A GLIMPSE OF THE PAST.
HILLISTON remained a considerable time with his friend, and it was not
until sunset that he left the house. He had a satisfied look on his
face, as though the interview had answered his expectations; and so
lifted up in spirit did he appear that he stepped out into the lane as
jauntily as though he were quite a young man. It was over three miles to
the railway station, and he would be obliged to walk back; but the
prospect did not annoy him in the least; on the contrary so great a load
had been removed from his mind by the late conversation that he felt fit
to walk twice the distance. Yet such unusual light-heartedness might
have recalled to his mind the Scotch superstition regarding its probable
reason.
As he walked smartly to the end of the lane, the sun had just dropped
behind the hills, leaving a trail of red glory behind him. Against the
crimson background rose the gables and chimney of the Manor House, and
the sight recalled to Hilliston the fact that young Larcher was staying
in the mansion. He paused doubtfully, not certain whether to go in or
pass on; for in his many schemes the least slip might prove prejudicial
to their accomplishment.
"If I call in I can say my visit here was to do so," he thought; "but it
is too late; and though Claude might believe me, the little man would
certainly be suspicious. Besides they are sure to find out from Jenny
Paynton that I have seen her father. No! I shan't go in, but to-night I
will write a letter stating that Paynton is a client whom I called to
see about business. I have made it all right there, and it will take a
cleverer man than Tait to upset my plans this time."
His meditations were interrupted by the rattle of wheels, and he turned
to see Kerry driving a dappled pony in a small chaise. The old man
distorted his withered face into a grotesque grin of welcome, and jumped
out with extraordinary alacrity, when he came alongside Hilliston.
"Augh! augh, sir!" said Kerry, touching his hat in military fashion.
"It's a sight for sore eyes to see ye. Miss Jenny told me you had walked
over from the station, so I just borrowed the trap of his riverence, the
vicar, to take you back."
"That is very kind of you, Kerry," replied Hilliston, in his most genial
manner; "I am glad to accept your offer and escape the walk. You drive
and I'll sit beside you."
Kerry did as he was told, and in a few minutes the trap containing the
pair was rattling through the street at a good pace. Shortly they left
the village behind and emerged into the open country. The road wound to
right and left, past farmhouses, under bending trees, behind hedgerows,
and occasionally passed over a stone bridge spanning a trickling brook
matted with cresses. All this time neither of them had spoken, as each
was seemingly wrapped up in his own thoughts, but as a matter of fact
they were thinking of each other. Kerry wished to speak to Hilliston,
but did not know how to begin; while Hilliston was in the same
predicament regarding Kerry.
It was the latter who finally began the conversation, and he did so in a
way which would have startled a less brave man than the lawyer. At the
moment they were crossing a rather broad stream with a swift current,
and Kerry pulled up the pony midway between the parapets of stone which
protected the sides of the rude bridge. Rather astonished at this
stoppage, for which he could assign no reason, Hilliston roused himself
from his musings and looked inquiringly at Kerry. The man's eyes,
significant and angry, were fixed on him in anything but a friendly
manner.
"Do you know what I'm thinking, sir?" he said, coolly flicking the
pony's back with the whip.
"No, Kerry," replied Hilliston, with equal coolness. "Is it of anything
important?"
"It might be to you, sir," replied Kerry dryly. "I was just thinking
whether it wouldn't be a good thing to send horse and trap and you and I
into the water. Then there would be an end to your black heart and your
black schemes."
"That is very possible, Kerry," said Hilliston, who knew his man, "but
before going to extremities you had better make certain that you are
acting for the best. Without me your master is ruined."
"We'll talk it over, sir," answered Kerry, and with a smart flick of his
whip sent the pony across the bridge. When they were over and were
trotting between hedgerows he resumed the conversation. "Why have ye
come here again, sir?" he asked abruptly. "We were quit of you five
years ago, and now you come to harry the master once more."
"I come for his own good, Kerry."
"Ah, now don't be after calling me Kerry. There's no one here, and it is
Denis Bantry I am to you, Mr. Francis Hilliston."
