis was a very quiet man, who said little, but who kept his
eyes on the alert. He inspected the body of the dead man, and then sent
for a doctor, who delivered his report in due course. The study was
examined thoroughly, and the entire house was searched from cellar to
garret. Then Bella and her aunt were questioned, and Tunks was also put
in the witness box. But in spite of all official curiosity, backed by
official power on the part of Inglis, he convened the jury of the
inquest, as ignorant of the truth as when he had begun his search. He
certainly found a blood-stained dagger behind the massive mahogany desk,
with which undoubtedly the crime had been committed; but he could
discover no trace of the assassin, and three or four days later, when
the inquest took place in the Manor-house, the mystery of the murder was
still unsolved. Nor, on the evidence procurable, did there seem to be
any chance of solution.

During the early part of the inquiry, Mrs. Coppersley had told Inglis
how her late brother had sent her with a note to Marshely asking Silas
Pence to call. When questioned, the preacher, not without agitation and
dismay, stated that he had been absent from his lodgings until eleven
o'clock on the fatal evening, and had not obeyed the summons of the
deceased. Certainly on his return he had found and read the note asking
him to call, but as the hour was late, he had deferred the visit until
the next morning. Then, of course, the news of the murder had been made
public, and Pence had said nothing until questioned by the Inspector.
But he was quite frank and open in his replies, and Inglis was satisfied
that the young preacher knew nothing about the matter.

From the moment when informed by Mrs. Coppersley of the crime until the
inquest, Bella suffered greatly. At her request, Dr. Ward--the medical
man who had reported on the time and manner of Huxham's death--had
examined the dregs of the tea-cup. Beyond doubt, as he discovered,
laudanum had been poured into the tea, and so largely, that it was
little wonder she had slept so soundly. Even had there been a struggle,
as Ward assured her, she would not have heard the commotion. And, as the
state of the study showed that the murderer had taken his victim
unawares, it was little to be wondered at that Bella woke in ignorance
of what had taken place during the night. She was thankful to have the
testimony of the young physician as to the drugging, since thereby she
was entirely exonerated from complicity in the crime. For, dreadful as
it may seem, there were those evil-seekers who hinted that Huxham's
daughter, having been alone in the house, must be aware of the truth, if
not actually guilty herself. But Bella knew that the evidence of Dr.
Ward and Mrs. Coppersley as to the drugging and the locking of the
bedroom door would clear her character.

It was therefore not on this account that she suffered, but because of
the inexplicable absence of Cyril Lister. Since she had seen him enter
the house shortly after eight o'clock on the fatal night she had not set
eyes on him, nor had she received any communication. At a time when she
needed him so greatly, it seemed strange that her lover should be
absent, since the fact of the murder, now being known all over England,
it appeared incredible that he alone should be ignorant. In spite of her
desire to believe him guiltless, this conduct looked decidedly
suspicious. If nothing serious had taken place between Cyril and her
father on the night in question, why had Lister gone away? At least she
surmised that he had gone away, as he did not appear to be in the
village, and she heard no mention of his name from the many people who
haunted the house. Try as she might, Bella, dearly as she loved the
young man, could not rid herself of the frightful belief that he had
struck the blow. Considering the circumstances, which she alone knew
fully, he had every reason to commit the crime. Yet in the face of the
strongest circumstantial evidence, Bella could not bring herself to
credit Cyril's guilt. Day after day, like sister Anne, she climbed to
the quarter-deck to see if he was coming. But the day of the inquest
came in due course, and even then he had not put in an appearance.

The Coroner was a grim, snappy old doctor, who set forth the object of
the inquest gruffly and tersely. The jury under his direction inspected
the body and then gathered in the large and stately dining-room of the
Manor-house to consider the evidence. Inspector Inglis confessed that he
had few witnesses, and that there was nothing in the evidence likely to
lead to the arrest of the murderer. Robbery, said the officer, was
undoubtedly the cause of the crime, since the desk had been rifled, and
the safe had been forced open. Mrs. Coppersley, the sister of the
deceased, he went on to say, could state that she knew her brother kept
at least one hundred pounds in gold in the safe. This was missing, so
probably----

"We'll take things in order, if you please," snapped the gruff Coroner
at this point of the Inspector's speech. "Call your witnesses."

Inglis was only too willing, and Dr. Ward gave his evidence, which
proved that in his opinion, after an examination of the body, the
deceased had been stabbed to the heart between the hours of eight and
eleven on the night in question. Witness could not be more precise, he
said, a confession which brought a grunt from the Coroner. The old
doctor lifted his eye-brows to intimate that the young doctor did not
know his business over well, else he would have been more explicit. But
Dr. Ward avoided an argument by hurriedly stating that, according to his
opinion--another grunt from the snappy Coroner--the wound had been
inflicted with the dagger found behind the mahogany desk.

This remark led to the production of the dagger, a foot-long steel,
broad towards the hilt and tapering to a sharp point. This was set in a
handle of jet-black wood, carved into the semblance of an ugly negro.
And the odd part about the blade was that the middle portion of the
steel was perforated with queer letters of the cuneiform type, and
filled in with copper. The Coroner frowned when he examined this strange
weapon, and he looked inquiringly at Mrs. Coppersley.

"Does this belong to your late brother?" he asked jerkily.

Mrs. Coppersley looked at the knife. "Jabez, being a sailor, had all
manner of queer things," she said hesitatingly, "but I never set my eyes
on that. He wasn't one to show what he had, sir."

"Was your brother ever in Africa on the West Coast?"

"He was all over the world, but I can't rightly say where, sir. Why?"

"This," the gruff Coroner shook the weapon, "is an African sacrificial
knife in use on the West Coast. From the way in which the copper is
welded into the steel, I fancy some Nigerian tribe possessed it. The
members of tribes thereabouts are clever metal-workers. The handle and
the lettering also remind me of something," mused the doctor, "for I was
a long time out in Senegal and Sierra Leone and saw--and saw--but that's
no matter. How comes an African sacrificial knife here?"

"I'm sure I don't know, sir," said Mrs. Coppersley promptly. "Jabez, as
I say, had all manner of queer things which he didn't show me."

"You can't say if this knife belonged to him?"

"No, sir, I can't. The murderer may have brought it."

"You are not here to give opinions," growled the doctor, throwing the
ugly-looking weapon on the table. "Are you sure," he added to Ward,
"that the wound was made with this knife?"

"Yes, I'm sure," replied the young practitioner, tartly, for the
Coroner's attitude annoyed him. "The weapon is sharp pointed and fits
the wound. Also the deceased wore a thick pea-jacket and only such a
knife could have penetrated the cloth."

"If the blow were struck with sufficient force," snapped the Coroner.

"It was," rejoined the witness. "Have you any more questions to ask me?"

The Coroner nodded, and Ward gave surgical details to prove that death
must have taken place almost instantaneously, since Huxham had been
stabbed to the heart. "Apparently deceased heard a noise, and rose
suddenly from his chair at the desk to face round in self-defence. But
the assassin was too quick for him, and struck the knife to deceased's
heart with great force as is apparent from----"

"That's all supposition," contradicted the Coroner rudely. "Stick to
facts."

Boiling with rage, the young doctor confined himself forthwith to a bald
statement of what he had discovered and then was curtly dismissed to
give place to Mrs. Coppersley.

That lady was voluble and sharp-tongued, so that the Coroner quite met
with his match, much to the delight of Dr. Ward, smarting under much
discourtesy. Mrs. Coppersley deposed that she had left the house at
seven o'clock, by the back door, with a note for Mr. Silas Pence from
her brother, asking him to call at the Manor-house. She left the note at
Mr. Pence's lodgings and then went on to the grocery shop to make some
purchases and to see Mrs. Vand and her son Henry. There she remained
until a quarter to ten o'clock and afterwards returned to the
Manor-house. Mr. Vand saw her as far as the boundary channel and then
went home.

"What time was that?" asked the Coroner, making notes.

"Just at ten," replied witness, flushing at the smile on the faces of
those who knew of the love romance. "The clock struck ten while I was
speaking to Henry--I mean to Mr. Vand--and not knowing that it was so
late I feared lest my brother should be angry. Jabez was always very
particular as to the house being locked up, so I thought he might shut
me out. I went in by the back door, having the key, and retired at once
to bed."

"Did you not see your brother?" asked the Coroner.

"No, sir. Knowing Jabez's violent temper I had no wish to see him, lest
there should be trouble. I went on tip-toe to bed, after locking the
back door."

"Did you hear Mr. Huxham moving about," questioned a juryman, timidly.

"No, Mr. Tatters, I didn't. Everything was quiet as I passed the door of
the study, and it was closed."

"Did you see a light in the window of the study when at the boundary
channel with Mr. Vand?" asked the Coroner.

"No; I looked too," said the witness, "for if Jabez had been up, there
would have been trouble owing to my being late. But there was no light
in the window, so I fancied Jabez might have gone to bed and have locked
me out. But he hadn't guessed I was absent, and so----"

"Did you see a light under the study door when passing through the
hall?"

"No, and that made me believe that Jabez had gone to bed. But I didn't
think of looking into the study; if I had," witness shuddered, "oh dear
me, how very dreadful it all is. Well, then I went to bed, and next
morning came down early to clean the study. When I entered I saw my
brother dead in his gore, whereupon I ran up stairs and got Bella to
come down. Then we sent for the police, and that's all I know."

The Coroner looked towards Ward. "This evidence takes an hour off your
time of death, doctor," he said sourly. "You say that the man was
murdered after eight and before eleven. Well then, as this witness
reached the house just after ten and saw no light in the study the
deceased must have been dead when she passed through the hall on her way
to bed."

"Oh," groaned Mrs. Coppersley, with her handkerchief to her lips. "How
dreadful if I'd looked in to see Jabez weltering in his gore."

"It's a pity you didn't," rejoined the Coroner sharply, "for then you
could have given the alarm and the assassin might have been arrested."

"Yes," cried Mrs. Coppersley violently, "and the assassin might have
been in the house at the moment, with only two women, mind, and one of
them drugged. I should have been killed myself had I given the alarm, so
I'm glad I didn't."

