AN INTERRUPTION
There was certainly enough to think about. Beatrice retreated to her
room, and proceeded to reason out the meaning of all she had heard. It
was evident that both Vivian and Durban were in some way connected with
criminality in connection with Mr. Alpenny's vocation of "fence," since
both refused to speak. Waterloo, apparently, was a member of the Black
Patch Gang, and had come down the other day to see Vivian. Beatrice
remembered now how Vivian had hinted that he was connected with rogues
and vagabonds, and how he appeared to be fearful as to what Major
Ruck might say. Ruck himself probably was a member of this criminal
association. In any case, as Durban had confessed, he was a decoy duck
to lure the unwary into the late Mr. Alpenny's nets.
But the question which now presented itself to the puzzled girl was,
whether, Alpenny being dead, the organisation would end. The old usurer
had been extremely clever, and, wanting his brains, this association
might disband for want of a competent head. Ruck certainly,--as he
appeared to have some authority,--might become the moving spirit; but
from what Beatrice had seen of him, she did not think he was capable
of handling such difficult matters. And she did not much care. All she
desired was to learn what Paslow had to do with these rascalities,--if
Durban was implicated in the rogueries,--and, if so, to rescue both.
She could not believe that either of these kind men, and whom she loved
so dearly, would act in a blackguardly way. In some manner the two had
become entangled in Alpenny's nets, and knowing this, Ruck was making
capital out of the knowledge. This was the conclusion which Beatrice
arrived at, and she determined to force Vivian to explain.
"I love him dearly," she assured herself, as she stared at her pale
drawn face in the looking-glass; "but I cannot marry him until I know
exactly what part he has taken in all these terrible doings." With this
resolve she went down to dinner, and found Vivian there in a very happy
state of mind. Lately the cloud had passed away from his brow, and he
seemed more like his old self, of the days when she had never guessed
what an abyss there was under her feet--under their feet, indeed, as
she could not separate herself, even in thought, from Vivian Paslow.
"My dear Beatrice," he said, coming towards her with a smile: and then,
when he saw her face, he stopped short, just as Durban had done. "Why,
my darling, what have you been doing with yourself?"
"Nothing," replied Beatrice quietly. "After dinner I'll tell you."
"Then there is something," said Paslow, seeing how she contradicted
herself, and trying to make her speak out.
"Yes," she answered with an effort, "there is some thing. I have
learned much to-day."
"About what?--from whom?" Paslow gasped out the questions, and his
heart beat violently. He felt sick with apprehension. What had she
heard, and why did she look at him in this way?
"I'll tell you after dinner."
"But I want you to tell me now."
"No," said Beatrice very directly, and was spared further speech, for
at that moment Dinah came into the room, followed by Jerry in evening
dress.
"I've made it up with Jerry. He has asked my pardon," she said in a
cheerful voice, "so I invited him to dinner as a reward."
"I hope it is a good dinner," said Jerry blandly. "I deserve a big
reward for having given in to you."
"It is always a man's duty to give in to a woman," said Miss Paslow.
"I hope you don't think it is the wife's duty to bully the husband?"
"On occasions. A little storm clears the air."
Further argument was cut short by the sound of the gong. Vivian, who
had been watching Beatrice all the time, gave her his arm, and they
led the way into the dining-room, while the lovers wrangled behind.
The table looked dainty and neat, as it was brilliant with flowers and
glittered with old silver and cut crystal. In spite of his difficulties
Paslow had always kept up a certain state at the Grange, and, looking
at the table, no one would have guessed that its owner was nearly
bankrupt. Dinah, who with Mrs. Lilly was responsible for the meal,
pointed out to Jerry the various dishes set down on the menu, and
described what share she had taken in preparing the same. "So you see,
Jerry darling, I am a magnificent housekeeper."
"On your brother's income," said Jerry, with a shrug, and enjoying the
soup. "What will you be on mine?"
"On ours," corrected Dinah. "I'll be splendid, of course. Your income
cannot be very much less than Vivian's. We live here like Elijah, who
was fed by ravens."
"I am fed by a dove," said Mr. Snow gallantly.
"How sweet!" sighed Dinah sentimentally. Then feeling really hungry
after her argument with Jerry, she began to eat, and laid all sentiment
aside: that could come afterwards in the moonlight.
