THE RECLUSE.
MEANWHILE Jenny was proceeding homeward in a rather unhappy state of
mind. The conversation had left an unpleasant impression, and she was by
no means sure what it would lead to. A hundred times did she wish that
she had not meddled with the matter; but it was now too late for
regrets, and she recognized that she must bear the burden of her
wrong-doing. Though, indeed, she could see no reason to characterize her
action by so harsh a name.
"A bundle of old papers in a garret," she thought, walking quickly
through the lane; "where was the harm in reading them? And, as they
contained an interesting story, I fail to see where I acted wrongly in
telling it to Frank. The Larcher affair can have nothing to do with
papa, even though Kerry was so angry. I'll speak to Kerry, and ask him
if I have done wrong."
According to her promise she was determined to say nothing to her father
for at least twenty-four hours, for she was curious to see if Mr.
Hilliston would call to speak of the matter. If he did so, then would be
the time to exculpate herself; but, pending such visit, she saw no
reason why she should not consult with Kerry. He had expressed anger at
her possession of the papers, so he, if anyone, would be able to explain
if she had been rash. On Kerry's answer would depend the explanation due
to her father.
Thus thinking, she speedily arrived in a deep lane, at the end of which
she turned into a white gate set in a rugged stone wall. Nut trees bent
over this wall, dropping their fruit into the ruts of the road, and on
the opposite side rose a steep green bank topped by blackberry bushes.
This byway was little frequented, and here quiet constantly reigned,
unbroken save by the voices of birds. It was a great place for
nightingales, and many a summer evening did Jenny stand under the
bending boughs listening to the warblings of those night singers. So
bird-haunted was the spot that here, if anywhere, Keats might have
composed his famous ode. Indeed, the road was known as Nightingale Lane,
for obvious reasons.
Passing through the gate, Jenny saw before her the little garden,
odorous with homely cottage flowers--sweet-williams, delicate pea
blossom, ruddy marigolds, and somber bushes of rosemary. A hawthorn
hedge on the right divided the flowers from the kitchen garden; while to
the left grew gnarled apple and pear trees, now white with bloom. A
sprawling peach tree clung to the guarding wall of the lane, and beds of
thyme and mignonette perfumed the still air. In the center of this
sweetness was built the humble cottage of Ferdinand Paynton, a broad,
low-roofed building, with whitewashed walls and quaint windows,
diamond-paned and snowy curtained. Pots of flowers were set within, and
under the eaves of the thatched roof twittered the darting swallows. One
often sees such peaceful homesteads in the heart of England, breathing
quiet and tranquillity. Rose Cottage, as it was called, from the
prevailing flower in the garden, was worthy to be enshrined in a fairy
tale.
Here lived Ferdinand Paynton, with his only daughter, and two servants,
male and female. The one was Kerry, a crabbed old Irishman, stanch as
steel, and devoted to his master; the other a withered crone who was
never seen without her bonnet, yet who bore the reputation of being an
excellent cook, and an economical housekeeper. As Mr. Paynton was poor,
and spent more than he could afford on books, Maria was very necessary
to him, as she scraped and screwed with miserly care, yet withal gave
him good meals, and kept the tiny house like a new pin. Kerry attended
principally to the garden and the books; looked after Jenny, whom he was
always scolding, and passed his leisure time in fishing in the Lax.
Hot or cold, wet or fine, summer or winter, nothing varied in the
routine of Rose Cottage. Mr. Paynton rose at nine, took his breakfast,
and read his paper till ten, then walked for an hour or so in the garden
with Jenny. Till luncheon he wrote; after luncheon he slept, and then
wrote again till dinner time. The evening in summer was spent in the
garden, in winter within doors, before a roaring fire in the bookroom.
For more than twenty years life had gone on in this peaceful fashion,
and during that time Jenny could not remember the occurrence of a single
episode worth recording. Rose Cottage might have been the palace of the
Sleeping Beauty during the hundred years' spell.
The inhabitant of this hermitage was a puzzle to the gossips of
Thorston, for, after the industrious inquiries of twenty years, they
were as wise as ever touching his antecedents. Then he had arrived with
Kerry, and his daughter, a child of five, and, staying at the Inn of St.
Elfrida, had looked about for a small place in the neighborhood. Rose
Cottage, then empty and much neglected, appeared to be the most secluded
spot procurable, so Mr. Paynton set it in order, patched the roof,
cultivated the garden, and took up his abode therein. Here he had lived
ever since, rarely leaving it, seeing few people, and accepting no
invitations. The man was a recluse, and disliked his fellow-creatures,
so when Thorston became aware of his peculiarities he was left alone to
live as he chose. It may be guessed that his peculiar habits made him
unpopular.
The vicar was friendly to the misanthrope, for in Paynton he found a
kindred soul in the matter of books; and many a pleasant evening did
they spend in discussing literary subjects. The bookroom was the
pleasantest apartment in the house, cosy and warm, and lined throughout
with volumes. In the deep window stood the desk, and here Ferdinand
Paynton sat and wrote all day, save when he took his usual stroll in the
garden. Jenny had also grown up in the bookroom, and, as her education
had been conducted by her father, she was remarkably intelligent for a
country maiden, and could talk excellently on literature, old and new.
For the softer graces of womanhood she was indebted to the care of Mrs.
Linton, who from the first had taken a great interest in the motherless
girl.