"Drugged! Drugged! What do you mean by drugged?"

"Ask Bella," retorted Mrs. Coppersley. "I've told all I'm going to
tell."

"Not all," said the Coroner, "was the front door locked?"

"I didn't notice at the time, being anxious to escape Jabez and get to
bed."

"Did you notice if it was locked in the morning?"

"Yes, when I opened it for Tunks to go for the police."

"It _was_ locked," said Bella, rising at this juncture, "but Tunks
opened it while I was talking with my aunt in the hall."

"You can give your evidence when I ask you," snapped the Coroner rudely.
"Humph! So the front door was locked and the back door also. How did the
assassin escape? He couldn't have gone by the front door after
committing the crime, since the key was in the inside, and you locked
the back door coming and going, Mrs. Coppersley."

"The murdering beast," said the witness melodramatically, "might have
got out of the study window."

"Then he must be a very small man," retorted the Coroner, "for only a
small man could scramble through the window. I examined it an hour ago."

"Please yourself," said Mrs. Coppersley, with an air of indifference,
"all I know is, that I'm glad I didn't discover Jabez in his gore on
that night and at that hour. If I had, you'd be holding an inquest on
me."

"Possibly. If the assassin was in the study when you passed through the
hall, Mrs. Coppersley."

"Ugh," shivered the witness, "and that's just where he was, depend upon
it, sir, getting through the window, when he'd dropped the knife behind
the desk. Oh, what an escape I've had," wept Mrs. Coppersley.

"There, there, don't bellow," said the Coroner, testily, "get down and
let the witness, Luke Tunks, be called."

The Bleacres handy-man had very little to say, but gave his evidence in
a straightforward manner. He had left the house with Mrs. Coppersley at
seven and had gone straight home to bed, as he was tired. His
grandmother could depose to the fact that he was in bed until the
morning. Then he came as usual to the Manor-house, and found that his
master was dead. He admitted that he had quarrelled with his master over
a possible curtailment of wages, and they had not parted in a very
friendly spirit. "But you can't say as I did for him," ended the witness
defiantly.

"No one suggests such a thing," snapped the Coroner. "Had you any reason
to believe that deceased expected to be murdered?"

Tunks scratched his head, "I have and I haven't," he said at length;
"master did seem afraid of someone, as he was always looking over his
shoulder. He said that he planted the corn so that there should be only
one path up to the house. Then he rigged up that out-look round the
chimney there," witness jerked his head towards the ceiling, "and he's
got a search-light there also, which he turned on at times."

The Coroner nodded. The late Captain's search-light was well-known, but
it was only put down as another freak on the part of a freakish man. But
the remark of the witness about the corn was new. "Do you mean to say
that the deceased planted the corn as a protection against some one
coming on him unawares?"

"Yes, I do," said Tunks, sturdily, "corn don't pay, and there was always
only one pathway left. Now my idea is----"

"We don't want to hear your ideas," said the Coroner; "get down. Silas
Pence."

The young preacher's examination occupied only a few minutes. He said
that he was absent from his lodgings until eleven, and then returned to
find the note. As it was late he did not call, and went to bed, as his
landlady could prove. He had no reason to believe that Captain Huxham
expected to be murdered, and considered that the old sailor was more
than capable of looking after himself. Witness was very friendly with
the Captain and wished to marry Miss Huxham, an arrangement to which the
Captain was quite agreeable. Witness presumed that Huxham wished to see
him about the projected marriage when he wrote the note asking witness
to call. Next morning when about to pay the visit, witness heard of the
murder.

Bella was the final witness, and stepped before the Coroner and the
inquisitive jurymen, looking pale, but composed. She gave her evidence
carefully, as she made up her mind to say nothing about Cyril's visit on
the fatal night. Also she was grateful that in his statement Pence had
said nothing of Lister's rivalry. She noted also that Pence had kept
quiet about the offer of her hand as a reward for the death of Cyril
made by her father to the preacher. More than ever she believed this
wild declaration to be due to imagination on the young man's part.

"What have you to say about this matter, Miss Huxham?" asked the coroner
in his usual gruff way.

"Nothing at all," she replied.

"Nothing at all," he echoed, and the jurymen looked at one another.

"No. I had quarrelled with my father on the afternoon of the night when
he met with his terrible death. He refused to let me come to supper, so
I retired to my room. Mrs. Coppersley brought me up tea and toast and
then locked me in my room."

"By her father's orders," cried Mrs. Coppersley, rising.

"Silence," said the Coroner scowling; "but surely, Miss Huxham, you
could have heard if----"

"I heard nothing," interrupted Bella, straightening her slim figure,
"for I was drugged."

"H'm!" The Coroner looked at her shrewdly. "Mrs. Coppersley said
something of that. Why were you drugged? Who drugged you?"

"My father drugged the cup of tea, brought by my aunt, with laudanum,"
said Bella bravely, determined to speak out, yet conscious of the
curious faces.

"Yes, he did," cried Mrs. Coppersley. "I brought the tea to the study
and then went to get the toast. Jabez had poured out the tea when I came
back, and giving me a cup told me to take it to Bella. I never knew
myself that it was drugged."

"But I can state that it was," said Dr. Ward, rising. "Miss Huxham gave
me the dregs to examine. I can prove----"

The Coroner intervened testily. "All this is very much out of order," he
said. "Let us proceed with caution. Miss Huxham, tell your story, and
then we can hear Dr. Ward and Mrs. Coppersley."

"I have scarcely any story to tell," said Bella, still apprehensive, yet
still brave and discreet. "I am engaged to be married, but my father did
not approve of my choice. He interrupted my meeting with my future
husband----"

"Who is he, if I may ask?"

"Mr. Lister. He is a gentleman who has been stopping here----"

"Yes, yes, I know;" and the Coroner did know, for his wife was a great
gossip and collected all the scandal for miles around. In fact he had
heard something of the philandering of Lister after Miss Huxham. "Go
on."

Bella proceeded. "My father would not allow me to come to supper, and
sent up my aunt with tea and toast to lock me in my room. She did so. I
did not eat the toast, but I drank the tea, and then fell asleep half on
the floor and half on my bed. My aunt awoke me in the morning with the
news of what had happened."

"And you heard nothing?"

"How could she," growled Ward, "when she was drugged."

"Silence there," said the Coroner sharply. "What time did you fall under
the influence of the opiate, Miss Huxham?"

"Shortly after eight, so far as I can recollect."

"Did you know that the tea was drugged?"

"If I had I should not have drunk it," retorted the witness. "It was
only next morning that I guessed the truth, and then I kept the dregs
for Dr. Ward to examine. He says----"

"He can give his evidence himself," interrupted the Coroner. "Why did
your father drug you?"

"I can't say, sir, unless he feared lest I should elope with Mr.
Lister."

"Had you any such intention?"

"No, I had not."

The Coroner looked at her earnestly and pinched his lip, apparently
nonplussed. The whole affair struck him as strange, and he
cross-examined the girl carefully. When he examined Mrs. Coppersley and
Ward, both of them bore out the improbable story--in the Coroner's
opinion--told by the girl. Finally the old doctor accepted the testimony
and dismissed the witnesses.

"I can't compliment you on the conduct of this case, Inspector Inglis,"
he said, when informed that no more witnesses were forthcoming. "You
have collected nothing likely to solve the mystery."

"I cannot manufacture evidence, sir," said Inglis stiffly.

The Coroner grunted and made an acid speech in which he pointed out that
the evidence laid before him and the jury amounted to absolutely
nothing. Only one verdict could be brought in--"Wilful murder against
some person or persons unknown." This was accordingly done, and the
assembly dispersed. Only the Coroner remained to state sourly to Inglis
that he considered the police in general to be fools, and the Pierside
inspector to be the king of them.




CHAPTER VII

CYRIL AND BELLA


Captain Huxham's death having been legally relegated to the list of
undiscovered crimes, his gnarled old body was committed to a damp grave
in Marshely cemetery. There was a vast concourse of people from far and
near to assist at the funeral of one who had been so mysteriously
murdered. So greatly had the strangeness of the deed appealed to the
imagination of metropolitan readers, that many London reporters came
down to see the last of the case, and if possible to begin it again by
making enquiries. But ask as they might, they could learn nothing. They
were therefore compelled to content themselves with picturesque
descriptions of the ancient Manor-house amidst its corn-fields, and with
inaccurately lurid accounts of the late owner's career as a sailor.

Mrs. Coppersley went to the funeral as chief mourner, as Bella
resolutely declined to do so. She was sorry for her tyrannical father's
violent death, but being very human, found it difficult to forgive him
for the way in which he had behaved. He had bullied her and shut her in
her room, and finally had drugged her by stealth. But as it turned out
it was just as well that he had done so, as thereby she was able to
prove that she knew nothing of the crime, even though she was alone in
the house. Then again, there was the other side of the question to
take--that if Huxham had not administered the laudanum he might have
been alive and well at the moment. It seemed to Bella, overstrung with
nerves, that some higher powers had dealt out a punishment to the
Captain for crimes committed but undiscovered. Certainly she agreed with
Tunks that her father had some dark secret in his mind, which led him to
isolate himself in the midst of the corn.

However, he was dead and buried, so all debts were paid, and Bella
sitting in the vast drawing-room of the Manor-house with a
church-service open on her lap, tried hard to forget Huxham's bad traits
of character, and to remember his good ones. This was somewhat
difficult, as the captain had few engaging qualities. But Bella recalled
that he had been kind in a gruff sort of way and had never grudged her
the best of food and the gaudiest of frocks. Huxham had been one of
those so-called good people, who are amiable so long as everything is
done according to their liking; but who display the tyrant when crossed.
But on the whole he might have been worse, and after all, as she
anxiously kept in mind, he was her father.