The lawyer winced at the satirical emphasis placed on the name, but
judged it wise to humor the old man. Kerry, as he called himself now,
could be very obstinate and disagreeable when he chose, so knowing his
powers in this respect Hilliston wisely conducted the conversation on as
broad lines as was possible. Nevertheless, he carried the war into the
enemy's camp by blaming Kerry for not taking better care of the bundle
of papers which, through his negligence, had fallen into the hands of
Jenny.
"And how was I to know, sir?" retorted Kerry querulously. "The papers
were safely put away in the garret, and Miss Jenny had no call to go
there."
"Well, Kerry, you see what it has led to. The account of the tragedy is
all over London."
"And what of that, sir? Wasn't the account of it all over Horriston
twenty-five years ago?"
"No doubt," said Hilliston coolly; "but that is all over and done with.
It is useless to dwell on the past and its errors. But now Captain
Larcher's son is bent on finding out the truth."
"And why shouldn't he, sir?"
"I don't think you need ask the question, Kerry," replied the lawyer, in
so significant a tone that the old servant turned away his head. "It is
not desirable that Claude Larcher should be enlightened. We know what
took place on that night if no one else does, and for more reasons than
one it is advisable that we should keep our knowledge to ourselves."
"Augh," said Kerry gruffly, "you don't want it known that you were in
the garden on that night, sir?"
"I do not," answered Hilliston, with hasty emphasis. "I spoke falsely at
the trial to save Mrs. Larcher. I rather think you did so yourself,
Kerry."
"For the master's sake--for the master's sake! As for the mistress she
brought all the trouble on our heads. I lied, sir, and you lied, but she
wasn't worth it. But is there to be trouble over it now, Mr. Hilliston?"
"No. Not if you baffle the inquiries of those young men at the Manor
House. They will meet you and question you, and get the truth out of you
if they can. Whether they do or not all depends upon yourself."
"You leave it to me, sir," said Kerry confidently. "I'll manage to send
them away without being a bit the wiser. And now, Mr. Hilliston, that
this is settled, I would speak to you about my sister Mona."
Hilliston changed color, but nevertheless retained sufficient composure
to fix his eyes on the man's face with a sad smile. "What of her,
Kerry?" he asked, in a melancholy tone; "you know she is dead and gone."
"Augh! Augh! But her grave, sir. You must tell me where it is, for I
have it in my mind to go and see it."
"What would be the good of you doing that," said Hilliston
disapprovingly.
"Because I was harsh with her, sir. If she did wrong, she suffered for
it, and it was wicked of me to let her go as I did. Where is her grave,
sir?"
"In Chiswick Cemetery," said Hilliston, as the chaise stopped at the
railway station; "if you come up to London and call at my office I will
tell you where to find it."
Kerry was profuse in his thanks, and, touching his hat gratefully,
accepted the shilling which Hilliston put into his hand; but when the
train containing Hilliston started for Eastbourne, he threw away the
money, and shook his fist after the retreating carriages. Not a word did
he say, but the frown on his face grew deeper and deeper as he got into
the trap again, and drove slowly back to Thorston. Evidently he trusted
Hilliston no more than did Tait or Jenny.
It was now quite dark, for the daylight and afterglow had long since
vanished from the western skies, and the moon was not yet up. Only the
stars were visible here and there in the cloudy sky, and finding their
light insufficient to drive by, Kerry got down and lighted the carriage
lamp. Heaven only knows of what he was thinking as he drove along the
dusky lanes. The past unrolled itself before his eyes, and what he saw
there made him groan and heave deep sighs. But there was no use in so
indulging his memories, and thinking of his master, Kerry braced himself
up to see what could be done toward meeting the dangers which seemed to
threaten on all sides. When he delivered the trap again to the groom of
the vicar, he hit on an idea which he proceeded to carry out.
Instead of going back at once to Rose Cottage, he borrowed a piece of
paper and a pencil from the groom, and laboriously traced a few lines by
the light of the stable lantern. Putting this missive in his pocket, he
went off in the direction of the Manor House; but leaving the public
road he skirted the low stone wall which divided it from the adjacent
fields. Kerry knew every inch of the ground, and even in the darkness
had no difficulty in guiding himself to his destination. This was a
vantage point at the end of the wall, whence he could see into a sitting
room of the house. In a few minutes Kerry was perched on this wall,
busily engaged in tying his letter to an ordinary sized stone.