Beatrice and Vivian exchanged few words during the meal. They talked
about the weather, about the various trifles in the newspapers which
interested idle people, and made a light meal. But at the back of their
thoughts lay the consciousness that a crisis was approaching in their
lives, and neither one knew how it would end. Would love be strong
enough to make the girl overlook youthful folly? That was what Vivian
asked himself. And Beatrice wondered if Vivian's love would be powerful
enough to make him confess plainly what was the meaning of all these
mysterious things which raised a barrier between them. The dinner was
a mere farce so far as they were concerned; but Dinah and Jerry ate
enough for four, and chatted meanwhile so gaily that any silence on the
part of the remaining two was overlooked.
The meal ended, Vivian and Jerry did not linger over the bottle of
old port which the host placed before his guest. Jerry was at an age
when love was preferable to strong drink, and Vivian wished to have
a confidential conversation with Beatrice as speedily as possible.
Therefore by common consent they adjourned to the drawing-room,
and found the two girls drinking coffee on the terrace. It was a
deliciously warm night with a full moon, and countless stars gemming
the heavens. Quite a night for Romeo and Juliet, meet for love and
for soft whisperings. Nightingales sang in the thickets, and the
trees were absolutely still owing to the want of the faintest breath
of wind. Dinah, finishing her coffee, began to get sentimental again
and beckoned to Jerry. The two went down the steps into the sleeping
gardens, and Beatrice was left seated at the small table on the terrace
with Vivian smoking at her elbow.
She glanced at him in the ivory moonlight while she made up her mind
what to say. He looked slim and handsome in his well-cut clothes--a
dark and somewhat stern man with a finely-featured face, Greek in its
perfect lines. It seemed impossible that such a man could be involved
in sordid roguery. He looked what Beatrice, in spite of circumstances,
always believed him to be--an honourable English gentleman who was her
lover and who would be her adoring husband. Vivian was staring at the
retreating forms of Jerry and Dinah as they vanished down the avenue;
but he became conscious that Beatrice was looking at him, and turned to
look at her.
Surely a lover never saw a fairer maid. In her black dress, with her
white neck and arms shining in the moonlight, she looked wonderfully
beautiful. The pale glimmer of the moon concealed all the ravages which
trouble had made, and she appeared like an angel ready to take flight.
It was with difficulty that Paslow prevented himself pressing her in
his arms; but until matters were cleared up between them, there was
no chance that she would allow him to embrace her. He could see that,
in the sad, stern way in which she looked at him, and so restrained
himself with a violent effort "Well?" he said stiffly, and prepared to
listen.
"What is it you wish to know?" she asked in a low voice.
"I wish to know what has changed you?"
"Am I changed?"
"Very much. This morning when I went to Brighton with Dinah, you were
bright and happy; now you are sad, and look as though you had received
bad news."
"Only you can give me bad news," said Beatrice in an embarrassed
manner. "I want you to be plain with me to-night, Vivian. I have
promised to marry you. I take that promise back----"
"Beatrice--oh Beatrice!"
"Unless you satisfy me that you really and truly love me."
"Oh, my darling, is there any question of that?"
"There is every question. It is easy for a man to say that he loves a
woman; it is not so easy to prove it."
"I can prove it, in any way you will."
"Good," said Beatrice, leaning forward and placing her arms on the
small table between them. "I shall tell you what I have heard to-day;
and then you must tell me what you know."
"About what?" asked Paslow, lighting another cigarette with shaking
hands, and not daring to look at her.
"In the first place, about my parentage."
This time he did look at her, and in much amazement. "You are the
stepdaughter of Alpenny," he said quietly, "and the daughter of Mrs.
Hedge, whomsoever she may be."
"Is that all you know?" she asked, looking at him.
"Yes. I have never heard anything else."
"But I have. I heard this day, and from Orchard the shepherd, who was
your father's servant, that I am the daughter of Colonel Hall."
Vivian dropped his cigarette and jumped up with an exclamation of
genuine surprise. "Did Orchard tell you that?" he asked.
"He did. Mrs. Hedge, my mother, was really Mrs. Hall, and married Mr.