The room wherein she sat, with the blinds down, was opposite the study
and was a large apartment sparsely furnished. Huxham did not care for a
drawing-room, as he preferred his den, but Mrs. Coppersley had bothered
him incessantly until he provided her with furniture for the place. She
selected the furniture herself, and what with her brother's stinginess
and her own bad taste, the result was woefully bad. The room, spacious,
lofty and stately, was decorated as beautifully as was the study, and
required the most exquisite furniture to enhance its faded splendours.
But Mrs. Coppersley had bought a magenta-hued sofa and many
magenta-covered chairs, together with a cheap sideboard, so sticky as to
look like a fly catcher, and two arm chairs of emerald green. The inlaid
floor she had covered with lineoleum, diapered white and black, and her
artistic taste had led her to paint the mellow oak panelling with pink
Aspinall's enamel. As the curtains of the many windows were yellow, and
the blinds blue, the effect was disastrous, and suggestive of a
paint-box. An artist would have died of the confusion of tints, and the
barbarism of destroying the oak panels, but Mrs. Coppersley was more
than satisfied with the result, and when seated in the drawing-room on
Sunday felt herself to be quite the lady.

At the present moment Bella's nerves were less troubled than usual; the
blinds were down in sympathy with the funeral, and a dim twilight
pervaded the room, hiding more or less the atrocious grandeur. She sat
in one of the green arm-chairs near the fire-place, reading the burial
service and listening to the solemn tolling of the bell. But after a
time she dropped the book on her lap and leaned back to close her eyes
and reflect on her grave position. If only she had not seen Cyril on
that night she could have married in ignorance that he had anything to
do with the death of her father; but, enlightened as she was, it
appeared impossible that she should become his wife. She had said
nothing of his visit at the inquest, but the hideous doubt remained in
her mind, although she strove to banish it by assuring herself over and
over again that Lister could have had no hand in the matter. But how
could she prove his innocence?

She was alone in that sinister house, and although it was bright
sunshine out of doors she felt scared. The cool dim room, the dreary
booming of the distant bell, the impressive words of the burial service
which she had just been reading--all these things united in a weird
appeal to her psychic instincts, to those mysterious senses which deal
with the unseen. In the arm-chair she sat with closed eyes strung up to
breaking-point, and felt that if the psychic influence which seemed to
control her became more insistent, she would scream. A thought flashed
across her mind that her father was walking that dim, chill apartment,
trying to communicate the truth; and in her nervous excitement she could
almost have sworn that she heard the heavy tread of his feet.

Thus, when she really did hear a light footstep in the entrance hall
without, she uttered a piercing scream, and staggered to her feet. The
hall door, she knew, had been left open since the coffin had been
carried down the path between the standing corn, so that anyone could
enter. Perhaps the assassin had come back to review the scene of his
crime, or to commit another.

White-faced and panic-stricken by the power of her own emotions
engendered by the circumstances, she clung to the back of the arm-chair,
straining her eyes towards the door. At the sound of her thin
high-pitched scream the footsteps had ceased for a moment, as though the
intruder was listening. Now they recommenced and drew near the outside
of the door. Unable to utter a sound Bella stared through the dim lights
and saw the door open cautiously. A face looked in and the eyes set in
the face blinked in the semi-gloom. Then the door opened widely and
Cyril Lister stepped in.

"Oh, my darling!" With a sudden rush of relief Bella ran rapidly towards
the door to throw herself into her lover's arms. Then a gruesome memory
of that sinister visit made her falter and pause half way. Cyril closed
the door and stood where he was, holding out his hungry arms.

"Dearest," he said softly. "Oh, my poor girl."

But Bella did not move; she stood looking at him as though fascinated.
He wore a white drill suit made, tropic-fashion, high at the neck, with
white shoes, and a panama hat. His white-clothed figure accentuated the
twilight of the room, which now looked brown and grim. Considering that
her father was dead and even now was being laid in an untimely grave,
Cyril might have come to her dressed in mourning, unless--ah, unless.
"Oh!"--she stretched out an arm as he advanced slowly--"don't come near
me--don't come near me."

"Bella!" He stopped in sheer surprise. "Bella, darling, don't you know
me?"

"Ah, yes, I know you," she gasped, retreating towards the chair.
"Perhaps I know you too well."

"Because I have not been to see you before?" he asked, surprised.
"Bella, dearest, I would have come but that I have been abroad during
the week. I had to go to Paris to see a--a friend of mine."

She noted the hesitation and shivered. "When did you go?"

Cyril came near, and again she shrank away. "On the afternoon when your
father found us in the corn-field."

"It's not true; it's not true. How can you lie to me?"

"Bella!" Cyril stopped short again, and in the faint light she could see
that he looked thoroughly puzzled and amazed. "What do you mean?"

The girl's legs refused to support her any longer, and she sank into the
chair. "My father is being buried," she gasped.

"I know, I know," he replied sympathetically. "I went to the funeral,
but finding you were not present, I came here to comfort you."

"You--you--you went to the funeral?" her eyes dilated.

"Why should I not go. After all, even though we quarrelled, he was your
father, and a last tribute of respect----"

"Oh, stop, stop. You can say this to me--to me, of all people?"

Lister frowned and pinched his lip. "This lonely house and this cold,
dull room have unnerved you," he said after a pause. "I make every
allowance for what you have gone through, but----"

"But you know, you understand."

"Know what? understand what?" he inquired sharply.

"I said nothing at the inquest. I held my tongue. I never----"

"Bella!" Cyril, now thoroughly roused, advanced and seized her wrists in
no gentle grasp, "are you crazy, talking in this way?"

"I have had enough to make me crazy," she said bitterly, "let me go."

"Not till you explain your mysterious behaviour. No"--he grasped her
wrists tighter as she strove to release herself--"not till you explain."

"Ah!" she cried out shrilly, "will you murder me also?"

Lister suddenly released her wrists and fell back a pace. "Murder you
also?" he repeated. "Am I then in the habit of murdering people?"

"My father. You--you----"

"Well, go on," said he, as the word stuck in her throat.

"Oh"--she wrung her hands helplessly--"I saw you; I saw you."

"Saw me what?" His voice became impatient and almost fierce.

"I saw you enter the house--this house."

"Saw me--enter this house? When?"

"On the night my father was murdered--at eight o'clock."

"What the devil are you talking about?" cried Cyril roughly. "I was in
London at eight o'clock on that night, and went to Paris the next
morning. I never heard of the murder, as I saw no newspapers. When I
returned last night I read the account of the inquest in the evening
papers, and I came down this morning to comfort you. I really think
trouble has turned your head, Bella."

The girl stared at him in astonishment. Even though she had spoken so
very plainly, Cyril did not seem to comprehend that she was accusing him
of having committed a dastardly crime. Her heart suddenly grew light.
Perhaps, after all, she was mistaken, and--and--"You can prove your
innocence?"

"My innocence of what, in heaven's name?" he cried angrily.

"Of--of--the--the--murder," she faltered.

Lister stared, and scarcely could believe his ears. "You are not
serious?"

"Oh, my dear:" she sobbed, "I wish I were not."

"And you accuse me of murdering your father?"

"No, no! Really, I don't accuse you of actually--that is, of really--but
I saw you enter this house at eight o'clock, or a little after, on that
night. I intended to come down, thinking you and my father might
quarrel, but I drank the tea--you must have seen about the tea at the
inquest--that is, in the report given in the papers. Then I fell asleep,
and woke to hear that my father was dead. But I never betrayed you,
Cyril. God is my witness that I have held my tongue."

Lister passed his hand across his forehead, and fell helplessly into a
near chair. "You accuse me of murdering your father?" he said again.

"No, no;" she repeated feverishly, "but I saw you--you looked up--you
wore the grey clothes, as you had done in the afternoon when father
interrupted us."

"Bella! Bella! You must have been dreaming, or the drug----"

"I was not dreaming," she interrupted vehemently, "and I saw you before
I drank the drugged tea. I called to you, and you looked up; but you
entered the house without making any sign of recognition. Then I fell
asleep, and--and--oh,--my dear"--she flung herself down at his feet and
seized his hand. "What took place between my father and you? I'm sure
you did not kill him. I am quite sure of that, and, remember, I held my
tongue. Yes, I held----"

"Oh," groaned the young man, looking down into her agitated face. "I am
losing my reason. You will shortly persuade me that I killed----"

"But you did not--you did not. Ah, never say that you did."

"No," said Lister shortly, and rose so suddenly as to let her fall, "and
if you believe me to be a murderer, we had better part."

"I don't! I don't!" she wailed, stretching out her hands, as he strode
towards the door. "Oh, Cyril, don't leave me. You are all I have."

Lister was in a white heat with rage, and stood fumbling at the door.
But a backward glance at her pale face cooled him somewhat. He
recognised that he was in the presence of some mystery, and that it was
necessary for his own peace of mind, as for Bella's, to probe the
mystery to the bottom. On the impulse of the moment he walked back, and
lifting her, placed her again in the arm-chair. Then he knelt beside
her, and took her hands. "Darling," he said, softly and firmly, "I swear
to you, what I would not swear to any living creature, that I am
innocent. If anyone but you had accused me, I should have----"

"Cyril! Cyril!" She wreathed her arms round his neck, "I only fancied,
but I really did not think that----"

He removed her arms. "You should believe in my innocence in the face of
all evidence," he said sternly.

"But my own eyes," she faltered.

He frowned. "That certainly is puzzling; still, the drug----"

"I saw you enter the house before I drunk the tea," she protested. "I
told you that before."

"Your senses were quite clear?"

"Perfectly clear. And I thought that you had come to try and induce my
father to consent to our marriage."

"Strange," muttered the young man. "I was not near the house."

"Are you sure? are you sure?"

"Oh!" Lister's tone was highly exasperated. "You will drive me mad,
talking in this way. Hearken," he added, speaking calmer, "when I left
you and Captain Huxham in the corn-field, I went straight back to my
lodgings. There I found a letter referring to the thousand pounds I
wished to borrow. I had to see the friend who was willing to lend it to
me on that night. I therefore went to London by the six o'clock train.
My landlady can prove that I left the house; the flyman can prove that I
drove to the local station; the ticket office there that I bought a
ticket, and the guard of the train shut me himself in a first-class
compartment. That is evidence enough, I fancy."