Almost immediately below him the mansion stretched in a kind of abrupt
right angle, in which was set two wide windows overlooking a bed of
flowers. These were open to the cool night air, and the blinds had been
drawn down, so that Kerry from his lofty hiding-place could see right
into the room. A tall brass lamp stood at one end, and under this sat
Claude Larcher, smoking and thinking. The glare of the lamp fell full on
his fresh-colored face and light hair, so that Kerry felt as though he
were gazing at a phantom out of that dread past.
"He's as like his father as two peas," muttered Kerry, devouring the
picture with his eyes; "a fine boy and an honest gentleman. Augh! augh!
To think that I have nursed him on my knee when he was a bit of lad, and
now I'm here telling him to go away. But it's better that than the
other. A curse on those who brought him here and put sorrow into his
heart."
Thus muttering, Kerry threw the stone lightly through the window. It
fell heavily on the floor within a few feet of Claude, who sprang to his
feet with an exclamation. Not waiting to see the result, Kerry hastily
tumbled off the wall, jumped the ditch, and made off in the darkness. By
a circuitous route he regained Rose Cottage, and entered into the
kitchen worn out in body and mind. He had done his duty so far as in him
lay, and mentally prayed that the result might tend to remove the
threatened danger.
Meanwhile Claude had picked up the stone and ran to the window. He could
see nothing, for Kerry was already halfway across the fields; he could
not even guess whence the stone had been thrown. All was silent, and
though he listened intently, he could not hear the sound of retreating
footsteps. With some wonderment he untied the paper from the stone and
smoothed it out. It was badly written and badly spelled, and ran as
follows:
"Bewar of danger, Claude Larcher, tak a frind's advise and go
quick away."
There was no signature, and the young man was looking at it in growing
perplexity when Tait entered the room.
"What did you shout out about?" he asked carelessly. "I heard you in the
next room."
"You would have shouted also," replied Larcher, holding out the paper.
"This was flung into the room tied round a stone."
"You don't say so! Who threw it?"
"I can't say. I rushed to the window at once, but saw no sign of anyone.
What do you think of the hint therein contained?"
Tait read the anonymous communication, pondered over it, and finally
delivered his opinion by uttering a name. "Hilliston," he said
confidently, "Hilliston."
"Nonsense!" said Claude sharply; "why should he deal in underhand ways
of this sort. If he wanted me to go away, he could have called and urged
me to do so. But this--I don't believe Hilliston would condescend to
such trickery."
"When a man is in a fix he will descend to anything to get himself out
of it," replied Tait, placing the paper in his pocketbook. "I'll keep
this, and, perhaps, before many days are over I'll have an opportunity
of proving to you that I speak truly. Who else wants you to go away
besides Hilliston."
"Kerry--Denis Bantry might!"
"I doubt whether Kerry knows that you are here. You must give matters
time to develop themselves, as the inmates of Rose Cottage can't know
all about us within twenty-four hours."
"What between your confessions to Jenny, and Hilliston's own knowledge,
I think they'll know a good deal in one way or another."
"They can know as much as they like," said Tait quietly, "but we know
more, and if it comes to a tug of war I think you and I can win against
Hilliston and Co. But come outside and let us examine the top of the
wall."
"Do you think the stone was thrown from there?" asked Claude, as they
went out into the garden.
"I fancy so from your description. Light this candle."
The night was so still that the flame of the candle hardly wavered. Tait
gave it to Claude to hold, and easily climbed up the wall by thrusting
the toes of his boots in among the loose stones. He examined the top
carefully, and then getting the light tied it to a piece of string and
lowered it on the other side. In a few minutes he came down again with a
satisfied look.
"As I thought," he said, blowing out the candle. "Someone has been on
that wall and thrown the stone from there. I saw the marks of feet on
the other side. The man who delivered the letter jumped the ditch and
made off across the fields."
"You don't think it is Hilliston?" said Claude doubtfully.
"No; but I think it is an emissary of Hilliston. Perhaps Denis Bantry."
"Tait!" said Larcher, after a pause, "from Hilliston's visit to Paynton,
from the way in which Paynton persistently secludes himself from the
world; and from the knowledge we possess that the information for
Linton's book came out of that cottage, I have come to a conclusion."
"What is that?"
"I believe that Ferdinand Paynton is none other than Mark Jeringham, who
killed my father."