IN THE CHURCH.
THORSTON MANOR, built in broad meadow land, about a quarter of a mile
from the village, was now the property of Spencer Tait. He had purchased
it lately at a small price from old Miss Felcar, the last representative
of that ancient family. She, unable to maintain the house in its
original splendor, got quit of it altogether in this way, and shortly
afterward took up her quarters at Eastbourne, leaving the house of her
ancestors in the possession of a stranger.
The house itself was of no great pretensions, or age, dating only from
the second George--a square, red-brick mansion, only redeemed from
actual ugliness by the mellow beauty of its hues. The grounds themselves
were better, and the trees best of all. An avenue curved nobly to the
gate, which gave on the highroad, and to the right of this, fronting the
house, was a delightful garden, laid out in the Dutch fashion. There
were yew trees cut into quaint shapes, stiff and formal hedges running
in straight lines, and beds of old-fashioned flowers. A fountain, a
summer house, and a statue or two completed the furniture of this
pleasant ground, to which Tait introduced his friend with unconcealed
pride.
"I paid for this," he said, looking round as they paced the broad walks.
"By itself the house is a monstrosity, only rendered endurable by its
years; but you must confess that the garden is worth the money."
"It is certainly quaint," replied Larcher, looking around with an absent
air, "but I do not care for nature in buckram. The formality of this
place offends my eye."
"Ah, my dear fellow, you have been used to the wildness of New Zealand
woods of late. You will find these grounds grow on you. I shall leave
you alone this afternoon to make the attempt."
"Indeed," said Larcher, in some surprise at this cavalier treatment,
"and what do you intend to do?"
"I am going to church."
"To church--on a week-day?"
"Oh, I am not bent on devotion, Claude. But Miss Paynton is the organist
of the parish. To-day is Wednesday, when she is accustomed to practice
between three and five. I propose to see her there."
"Why?"
"Can't you guess? To forestall her with Hilliston. That gentleman is at
Eastbourne, and will probably come over to-day or to-morrow to ask Jenny
to hold her tongue. As we can't afford to run such a risk, I must get
all I can out of her to-day."
"Can I come also?"
"No!" replied Tait promptly. "It would be necessary for me to introduce
you."
"What of that? Does it matter?"
"It matters a great deal. Miss Paynton has, we believe, obtained the
plot of Linton's novel from a report of the trial. She will know the
name of Larcher, and when she hears that you are called so, she will
probably take fright and hold her tongue."
"But why should she think I have anything to do with the case?"
"Your own name. Your guardian's," answered Tait quietly. "Both are
mentioned in the report of the trial. Oh, I assure you, Jenny is a
clever girl, and knows that two and two make four. She will put this and
that together, with the result that nothing will be gained by the
interview."
"Well, well, go alone," said Claude crossly; "though I envy you the
chance. She is a pretty girl, from the glimpse I caught of her."
"And as wise as she is pretty," laughed Tait. "I will need all my wits
to deal with her. Now, is it settled?"
"Yes. You go to your organist, and I'll potter about these green alleys
and think myself an abbe of Louis XIV.'s time."
Having come to this amicable understanding, they went in to luncheon,
after which Tait gave Claude a sketch of the people in the neighborhood.
Later on he sent him into the Dutch garden with a cigar and a book, then
betook himself by a short cut through the park to the Church of St.
Elfrida. Shortly after four he entered by the main door, and found
himself in the aisle listening to the rolling notes of the organ.
There was no attempt at decoration in that church, for the vicar was
broad in his views, and hating all ritualism from his soul, took a pride
in keeping the edifice bare and unadorned. The heavy arches of gray
stone, the white-washed walls, with here and there a mural tablet, the
plain communion table under the single stained-glass window; nothing
could be less attractive. Only the deep hues of roof and pews, the
golden pipes of the organ, and the noble lectern, with its brazen eagle,
preserved the church from looking absolutely irreverent. Through the
glazed windows of plain glass poured in the white light of day, so that
the interior lacked the reverent gloom, most fitted to the building, and
the marks of time were shown up in what might be termed a cruel manner.