"Yes. Yes, for me, but----"

"But I might have sneaked back, I suppose you mean?" he said bitterly,
and rising to walk the floor. "I can prove an _alibi_ easily. At eight
o'clock I was at my friend's rooms in Duke Street, St. James's, as his
man can swear. He had gone to Paris, and I arranged to follow. I went to
the theatre, and to dinner with two friends of mine, and did not leave
them until one in the morning, when I returned to my hotel. The murder
took place at eleven, or between eight and eleven, so I can easily prove
that I was not here. Next morning I went to Paris, and got the money
from my friend. I lingered there with him, and only returned yesterday,
to learn that your father was dead. Then I came down here this morning
to--meet with this reception."

"Cyril! Cyril! Don't be hard on me."

"Are you not hard yourself?" he retorted. "How can I love a woman who
doubts me? Besides, robbery was the motive for the commission of the
crime. Am I likely to stab an old man, and then rob him?"

"No, I never believed, and yet----"

"And yet what?" he asked curtly.

"You--you--wanted a thousand pounds."

"Oh"--his lip curled--"and you believed that I robbed your father's safe
to get it. Unfortunately, I understood, from your aunt's evidence at the
inquest, that only one hundred pounds in gold were in the safe, so I
must have committed a brutal murder needlessly."

"I never said that you murdered my father," cried Bella despairingly.

"You inferred as much," he retorted cuttingly; "also that I robbed----"

"No, no, no!" she cried vehemently, now thoroughly believing him to be
completely innocent, and trying woman-like to recover her position.
"But, Cyril, listen to me, and you will see that as things look I was
justified----"

"Nothing can justify your believing me to be guilty of a double crime."

Bella bowed her proud head. "I can see that now," she said humbly.

"You should have seen it before," he replied harshly.

She raised her head, and looked at him indignantly, bringing into play
the powerful weapon of sex. "You give me no opportunity of defending
myself," she said, in the offended tone of a woman wronged.

"I ask your pardon, and give you the opportunity now," he replied
coldly.

"I saw you enter the house," she repeated somewhat weakly.

"That is impossible," he rejoined briefly.

"Oh!" She clasped her hands together. "What is the use of saying that?
It was not you, since I firmly believe what you tell me; all the
same----"

Cyril sprang forward, seized her hands, and looked deep into her eyes
"You believe me, then?"

"Yes, I do. But if the man was not you, he must have been your double."

"Was he so like me, then?"

"Exactly like you. Don't I tell you, Cyril, that I leaned out of the
window and spoke to the man. I called him by your name."

"What did he do?"

"He looked up, but making no sign of recognition stepped into the house,
as the door was not locked. I never believed for one moment that it was
not you, and resolved to clamber out of the window to be present at the
interview. Then I drank the drugged tea, and----" she made a gesture of
despair--"you know the rest."

"How was the man dressed?"

"In a grey suit, just as you wore in the afternoon."

"You saw the face?"

"I saw it very plainly, although the twilight was growing darker at the
time. But I could have sworn it was your face. Would I have spoken to
the man had I not believed him to be you?"

"No, and yet"--Cyril stopped, and tugged at his moustache. His face had
grown pale, and he looked decidedly worried. "The man was of my height?"

"He was like you in every respect. Perhaps if I had seen him in broad
daylight I might have recognised my mistake unless--oh, Cyril, could it
have been your ghost?"

"No," said Lister, in a strangled voice, "don't be absurd. I have an
idea that----" he made for the door. "There's nothing more to say."

"Cyril, will you leave me? Won't you kiss----"

"There's nothing more to say," said Lister, now deadly pale, and walked
abruptly out of the dim room. Bella fell back in the chair and wept. All
was over.




CHAPTER VIII

THE WITCH-WIFE


The interview between the engaged lovers had been a strange one, and not
the least strange part was the termination. Apparently, after hearing
the description of the mysterious double given by Bella, her lover could
have explained much--at least, she gathered this from the hints his
broken conversation gave. After his departure, she sat weeping, until it
struck her sensible nature how very foolish she was to waste time in
idle regrets. Whether Cyril felt so mortally offended by her doubts as
to regard the engagement at an end, she could not say. But after some
thought she believed that her remarks had given him a clue which he had
left thus abruptly to follow up. Sooner or later he would return to
explain, and then all would be well between them.

And in spite of his odd behaviour, she had one great consolation in
knowing that he was innocent. His denial of guilt had been so strong;
the _alibi_ he set forth was so easy of proof, and so impossible of
invention, that she blamed herself sincerely for ever having doubted the
young man. Nevertheless, considering the weird circumstances, and the
fact of the likeness of the double--whomsoever he might be--to her
lover, she could scarcely regard herself as having been foolish. Nine
people out of ten would have made the same mistake, and would have
harboured similar doubts. Certainly, seeing that she loved Cyril
devotedly, she should have been the tenth; but in the hour of trial her
faith had proved very weak. She tried to remind herself that she had
never really believed him to be guilty. All the same, recalling the late
conversation, she had to recognise that her words could have left very
little doubt in Lister's mind as to the fact that she believed him to be
a robber and an assassin. Well, if she had, surely she had been severely
punished, as was only fair.

Mrs. Coppersley returned from the funeral in a very chastened frame of
mind, and in the company of Henry Vand, whom she had bidden to tea. The
table was furnished forth with funeral baked meats, after the fashion of
Hamlet's mother's wedding, and Mr. Vand did full justice to
them--wonderful justice, considering his apparently delicate
constitution. He was not very tall, and remarkably handsome, with his
young, clean-shaven face, his large, blue eyes, and his curly, golden
hair. His body was well-shaped all save the right foot, which was
twisted and the leg of which was shorter than the other. Like Talleyrand
and Lord Byron, the young man was club-footed, but otherwise had a very
attractive personality. From his delicate fingers, it could be seen that
he was a musician, and he had an air of refinement astonishing in one of
his breeding and birth. Bella did not like him much. Not that she had
any fault to find with him; but his eyes were shallow, like those of a
bird, and his conversation was dull, to say the least of it. The sole
way in which he could converse was through his violin, and as he had not
that with him on this occasion, Bella preferred to remain absent from
the lavish tea-table. Mrs. Coppersley did not object, as she wanted her
darling all to herself.

However, Mrs. Coppersley was very severe on her niece for not attending
the funeral, and had many sweet things to say regarding virtues of the
deceased which she had just discovered after his death. "He meant well,
did poor, dear Jabez," sighed Mrs. Coppersley, over a cup of tea; "and
if he did swear it was his calling that made him profane. Bella!"--her
niece was standing at the door as she spoke--"to-morrow I'm going up to
see the lawyer about the property."

"Oh, don't trouble about that," said Bella wearily; "no, thank you, Mr.
Vand, I don't care to eat. I feel too miserable."

"Not trouble about the property!" cried Mrs. Coppersley, paying no
attention to the latter part of this speech; "but I do care. Things must
be settled somehow. I must arrange my future life," and she cast a
tender glance on the handsome musician. "Your future must be settled
also."

"I shall look after that," said Bella, not liking her aunt's tone.

"You had better be sharp, then," said Mrs. Coppersley, in a dictatorial
manner, "for the sooner things are settled the better. I'm not young,
and"--she cast a second tender glance on her swain, who was eating
largely--"ah, well, its useless to talk of weddings when funerals are in
the air. To-morrow evening, Bella, after I have seen the lawyer--and he
lives in Cade Lane, London--I'll tell you what I have arranged."

Bella looked in astonishment at her aunt, who suddenly seemed to have
acquired the late captain's tyrannical manner. Apparently Mrs.
Coppersley forgot--as Bella thought--that she would not inherit the
solitary farm, and needed to be reminded of the fact that her niece was
the mistress of Bleacres. In fact, Bella was on the point of saying as
much, when she remembered that Vand was present. Not being anxious to
discuss family matters in his presence--even though he was about to
enter the family as Mrs. Coppersley's husband--she abruptly left the
room. Mrs. Coppersley poured herself out a second cup of tea, and
remarked in a high tone of satisfaction, that some people's noses were
about to be brought to the grindstone.

Bella heard the remark as she put on her hat and walked out of the front
door. It accentuated her lonely feeling, for she saw plainly now what
she had long guessed,--that Aunt Rosamund had very little affection for
her. The late captain also had never cared much for his daughter, and
now that Cyril had vanished in an enigmatic manner, the poor girl felt
more wretched than ever. Listlessly she walked down the narrow path as
far as the boundary channel, and wondered how it would all end. Had she
been a religious girl she might have sought comfort in prayer, but she
knew very little about true religion, and did not care for the sort
preached by Mr. Silas Pence in the Little Bethel at Marshely. As his
name flashed into her mind, she looked up and saw him standing on the
opposite side of the channel, so it was apparent--although she knew
nothing about such things--that some telepathic communication had made
her think of him. The preacher was in his usual dismal garb, and had
accentuated the same by wearing black gloves and a black tie in place of
his usual white one. Patience on a monument might have been taken as a
type of Mr. Pence on this occasion, but he was not smiling on grief in
the person of Miss Huxham. In fact he did not smile at all, being
shocked to see her out of doors.

"Why are you not weeping in your chamber?" reproved Silas, in his most
clerical manner; "the loss of so good a father----"

"You have doubtless said all you had to say on that subject at the
funeral, Mr. Pence," retorted Bella, whose nerves were worn thin with
worry; "spare me a repetition of such stale remarks."

It was a horribly rude speech, as she well knew. But Pence had a way of
irritating her beyond all endurance, and the mere sight of him was
sufficient to set her teeth on edge for the day. It was intolerable that
he should intrude on her privacy now, when she particularly wished to be
alone. She intimated as much by turning away with a displeased air, and
walked for a short distance along the bank path leading to Mrs. Tunks'
hut. But Silas, absolutely ignorant of the feminine nature, and entirely
devoid of diplomacy, persisted in thrusting his company upon her. Bella
turned sharply, when she heard Silas breathing hard behind her, and
spoke with marked indignation.

"I wish to be alone, if you please," she declared, flushing.

"Ah, no; ah, no," remonstrated Pence, stupidly. "Allow me to comfort
you."

