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."