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.