"You cannot," she retorted, marvelling at his density.

"Allow me to try. I was on the point of calling at the house to----"

Bella interrupted him cruelly. "You can call there still, Mr. Pence, and
my aunt will be glad to see you. She has Mr. Vand to tea, so you will
find yourself in congenial company."

"Your company is congenial enough for me."

"That is very flattering, but I prefer to be alone."

Silas, however, declined to be shaken off, and his reproachful looks so
exasperated Bella that she felt inclined to thrust him into the water.
And his speech was even more irritating than his manner. "Let me soothe
you, my dear, broken-hearted sister," he pleaded in a sheep-like bleat.

"I don't want soothing. I am not broken-hearted, and I am not your
sister."

Pence sighed. "This is very, very painful."

"It is," Bella admitted readily, "to me. Surely you are man enough, Mr.
Pence, to take a plain telling if you won't accept a hint. I want you to
leave me at once, as I am not disposed to talk."

"If I had my way I would never, never leave you again."

"Perhaps; but, so far as I am concerned, you will not get your way."

"Why do you dislike me, Miss Huxham?"

"I neither like nor dislike you," she retorted, suppressing a violent
inclination to scream, so annoying was this persecution. "You are
nothing to me."

"I want to be something. I wish you to be my sealed fountain. Your late
lamented father desired you to be my spouse."

"I am aware of that, Mr. Pence. But perhaps you will remember that I
refused to marry you, the other day."

"You broke my heart then."

"Go and mend it then," cried Bella, furiously angry, and only too
anxious to drive him away by behaving with aggressive rudeness.

"You alone can mend it." Pence dropped on his knees. "Oh, I implore you
to mend it, my Hephzibah! You are to me a Rose of Sharon, a Lily of the
Vale."

"Get up, sir, and don't make a fool of yourself."

"Oh, angel of my life, listen to me. Lately I was poor in this world's
goods, but now I have gold. Marry me, and let us fly to far lands,
and----"

"I thought you were desperately poor," said Bella, suspiciously; "where
did you get the money?"

"An aged and God-fearing Christian aunt left it to me," said Pence,
dropping his eyes. "It is a small sum, but----"

"One hundred pounds in gold, perhaps?"

Pence rose, as though moved by springs, and his thin white cheeks
flushed a deep scarlet. "What do you mean?"

Bella could not have told herself what she meant at the moment. But it
had suddenly occurred to her to try and rid herself of this burr by
hinting that he had something to do with the robbery, if not with the
murder. Under ordinary circumstances she would never have ventured to do
this, being a kind-hearted girl; but Pence exasperated her so greatly
that she was, on the impulse of the moment, prepared to go to any length
to see the last of him. "I mean," she said, in reply to his last
question, "that my father had one hundred pounds in gold in his safe."

"You accuse me of----"

"I accuse you of nothing," cried Bella, cutting him short and flaming up
into a royal rage. "I am tired of your company and of your silly talk. I
only wish that Mr. Lister would come along and throw you into the
channel."

The red faded from Pence's face, and he looked wickedly white. His eyes
flashed with sinister lights. "I dare say you do," he said venomously,
"but Mr. Lister had better keep out of my way, and out of the way of the
police."

The girl felt her heart almost stop beating. "Now it is my turn to ask
you what you mean?" she said slowly and preserving her coolness.

But the preacher saw that she was shaken, and followed up his advantage.
"I think you had better make terms with me. Accept me as your husband,
or----"

"Or what?"

"I shall tell the police what I saw," he finished spitefully.

"What did you see?" she asked in a shaking voice.

"On the evening of the murder I came here at a quarter to eight," said
Silas slowly, his glittering eyes on her pale face. "I wished to adore
the shrine wherein was my jewel; that is, I desired to gaze on the
house, beneath whose roof you slept."

"Oh, stop talking like this, and speak plainly," she interrupted
wearily.

"I shall speak plainly enough now," said the young man calmly. "While
watching by the entrance through the bushes, on the other side of the
channel, I was suddenly brushed aside by that Lister person. It was
growing dark, but I recognised his figure, his insolent face, his lordly
air of prosperity. He walked up to the house and I turned away, sick at
heart, knowing that he had gone to see you. When I looked again, on my
way back to Marshely, he had disappeared. So you see----" He paused.

"I see what?" she questioned nervously.

"That the Lister person must know somewhat of this crime, if, indeed, he
did not strike the blow himself."

"How can you say that, when you lately intimated that Mr. Lister--if it
_was_ Mr. Lister, which I doubt--had come to see me?"

"I remember the evidence given by yourself and your aunt at the
inquest," retorted Pence sharply. "You were locked in your room, and were
in a drugged sleep. Mrs. Coppersley had gone to my lodgings to deliver
the note from your late father, which I found on my return. That Lister
person must have seen your father, and, as they were not on good
terms--"

"How do you know that they were not?"

"Because your late father hated the very name of Lister, and said that
he would rather see you dead than married to him. Also in the note left
at my lodgings, your father said that he had quarrelled seriously with
this Lister person, and had locked you in your room. Now, if I showed
that note to the police, and related how the Lister person had brushed
me aside so that he could cross the channel, he would be arrested."

"No, he would not," said Bella doggedly, but her heart sank.

"Yes, he would. He hated your late father; he was alone in the house
with him, and I believe that he killed him so that he might marry you."

"As if I would marry any man who murdered my father," said Bella
angrily. "You are talking a lot of nonsense, Mr. Pence. Mr. Lister was
in London on that evening, and afterwards went to Paris."

"I don't believe it. Who told you?"

"He told me so himself."

"Naturally he has to make the best of things. But I know the Lister
person well by sight, and I am prepared to take my oath that he entered
the Manor-house about eight o'clock on the night of the murder."

"Mr. Lister has a good _alibi_," said Bella, with a carelessness which
she was far from feeling, and gathering up her skirts to go. "You can
tell the police what you like, Mr. Pence. I am not afraid for Mr.
Lister's good name."

"You will make no terms?" demanded Pence, annoyed by her feigned
coolness.

"No," she said abruptly; "do what you like."

"I'll give you three days to think over the matter," cried Pence as she
turned away; "if by that time you do not agree to become my wife, I
shall denounce that Lister person to the police."

Bella took no notice of the threat, but walked swiftly away in the
direction of Mrs. Tunks' hut. Hearing no footsteps she concluded that
Mr. Pence had not followed, and a cautious look round revealed him
crossing the planks on his way home. Bella felt sick with apprehension,
and when she reached the hut had to lean against the door for support.
But she had no time to consider matters, for unexpectedly the door
opened and she fell into the bony arms of Mrs. Tunks.

"I knew you were coming, dearie," croaked the old creature; "the crystal
told me."

"A glance along the path told you," retorted Bella, recovering her
balance and entering the hut. "Why do you talk to me of the crystal,
Mrs. Tunks? You know I don't believe in such things."

"Well I know your blind eyes and stubborn heart, lovey. Only trouble
will make you see truths, and you ain't had enough yet. There's more
coming."

"How do you know?" asked Bella, sitting down on a broken-backed chair
with a sudden sinking of the heart.

"I know, I know," mumbled Mrs. Tunks, squatting on a stool near the
fire. "Who should know but I, who am of the gentle Romany? Hold your
peace, dearie and let me think," and she lighted a dingy black clay
pipe. "Luke ain't here," added Mrs. Tunks, blowing a cloud of smoke, "so
we've the whole place to ourselves, lovey, and the crystal's ready."

She nodded towards a bright spark of light, and Bella saw a round
crystal the size of an apple, standing in a cheap china egg-cup. There
was no light in the bare room, but the ruddy flare of the smouldering
fire, and what with the semi-darkness, the fumes of Mrs. Tunks' pipe,
and that bright unwinking spot, Bella felt as though she were being
hypnotised.

The hut, built of turf, was square, and was divided by a wooden
partition into two equal parts. One of these parts was again sub-divided
into two sleeping dens--they could not be called bedrooms--for Mrs.
Tunks and her grandson. The day apartment, which did for sitting-room,
dining-room, drawing-room, and general living-room, was small, and
dirty, and dingy. The ceiling of rough thatch, black with smoke, could
almost be touched by Bella without rising. The floor was of beaten
earth, the chimney a wide gaping hollow of turf, and there was one small
window, usually tightly closed, beside the crazy door. The furniture
consisted of a deal table, of home manufacture, with its legs sunken in
the earthen floor, and a few stools together with the broken-backed
chair on which the visitor sat. There also was a rough wooden dresser,
on which were ranged a few platters of wood and some china. The whole
abode was miserable in the extreme, and in wet weather must have been
extremely uncomfortable. Granny Tunks, as she was usually called, housed
like an Early Briton or a Saxon serf; but she seemed to be happy enough
in her den, perhaps because it was better than the rough life of the
road, which had been her lot in life before she had married a Gorgio.

She was a lean, grim old creature with very bright black eyes and
plentiful white hair escaping from under a red handkerchief. Her dress
was of a brown colour, but tagged with bright patches of yellow and blue
and crimson, and she wore also various coins and beads and charms, which
kept up a continuous jingle. On the whole Granny Tunks was a picturesque
figure of the Oriental type, and this, added to her sinister reputation
as one acquainted with the unseen world, gained her considerable
respect. The marsh folk, still superstitious in spite of steam and
electricity, called her "The Wise Woman," but Granny dubbed herself "A
Witch-Wife," quite like a Norse warrior would have done.

Bella stared at the crystal until she felt quite dreamy, while Granny
watched her with a bright and cunning eye. Suddenly she rose and took
the gleaming globe in her skinny hand. "You've put your life-power into
it," mumbled the witch-wife; "now I'll read what's coming."

"No, no!" cried Bella, suddenly startled into wakefulness. "I don't want
to know anything, Mrs. Tunks."

Granny took no notice, but peered into the crystal by the red light of
the fire. "You've trouble yet, before you, dearie," she said in a
sing-song voice, "but peace in the end. You'll marry the gentleman you
love, when a black man comes to aid your fortunes."

"A black man! What do you mean?"