Into this room came Jenny, with her mind full of the recent conversation
with Tait. She threw down her music-book on the table and went to kiss
her father. He was seated in his armchair, instead of at his desk as
usual, and looked rather sternly at her as she bent over him. Tall and
white-haired, with a sad face and a slim figure, the old man looked
singularly interesting, his appearance being enhanced by his peculiar
garb, a dressing gown and a black skullcap. Indeed, he was more like a
mediæval magician than an aged gentleman of the nineteenth century. He
looked like a man with a history, which was doubtless the reason
Thorston gossips were so anxious concerning his past. In country towns
curiosity is quite a disease.
In the hurry of her entrance Jenny had not noticed that a stranger was
present, but on greeting her father with a fond kiss, she turned to see
an elderly gentleman looking at her intently. Mr. Paynton explained the
presence of the stranger with less than his usual suavity, but from the
tone of his voice Jenny guessed that he was angry with her. As it
afterward appeared he had good reason to be.
"Jenny, this is my friend, Mr. Hilliston."
Hilliston! Jenny could not suppress a start of surprise, even of alarm.
The prophecy of Tait had been fulfilled sooner than she had expected.
There was something uncanny in the speedy accomplishment of a
prognostication in which, at the time, she had hardly believed.
"Hilliston! Mr. Hilliston!" she repeated, with a gasp of surprise,
"already!"
This time it was Hilliston's turn to be surprised, and his face darkened
with suspicion.
"What am I to understand by 'already,' Miss Paynton?" he said quickly.
"Why! That is--Mr. Tait----" began Jenny, in excuse, when her father cut
her short. He rose from his chair, and exclaimed in a voice of alarm:
"Tait! Then you have seen him already?"
"Yes, father," said the girl, in some bewilderment at his tone.
"Where?"
"In the church, half an hour ago."
"Did he question you?"
"He did."
"And you replied?"
"I answered his questions," said Jenny quietly, "if you refer to the
Larcher affair."
"I do refer to it," groaned her father, sinking back into his chair.
"Unhappy girl! you know not what trouble you have caused."
Hilliston said nothing, but stood moodily considering what was best to
be done. He saw that Tait had been too clever for him, and had
anticipated his arrival. Yet he had come as speedily as possible; not a
moment had he lost since his arrival in Eastbourne to seek out Jenny and
ask her to be silent. But it was too late; he had missed his opportunity
by a few minutes, and it only remained for him to learn how much the
girl had told his enemy. No wonder he hated Tait; the fellow was too
dangerous a foeman to be despised.
"We may yet mend matters," he said judiciously, "if Miss Jenny will
repeat so much of the conversation as she remembers."
"Why should I repeat it?" said Jenny, objecting to this interference, as
Tait guessed she would. "There was nothing wrong in the conversation
with Mr. Tait that I know of."
"There was nothing wrong in your telling Linton the story you found in
_The Canterbury Observer_," replied Hilliston dryly; "yet it would have
been as well had you not done so."
"Father," cried Jenny, turning toward the old man with an appealing
gesture, "have I done wrong?"
"Yes, child," he answered, with a sigh, "very wrong, but you sinned in
ignorance. Kerry told me you had found the bundle and read about the
trial, but I passed that over. Now it is different. You repeated it to
young Linton, and Mr. Hilliston tells me that all London knows the story
through his book."
"I am very sorry," said Jenny, after a pause, "but I really did not know
that it was wrong of me to act as I have done. A bundle of old
newspapers in a garret! Surely I was justified in reading them--in
telling Frank what I conceived would be a good plot for a story."
"I don't blame you, Miss Paynton," said Hilliston kindly; "but it so
happens that your father did not want that affair again brought before
the public. After all, you have had less to do with it than Fate."
"Than Fate," interrupted Paynton, with a groan. "Good Heavens, am I to
be----"
"Paynton!" said Hilliston, in a warning voice.
"I forgot," muttered the old man, with a shiver. "No more--no more.
Jenny, tell us what you said to Mr. Tait."
Considerably astonished, the girl repeated the conversation as closely
as she could remember. Both Hilliston and her father listened with the
keenest interest, and seemed relieved when she finished.
"It is not so bad as I expected," said the former, with a nod. "All you
have to do, Paynton, is to warn Kerry against gratifying the curiosity
of these young men. They will be certain to ask him questions."
"Kerry will baffle them; have no fear of that," said Paynton harshly,
"and, Jenny, you are not to refer to this subject again with Mr. Tait."
"Am I not to speak to him?"
Her father interrogated Hilliston with a look, received a nod, and
answered accordingly.
"You can speak to Mr. Tait, if you choose, and no doubt you will be
introduced by the vicar to Mr. Larcher. I place no prohibition on your
speaking to them, but only warn you to avoid the subject of the Larcher
affair. Promise!"
"I promise. I am sorry I ever had anything to do with it."
"Say no more about it, my dear," said Hilliston, patting her shoulder.
"How could you be expected to know? But now you have been warned, do not
speak more of it. We do not wish the unjustifiable curiosity of these
idle young men to be gratified."
"If you assist them to learn that which had better be hidden, you will
ruin me," cried Paynton, with a passionate gesture.
"Father! Ruin you?"
"Yes! It means ruin, disgrace--perhaps death! Ah!"
He broke down with a cry, and Hilliston, taking Jenny by the hand, led
her to the door.
"Go away, my dear. Your father is ill," he said, in a whisper, and
pushing her outside the door, locked it forthwith. Jenny stood in the
passage, in an agony of fear and surprise. Ruin! Disgrace! Death! What
was the meaning of those terrible words?