Of old, St. Elfrida's had been rich in precious marbles, in splendid
altars, and gorgeous windows, many-hued and elaborate; but the Puritans
had destroyed all these, and reduced the place to its present bareness,
which the vicar took a pride in preserving. It seemed a shame that so
noble a monument of Norman architecture should be so neglected.
The red curtains of the organ loft hid the player, but Tait knew that it
was Jenny by the touch, and sat down in a pew to wait till she had
finished her practising. One piece followed the other, and the stately
music vibrated among the arches in great bursts of sound, a march, an
anthem, an offertory, till Tait almost fell asleep, lulled by the drone
of the pipes. At length Jenny brought her performance to an end, and
having dismissed the boy who attended to the bellows, tripped down the
aisle with a music book under her arm. She looked as fresh and pink as a
rose, but quite out of place in that bare, bleak building. Toward her
Tait advanced with a bow.
"Here I am, you see, Miss Paynton," he said, shaking her by the hand. "I
heard your music, and could not help coming in to listen. I hope you do
not mind my intrusion."
"Oh, the Lord of the Manor can go anywhere," said Jenny demurely. "I am
glad to see you again, Mr. Tait. The second time to-day, is it not?"
"Yes; I drove past you in the market place, if I remember rightly. Won't
you sit down, Miss Paynton, and give me all the news. I am terribly
ignorant of local gossip, I assure you."
Nothing loath, the girl seated herself in a pew near the door, and
occupied herself in fixing her glove. Remembering the conversation with
Linton, she was slightly uneasy at Tait's very direct request, but
thinking that it could not possibly have anything to do with the plot of
Linton's novel, resigned herself to circumstances. Before the
conversation ended she wished that she had refused to speak to Tait at
that moment; but it was then too late.
"News," she repeated with a laugh, "do we ever have any news in this
dreary place. I should rather ask you for news, Mr. Tait, who are fresh
from London."
"Oh, but no doubt our young author has already told you all that is
worth hearing," said Tait, deftly leading up to his point; "he has been
quite the lion of the season."
"Yes. He has been very fortunate," replied Jenny carefully. She did not
relish the sudden introduction of this forbidden subject.
"And he owes it to you, I believe."
"To me. Good gracious, Mr. Tait! what have I to do with Frank's
success?"
"According to what he says, everything."
"What do you mean," she said, sitting up very straight, with a deeper
color than usual on her cheek.
"Why," said Tait, looking directly at her, and thereby adding to her
confusion, "Frank told me that you supplied the plot of 'A Whim of
Fate.'"
"And what if I did, Mr. Tait?"
"Oh, nothing, only I must compliment you on your--shall we say selection
or invention?"
"The former," replied Jenny, with extraordinary quickness. "Since Frank
makes no secret of it, why should I? The plot was told him by me, and I
found it set forth as a trial in a newspaper of 1866."
"H'm! In the _Canterbury Observer_, I believe?"
"How do you know that is the name of the paper?" she asked in a nervous
tone.
"I learned it from the same source that supplied me with the history of
the Larcher affair."
"What! You also know the name of the case?"
"As you see."
"Frank does not know it. I did not show him the papers. I suppressed all
names when I told the story," she said incoherently; "but now
you--you----"
"I know all. Yes, you are right," observed Tait complacently. "I am
better acquainted with the plot of 'A Whim of Fate' than John Parver
himself."
Jenny sat looking at him in a kind of wild amazement. From the
significance of his tone, the extent of his knowledge, she vaguely felt
that something was wrong. Again, the anger of Kerry, the conversation of
Linton, came into her mind, and she saw into what difficulty the chance
telling of that ancient crime had led her. Tait noticed that she was
perplexed and frightened, so dexterously strove to set her more at ease
by making a clean breast of it, and enlisting her sympathy for Claude.
"You saw the friend who was with me in the cart, Miss Paynton?"
"Yes. Who is he?"
"Claude Larcher!"
"Claude La----What do you mean, Mr. Tait? I am in the dark. I do not
understand. Have I done anything wrong in--in----"
"In telling the case to Linton?" finished Tait smoothly. "By no means.
As a matter of fact you have done my friend a service."
"He is called Larcher! Who is he?" she asked again with an effort.
"He is the son of George Larcher, who was murdered at Horriston in
1866."