"There's no more," said Mrs. Tunks; "the vision has faded. A black man,
remember."




CHAPTER IX

THE COMING OF DURGO


The fortnight which followed the funeral of Captain Huxham passed
quietly enough at the Solitary Farm. Mrs. Coppersley went several times
to London for the purpose of interviewing her late brother's lawyer, who
had his office in Cade Lane. She said very little to Bella when she
returned, and on her part Bella did not ask questions. Had she been more
versed in worldly wisdom she would have accompanied her aunt to see the
solicitor for herself, so that she might learn what disposition had been
made of the property. But Bella was an unsophisticated girl, and
moreover was so anxiously lamenting the continued absence of Cyril that
she neglected needful things.

Lister had disappeared from the neighbourhood, and Bella had neither
seen him again nor had she heard from him. Considering what had taken
place at their last interview, she was inclined to think that Cyril had
passed out of her life for ever. But something told her that in spite of
her unjust accusations he still loved her, and would return. Meantime,
there was nothing for it but to wait in patience, and to busy herself
with her ordinary pursuits. These, however, had lost their savour for
the girl, since the whole of her mind was filled with the image of the
man she loved.

Pence did not fulfil his threat of informing the police at the end of
three days. Bella waited in dread for the arrival of Inspector Inglis to
ask her questions concerning Lister, but the officer never appeared, and
as the days glided by she began to think that Silas would say nothing.
With her aunt she went on Sunday to the Little Bethel, and heard him
preach, but he did not seek a private interview with her. Even when he
delivered his sermons he sedulously avoided her eye, so she deemed that
he was ashamed of the wild way in which he had talked. What struck her
most about the young man was his wan looks. He seemed to be thinner than
ever, and his cheeks had a more hectic flush, while his eyes glittered
feverishly, as though he were consumed with an inward fire. But his
discourses became more and more powerful and were greatly admired by his
congregation, who liked melodramatic religion. Mrs. Coppersley was
especially loud in her expression of approval.

"What a gift," she said to Bella, when they returned home on the second
Sunday through the rapidly-yellowing corn-fields. "He spares no one."

"And that is just what I like least about his sermons," retorted the
girl. "As a Christian he should be more merciful."

"You don't know anything about it," said Mrs. Coppersley tartly.

"I know what Christ preached," replied Bella quietly; "and Mr. Pence has
not the spirit of His preaching."

"In what way, pray?"

"Mr. Pence does not do as he would be done by. I wonder how he would
like to suffer the condemnation which he measures out so freely to other
people."

"Silas Pence is a good man, and no condemnation is possible where he is
concerned," cried Mrs. Coppersley fervently, and bounced into the house.

"In that case he should make allowance for those who are not good."

"Not at all," said the elder woman, stating her views uncompromisingly.
"The good shall go to heaven, and the wicked to hell: that's Scripture."

"As translated by man," finished Bella neatly; "but the Sermon on the
Mount, Aunt Rosamund----"

"Bella, you are irreligious," interrupted the lady, removing her hat and
placing it on the kitchen-table. "I won't have freethinkers in my
house."

Bella raised her finely-marked eye-brows. "Your house?"

"Yes," almost shouted Mrs. Coppersley violently, for she felt somewhat
nervous as to what she was about to say, "my house. I didn't tell you
before, as I have a kind heart, but it is time we understood one
another. To-night I shall explain myself, so that you may understand
your position."

"You shall explain yourself now," said Bella, pale but determined.

"I have no time," said her aunt brusquely; "Henry is coming to dinner."

"I don't care if Mr. Vand is coming to dinner twenty times over," said
Bella, her eyes growing hard with anger. "You have said so much that you
must say all, Aunt Rosamund."

"Don't bully and bounce me, miss."

"I shall act exactly as I please, and it is my pleasure that you would
explain what you mean."

"I have to lay the cloth and see to the dinner. You know that Jane never
can cook to Henry's liking. I daresay the meat is burnt and the----"
Mrs. Coppersley was about to pass into the scullery where the one small
servant, over whom she tyrannised, slaved at the mid-day meal, when
Bella caught her by the wrist. "How dare you, Bella?" cried the stout
woman.

"Come into the drawing-room, out of Jane's hearing," whispered Bella
fiercely. "I shall not wait another minute for an explanation. This
house is either mine or yours."

"Very well," cried Mrs. Coppersley, bouncing towards the kitchen door,
"If you will have it, you shall have it. I have tried to spare you,
but----"

"Go on to the drawing-room, please," interrupted Bella imperiously, as
she saw the small servant peeping round the corner; "there is no need
for us to discuss private matters in public."

"The whole parish shall soon know what I am about to say," snapped Mrs.
Coppersley, and rolled towards the drawing-room.

"Rolled" is precisely the word to use in connection with Mrs.
Coppersley's way of walking, for she was an extremely stout, well-fed
woman, large-limbed and clumsy. Her round, chubby face was rosy and her
eyes were as black as her hair. She did not look uncomely, but there was
something coarse and plebeian in her appearance. Although she was in
mourning for her late brother she could not altogether restrain her
flamboyant taste, and therefore wore a red feather in the hat she had
left in the kitchen, and yellow gloves, which she was now impatiently
removing.

Outside it was extremely warm and brilliant with sunshine, but in the
vast drawing-room the air was pleasantly cool and agreeable. The blinds
being blue, only a faint light came through them since they were down,
and the cerulean atmosphere was almost religious in its feeling. Bella,
ever sensitive to the unseen, in spite of her ignorance of psychic
phenomenon felt the grave influence, but her aunt, being of a coarser
fibre, bounced red-faced and hot into the room, openly cross at having
been summoned to what was likely to prove a disagreeable interview.

"Henry will be here shortly," she said pettishly, "and he doesn't like
to be kept waiting for his meals."

"On this occasion he must wait," said Bella dryly, "it will do him
good."

"Don't speak of Henry in that tone, miss; you know he is the most
amiable man in the world."

"Your speech about his impatience for dinner sounds like it. However, we
need converse only for a few minutes. I understood you to say that this
house is yours, Aunt Rosamund."

Mrs. Coppersley flopped down into one of the emerald arm-chairs and
placed her pudgy hands on her stout knees. "It is," she said, glancing
round the vari-coloured room with great pride. "The house is mine and
the farm is mine, and Jabez's income of five hundred a year, well
invested, is mine."

Bella grew pale. Mrs. Coppersley spoke with such conviction that she
believed her to be telling the truth. "And what is left to me?" she
demanded in a low tone, for the shock took away her breath.

"Your aunt's love," said Mrs. Coppersley, in a matter-of-fact way.
"Jabez asked me to look after you; and so long as you behave yourself I
shall do so."

Bella passed over this petty speech. "Do you mean to say that my father
has left everything to you?" she asked pointedly.

"Everything," assented Mrs. Coppersley, with an air of triumph. "Jabez
wasn't so rich as folk thought him, and although he had enough invested
to give him five hundred a year, he had little ready cash. When my late
husband died he left me a good sum. Jabez borrowed this and added it to
his own, so that he might buy Bleacres. I agreed, but only on condition
that Jabez should leave me the whole property when he died. I saw that
the will was made, and Mr. Timson, the Cade Lane lawyer, is now proving
it. When probate is obtained, my dear," ended Mrs. Coppersley amiably,
"I shall marry Henry and will be happy for evermore."

"What about me?" gasped Bella, utterly overwhelmed.

"You can stay here until you marry," said Mrs. Coppersley coldly, "as I
am a Christian woman, and wish to obey Jabez's request. He left you to
me as a legacy, so I will look after you; only behave yourself."

"Do I ever do anything else?" asked Bella bitterly.

"Oh, dear me, yes," returned her aunt complacently. "You run after men."

Bella rose with a flushed cheek. "That is a lie."

Mrs. Coppersley rose, also in a violent rage and quite glad to vent her
petty spite on one who could not retaliate. "Oh, I'm a liar, am I?" she
said shrilly. "You call me a liar when I am only keeping you out of
charity----"

"Stop!" Bella flung up her hand and spoke firmly. "You are not doing
that, Aunt Rosamund. In one way or another you have persuaded my father
into leaving you what is rightfully mine. But I shall see Mr. Timson,
and read the will; you shall not have it your own way altogether."

Mrs. Coppersley snapped her large finger and thumb. "Go and see the
will, by all means," she scoffed in a coarse voice; "you won't find any
flaw in it, as I was careful that it should be properly drawn up. I have
a perfect right to the farm, as my money helped to buy it."

"So be it. Keep the farm, but give me the income. That, at least, you
have no right to retain."

"I have the right of possession, which is nine points of the law, miss,"
said Mrs. Coppersley violently, "and the will is plain enough. Jabez did
right to leave the money to me, and not to a chit of a girl like you,
who would waste your father's hard-earned money on that wastrel from
London."

"Of whom are you talking?"

"Don't pretend ignorance, miss, for I won't have it. I mean Mr. Lister,
as he calls himself, though I daresay he is no better than he should
be."

"You have no right to say that."

"I'll say what I like and do what I like. Remember I am mistress; and as
you depend entirely on me, miss, I order you to give up all idea of this
Lister scamp and marry Silas Pence, who is----"

"I shall certainly not marry Silas Pence, or anyone but Cyril," said
Bella in icy tones. "You have no right to interfere in----"

Mrs. Coppersley stamped and interrupted in her turn. "No right! no
right!" she bellowed furiously. "I have every right. This house is mine,
and the food you eat is mine. If I turned you out you would have to
starve, for I am certain that your fine lover would have nothing to do
with you. He's a bad man; your father said so."

"My father knew nothing of Mr. Lister."

"He knew that he was bad; he said as much. Why"--Mrs. Coppersley
pointed a fat finger towards the round table in the centre of the
room--"there's a photograph of him, and in a silver frame, too. What
extravagance. How dare you spend my money on silver frames?"

She dashed forward to seize the photograph of Cyril, which Bella had
brought down from her bedroom and had left unthinkingly on the table.
Doubtless Mrs. Coppersley would have destroyed the portrait, but that
Bella secured it before the good lady could reach the table. "Mr. Lister
gave me this," said Bella, putting it behind her back; "frame and all;
it is mine."

"And you dare to bring into the house the picture of a wicked profligate
whom your father hated," roared Mrs. Coppersley, her red face shining
with perspiration and her little eyes flashing with wrath.

"My father being so good himself," said Bella ironically, and feeling
quite cool. "Mr. Lister is not a profligate, Aunt Rosamund, and you are
a bad woman!"

Mrs. Coppersley gasped like a dying dolphin. "Me a bad woman!" she
cried, puffing out her cheeks ludicrously; "me, when Henry says that I
am the best woman in the world. And I'd have you know, Bella, that I'm a
lady and no woman, miss--so there."

The girl, in spite of her grief and dismay, laughed right out. "Even a
lady must be a woman," she observed sarcastically.

"Leave my house! leave my house," panted Mrs. Coppersley.

"No. I shall remain here until I know if the will is correct. I shall
stay here, as I say, and shall receive polite treatment. If I do not, I
shall dispute the will, and make things unpleasant."

Mrs. Coppersley snapped her fingers. "That for all the harm you can do,"
she said coarsely. "The will stands good in law. I have made sure of
that by consulting Mr. Timson, who drew it up. You can stay here for a
week; at the end of that time you pack up and go."

"Where to, Aunt Rosamund?"

"That's your look out, miss. But you don't stay here to spoil my
honeymoon with my darling Henry."

Bella shrugged her shoulders. It really was not worth while losing her
temper with a person whose methods were so crude. The more enraged Mrs.
Coppersley became, the cooler Bella felt. "Do you know what you are,
Aunt Rosamund?" she remarked coolly. "You are a bully, and a petty
tyrant. While my father was alive you cringed to him because you were
afraid. Now that you think you have the whip hand of me, you vent your
spite on one whom you think cannot retaliate. If I had the money, you
would cringe to me; as you have it, you take every advantage of your
position. But it won't do, Aunt Rosamund, for I am not the girl to
submit to your insults. I shall stop here so long as it pleases me to
stop, and if you make yourself disagreeable I shall know what to do."

Mrs. Coppersley's face grew slowly white, and her mouth opened and shut
like a cod-fish. Had Bella wept, she would have gone on bullying
triumphantly, but this cool, calm, scornful demeanour frightened her. At
heart, like all bullies, she was a coward, and knew well that if it were
known how she had ousted Bella from her rightful inheritance, that she
would be unpopular. As Mrs. Coppersley liked to be popular, and hoped,
by means of her marriage with Vand, her wrongfully obtained income, and
her possession of Bleacres, to be the great lady of the neighbourhood,
she did not wish to drive Bella to extremes. She therefore wiped her
face, and hedged.

"You mustn't be angry with me Bella," she said in quieter tones, "I wish
you well, my girl."

"You wish me just as much as suits yourself," retorted Bella coolly; "so
far you have had everything your own way. Now I mean to look into things
for myself. You can go now, and entertain your darling Henry. I shall
not come to dinner. Send up Jane with some food to my bedroom."

"I shall do nothing of the sort," protested Mrs. Coppersley feebly, for
her late rage had exhausted her, and she did not feel equal to fighting
this pale, steady-eyed girl.

"I have told you what to do; so go and do it!" said Bella, without
raising her voice, and looked Mrs. Coppersley squarely in the eyes.

The mistress of Bleacres tried to face down the gaze, but failed, and
thoroughly cowed and beaten, in spite of her better position, she slowly
retreated, muttering to herself a vengeance which she was unable to
fulfil.

Left alone, Bella gave way. Pride had kept her up during the quarrel
with her aunt, but now, secure from observation, she broke down and
wept. Never before had she felt so lonely or so helpless. Cyril was
away, and she could not confide in him, for even if he had been present
the terms on which they had parted forbade confidences. There was Dora
Ankers, the school-mistress certainly--a good friend, but a bad adviser,
as she knew very little of the world. And there was no one else who
could help her in the dilemma in which she was placed. She had no home,
no friends, and--on the face of it--no lover. It was a terrible position
for a girl who hitherto had never met with serious trouble.

In spite of the drawn-down blinds and the cool atmosphere of the room,
Bella could scarcely breathe, so she moved to a side window, drew up the
blind, and lifted the lower sash. Outside, the brilliance of the
sunshine was almost blinding, and through the quivering heads, across
the still, stiff stalks of the corn, for there was no wind, she could
see the gaudy red of the scarecrow coat. The mere glint of the violent
hue made her head ache, and she returned to the middle of the room to
walk up and down wearily thinking of what was best to be done in the
circumstances in which she found herself. The photograph of Cyril in its
silver frame she replaced on the table. The much-loved face smiled
encouragingly on her. At least, in her over-wrought state she thought
so, and the thought aided her to beat down the many fears which assailed
her.

While musingly walking the room, she became aware of a slight noise, and
turned abruptly towards the window to see a black face grinning at her,
with very white teeth. At once her thoughts reverted to the prophecy of
Granny Tunks, and she felt a sudden thrill of dread as she saw that a
black man actually had come to the Manor-house. For one moment, the
negro and the fair, young girl looked steadfastly at one another, she
filled with nervous fear, and he, curiously observant. After an almost
imperceptible pause--which seemed hours to Bella--the man leaped through
the window, before she could regain her voice to forbid his entrance.

"Where is my master?" he asked, in guttural tones, but in fairly good
English.

Bella did not immediately reply, as her nerves fairly thrilled with the
weird realisation of what the witch-wife had seen in the crystal, and
even now she had not her voice under command. The negro was tall, bulky,
and powerfully framed, coal-black from head to foot, with tightly curled
hair and sharp, white teeth like those of a dog. Bella had never seen so
huge and strong a man, but in spite of his formidable appearance, his
dark eyes had a kindly look in their depths, and his movements were
extremely gentle. Apparently his bark was worse than his bite, though
his uncivilised looks were enough to awe the boldest. Plainly but
roughly dressed in an old tweed suit, with brown shoes and a bowler hat,
he was not noticeable, save for his stature and enormous virility. The
sensation he produced on the girl was overpowering, yet it was not
entirely one of fear. In spite of his cannibal looks and unexpected
entrance, and imperious demand, she felt perfectly safe.

"I am Durgo!" explained the negro, annoyed by her silence, as was
apparent from the frown which wrinkled his eye-brows. "Where is my
master?"

"I don't know where your master is," she replied, finding her tongue
with some difficulty. "I do not know who your master is."

"My master," said the negro, "is my master. He came here two weeks and
some days ago, more or less. I have come to find him. Where is he?"

"How can I tell you when I do not even know his name?" asked Bella
sharply.

"His name is----" Durgo was about to satisfy her curiosity, when he
caught sight of the photograph in the silver frame, which still stood on
the table. With a guttural cry of delight, he caught this up in his huge
hands. "Oh, my master! my master!" he gurgled, in an ecstasy of delight.

Bella stepped back a pace with a scared look. "Mr. Lister your master?"

Durgo nodded, and coolly slipped the photograph, frame and all, into the
breast pocket of his tweed coat. "He is here! I shall find him," he
remarked. "Did my master see Captain Huxham?"

"Yes," she replied mechanically.

"Did my master and Captain Huxham quarrel?"

"Yes," she replied again, and still mechanically.

"And did my master get what he wanted?" demanded the negro, rolling his
eyes.

"I don't know what Mr. Lister wanted," said Bella faintly; "you must
explain yourself, and----"

"I explain nothing until I see my master," was Durgo's reply. "Perhaps
Captain Huxham knows where my master is?"

"Captain Huxham is dead," she gasped.

Durgo shut his strong white teeth with a click. "Dead!" he repeated.
"Ah--aha--aha; Captain Huxham is dead. Then my master----"

"No," cried Bella, covering her eyes. "I don't believe that Cyril killed
my father--I don't believe it."

"Cyril! father!" repeated Durgo, looking at her curiously. "I must learn
if----" He broke off suddenly and moved noiselessly to the window. Bella
stretched a helpless hand to stay him, but, lightly vaulting out of
doors, he disappeared in a moment. She rushed to the window and saw him
running down the path towards the boundary channel. There was no chance
of catching him up, as she saw well, and therefore drew back.

"The crystal! the crystal!" she muttered to herself, shivering. "Granny
must know what it all means. I must see Granny, and ask about the
crystal."




CHAPTER X

A LOVERS' MEETING


Having made up her mind to seek an explanation from Mrs. Tunks regarding
the vision of the negro in the crystal--that is, if the old woman really
had beheld the same--Bella lost no time in executing her purpose. In two
or three minutes she hastily reassumed her hat, cloak, and gloves, which
she had removed while conversing with Mrs. Coppersley. Then taking her
sunshade, she left the Manor-house by the front door. In the dining-room
she could hear the refined tones of Vand and the coarse voice of Mrs.
Coppersley, as they laughed and chattered in the most amiable manner.
Evidently the pair had quite forgotten the recent tragedy, which had
invested Bleacres with so sinister a reputation. With a nervous
shiver--for the merriment seemed to be singularly ill-timed--Bella
closed the door softly, and walked down the corn-path. Glancing right
and left, and straight ahead, she could see nothing of the black man,
who had appeared and disappeared so mysteriously. Like the witches in
"Macbeth," he had made himself into thin air, and had vanished.

Bella felt remarkably uneasy, and on the face of it had great cause to
be so. Apparently, and she had not the least doubt of this, Durgo was
Cyril's servant, who came in search of him. She rather wondered that her
lover should have so uncivilised an attendant, and resolved that if they
married she would endeavour to get him to dispense with the services of
the man. But what struck her most, were the questions of Durgo. He
evidently expected Cyril to meet Huxham and to have a quarrel. Also the
stated time--of two weeks and some days--corresponded with the midnight
visit of Cyril to the Manor-house. She recollected then that the visit
was paid, not at midnight, but about eight o'clock, and saw in the
mistake she had made the perplexity of her bewildered brain. With a
groan she tried to clear her understanding by swift movement, for she
felt unable to follow any regular train of thought.

Nevertheless, Durgo's innocent speech re-awakened her old suspicions,
though she dreaded to recall them. What if, after all, Cyril had been
the visitor of a fortnight since? In that case, since Huxham had been
found dead, Cyril must have struck the blow. The horror of the mere
idea, which placed a barrier between them, made her turn cold, and she
resolutely put it from her. Cyril was the man she loved; the man in whom
she had every reason to believe. He had solemnly sworn that he was
innocent of her father's blood, and if she entertained a grain of
affection for him she was bound to believe his word, even in the face of
strong evidence to the contrary. He must be guiltless; he _was_
guiltless, as she assured herself; his looks and words and bearing
convinced her of his guiltlessness. In one way or another, the promised
explanation would solve the difficult problem. But when would that
explanation be made?

Then, again, Mrs. Tunks must know somewhat of the truth, since she had
so truly foretold the coming of the negro. Bella, entirely lacking the
mystical sense, had no belief in visions, and assumed that the old
woman, for her own ends, had played a comedy, based upon actual fact.
Taking this view, the girl walked towards the hut of the witch-wife,
resolute to learn how much Mrs. Tunks knew concerning Cyril's past life.
Something she must know, else she could not have hinted at the
appearance of the negro. Bella herself was ignorant that her lover had
so sinister a servant, but it seemed that Mrs. Tunks was better
informed. And since the old hag knew so much, she must know more. A few
questions would doubtless bring forth the information, and then Bella
felt that she would know how to act. But the position was extremely
difficult, and the skein of life very tangled.

Thinking in this desultory way, she reached the end of the corn-field,
and was about to turn along the pathway leading to the hut, when she
heard her name called anxiously. Looking up, she saw Dora Ankers on the
hither side of the boundary channel.

"Oh, Bella! I am so glad to see you," sang out the Marshely
school-mistress volubly. "I really didn't want to go to the Manor and
meet that horrid aunt of yours. Come with me, dear; he is waiting at my
cottage."

"Who is waiting?" demanded Bella, greatly surprised by this address.

"Oh, my dear, as if to a girl in love there is any he but the one he in
the world," said Dora, who was sentimental and impatient.

"Do you mean to say that Mr. Lister----"

"Mr. Lister? Oh, you cruel-hearted girl: do you call him that?"

"I mean Cyril," said Bella hurriedly; "is he----"

"Yes, he is. He won't come to the Manor, and can't very well see you in
his own rooms, as that nasty-minded Mrs. Block might say things. She is
such a gossip you know. In despair he came to me, poor dear, so I asked
him to wait in my sitting-room while I came for you."

Bella drew herself up stiffly. She did not desire to appear too willing
to obey the summons of her lover. Womanlike, she wished him to say that
he was in the wrong, so that her pride might be saved. "I am going to
Mrs. Tunks'."

"What for?" asked Dora, bluntly.

"Never mind," replied Miss Huxham, unwilling to confess that she was
dealing with uncanny things beyond the veil. "I must go."

Dora tripped lightly across the narrow planks, and slipped her arm
within that of her friend. "You shall do nothing of the sort, you cold
thing," she declared. "Poor Mr. Lister is quite broken-hearted by the
way in which you have treated him."

"Oh!" Bella became stiffer than ever. "Has he said----"

"He has said nothing! he is too much a man to say anything. But I saw
his poor, pale, peaked face, and----"

"Does he look ill?" Bella was seized with a sudden qualm.

"Ill?" Miss Ankers' gestures and looks became eloquent. "Dear, he is
dying."

"Oh, Dora!" Miss Huxham kilted up her skirts and fairly ran across the
planks. "Why didn't you come for me before?"

"You don't seem to be in a hurry to come now," laughed Dora, crossing in
her turn; "yet the poor, dear fellow is dying--to see you."

"Where has he been all this time?"

"I'm sure I don't know, dear. He came straight from London last night,
and went to my cottage this morning to see me. I was in church, so he
came again in the afternoon, and asked me to help him. Oh, my dear, he
is handsome, and I felt that I could do anything for him. I wish he had
made love to me," sighed the romantic school-mistress; "but all he did,
was to ask me to bring you to my cottage for an interview. So come,
dear, come, and save the poor darling from an early grave."

Bella needed no urging, for she was genuinely concerned over the news,
and sped towards Marshely like a fawn, with Miss Ankers at her heels.
Dora had no difficulty in keeping up, as she was a slim, small, dainty
woman, more like a fairy than mere flesh and blood. In spite of her age,
and she confessed to thirty-five, she had a pink-and-white skin, golden
hair, and clear blue eyes. Dressed as she was, in pale blue, with many
ribbons and ornaments, she looked like a well-arrayed doll, just out of
a satin-lined box. But for all her innocent looks, Miss Ankers was a
stern school-mistress, and during business hours behaved with great
severity. Out of them, however, she presented herself to the village
world in her true colours, as a sentimental, airy, sweet-tempered little
creature, who was everybody's friend and nobody's enemy. Bella was
always fond of her, but at this moment felt more attached to her than
ever--as she had every reason to be, seeing that Miss Ankers had given
up her snug sitting-room for a lovers' meeting, and had actually brought
that meeting about.

"You're my good angel, Dora," said Bella, kissing her friend, as they
drew near the cottage, on the outskirts of Marshely.

"Oh, what waste!" remonstrated Dora, opening her china-blue eyes to
their widest. "What will Mr. Lister say to your throwing away kisses on
me?"

Bella laughed, for her heart had grown unexpectedly light. She had a
firm belief that all misunderstandings were about to be cleared up
between her lover and herself. Also she acknowledged to herself, with
great and thankful joy, that Cyril, in spite of her misgivings, had
returned to her. Seeing how she had doubted and accused him, he might
have departed for ever, and with every reason for such a course. But
apparently he loved her so devotedly that he was willing to remain and
explain himself. It was no wonder that Bella's heart leaped for joy,
since the cloud, which had for so long overshadowed the sunshine of
love, was about to be dissipated. She almost danced into Ankers' small
garden.

"Mr. Lister is in the sitting-room dear," said that arch-plotter,
pushing her companion into the cottage. "You'll find him there. I have
to go to the church to run over the evening hymns."

Miss Huxham knew that this was a mere excuse, but loved Dora all the
more for making it. Miss Ankers was much too romantic to mar the meeting
by presenting herself as an inconvenient third. Therefore she turned
away laughing, and Bella, anxious to lose no moment of joy, entered the
small sitting-room with a bright, expectant smile. It died away at the
sight of Lister's sombre face.

The young man was seated in an arm-chair, with a newspaper lying on his
knees. But he was not reading, as his eyes were fixed darkly on the door
through which Bella had just entered. For the instant, he did not appear
to be aware of her presence; then he rose gravely and bowed. Even in the
midst of her dismay at this reception, Bella was woman enough to note
how spruce, and trim, and singularly handsome he looked. Certainly his
face was grave and pale, but beyond this she could not see the dying
looks which Dora had so eloquently described. When they came face to
face an embarrassing silence ensued. Bella was the first to speak.

"Are you not pleased to see me, Cyril?" she faltered.

"I am very pleased," he returned gravely, and pushed forward a chair.
"Will you not be seated?"

"Not until you explain why you receive me in this way," she declared
indignantly. "You send for me, and I come at once only to find
displeased looks."

"Our last interview explains my looks, Bella."

"No, it doesn't," she cried, up in arms at once; "I admitted my fault in
suspecting you then, and asked your pardon. You left me without a kiss,
and--and----" She stopped with an angry gesture. "It seems to me that I
am the one who has the right to be displeased."

"No," said Lister, decidedly. "I love you very dearly, as you know;
but----"

"How can I tell that you love me dearly?"

"My desire to meet you again shows that I do. Many a man would have left
you for ever on learning, as I did, your cruel suspicions. You have no
right to be displeased, as you said a moment since. I am the wronged
person, for if you really loved me you would believe nothing against
me."

"I do not; I do not."

"But you did."

"Only for a single moment. Oh!"--Bella uttered a cry of despair--"I am
only a human being, and I saw you--as I thought--entering the house. I
knew that on my account you had quarrelled with my father, so what could
I think but that you had killed him? I don't pretend to be an angel."
She broke off and sat down, pressing her hands hard together, then
looked up with feigned self-control. "We discussed all this before," she
said coldly, "did you invite me here to ask me to defend myself again?"

"No. I asked you here to learn from your own lips that you believe me to
be guiltless."

"I do. I swear I do." Bella rose in her excitement. "And I ask your
pardon for my wicked suspicions."

"Bella!" He sprang forward and caught her hands within his own. "Then
you really and truly love me?"

"If you had gone away," she breathed faintly in his ear, "I should have
died."

Cyril drew her closely to his breast. "My darling," he whispered,
smoothing her hair, "I love you too dearly to leave you. I ask your
pardon for my harsh words. On the face of it, I don't see what you could
do but suspect me. It was unreasonable for me to ask you to do
otherwise. That you believe my mere word, in spite of the strong
evidence against me, shows that you love me as dearly and strongly as I
love you. So far, all that is right. We trust one another."

"Wholly. Entirely. To the death we trust one another."

"That is well." Cyril sat down in the arm-chair, and drew Bella on to
his knees. "Unity is strength. With you by my side I am not afraid."

"Then you have been afraid?" she asked softly.

"Of losing your love--yes. But now I am satisfied on that point, there
is another thing that makes me afraid."

"What is it?"

"I may be accused of this murder. Other people may have seen me, as you
saw me, dear."

"Then it _was_ you?" she gasped.

"No, no! I have explained myself. If necessary, I can put forward an
_alibi_."

"Who was the man then?"

"I can't tell you that." Cyril pushed her away, and rose much agitated.

"Then you know?" Bella stood back from him doubtfully.

"I can't be sure. I think--that is, I fancy--Bella, don't ask me
anything just now. Later I may be able to explain."

"And you will explain?"

"If it be possible. Remember, I said that I _might_ be able to explain,
but of this I cannot be certain."

"I do not understand," sighed the girl, seating herself again. "Cyril,
has this matter anything to do 

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