Alpenny because--because----" She hesitated.
"Because why? She must have had a strong reason to marry that old
rascal."
"She had. Alpenny, according to Mrs. Snow----"
"What does Mrs. Snow know about your affairs?" asked Vivian angrily.
"A great deal. She was my mother's best friend,--so she says--and
her bitterest enemy, as I have found out. Mrs. Snow declared that my
mother married Alpenny to prevent Alpenny accusing her of murdering her
husband, and my father."
"Oh! It is incredible," muttered Vivian, clutching his hair.
"Wait till you hear details. I think my mother is innocent myself, but
certainly the evidence seems to be against her," and Beatrice, without
giving Vivian time to intervene, told him all that she had heard from
the old shepherd and from Mrs. Snow. He listened in silence, although
his amazement was too profound and too openly expressed, to be anything
else than genuine. "What do you think?" said Beatrice, when she had
finished.
"I don't know what to think," he muttered, glancing sideways at her and
then away into the shadowy garden. "I believe Orchard is right, and
that you are the daughter of the man who was murdered in this house.
But I do not believe what Mrs. Snow says. Your mother--or, indeed,
any woman--would never commit a crime in so brutal a manner. I don't
believe any woman unless an Amazon would have the strength, for one
thing."
"So I think," said Beatrice heartily; "and I am glad that you agree
with me. However, the discovery of my parentage does not make any
difference to my position."
"I don't know so much about that," said Paslow, meditatively. "It might
be that Colonel Hall left money. As he is dead, and your mother is
dead--as Alpenny's wife, any money that there is should come to you."
"Well," said Beatrice, watching the effect of her words, "it seems to
me that the necklace is mine. I understand that it is valued--so Major
Ruck said--at ten thousand pounds. If I can find that, I certainly will
be an heiress. But Durban wants me to leave it alone."
"For what reason?"
"He declares that the necklace is accursed."
"Pooh!" said Vivian, with supreme contempt. "That is his African
superstition. You must not forget, Beatrice, that Durban is half a
negro. If the necklace can be found, it certainly must be given back to
you, for your own sake. Not for mine," he added quickly; "I don't care
if you are an heiress or a pauper. I marry you because I love you, my
darling."
He offered to take her in his arms, but she drew back. "One moment,
Vivian," she said rapidly. "Can you tell me where the necklace is to be
found?"
"I!" He started back in great surprise, and met her gaze frankly but
with a puzzled look. "How should I know?"
"Mr. Alpenny, I truly believe, was killed for the sake of that
necklace, as was my father before him. I do not believe that my father
gave it to my mother. He was killed and robbed--so was Alpenny."
"Beatrice, do you imply that I know anything of this murder?"
"I can explain," she said, and came closer. "Alpenny was killed by a
man who wore a black patch over his left eye. A black patch was found
under the window of the room in which my father, Colonel Hall, was
murdered. Both crimes were committed, if not by the same man, as I have
hitherto believed, at least by a member of the Black Patch Gang to
which Alpenny belonged."
Paslow covered his face with a groan, unable to meet the vivid
lightning of her eyes. "What do you know about the Black Patch Gang?"
he asked in stifled tones.
"All that Jerry Snow could tell me. He was in Whitechapel, and heard
many remarks about this gang of thieves which the police are always
trying to break up. Now that the gang is concerned in murder as well as
in thievery, the police will make every effort to capture the man who
heads them. What is his name?"
"How should I know?" demanded Paslow hoarsely. "Because you do know.
Alpenny hinted that you had committed crimes."
"He lied--he lied," said Vivian passionately. "I am as innocent of
evil-doing as you are; folly, perhaps, but never crime."
"I believe that. I am certain that the man I love would never descend
to sordid crime. But you have been drawn into the toils of this gang. I
believe that Alpenny was the head--he decoyed you into his snares; or
else Ruck--Major Ruck, his decoy-duck."
"There is some truth in what you say, but----"
"No; you must speak out. I will stand by you to the end, and do all I
can to reveal my love more and more. But I refuse"--she drew herself
upright--"to marry you unless you tell me the whole truth."
"Give me time," he panted, and clenched his hands.
"No. You must tell me now, or to-night we part for ever."
Paslow uttered a groan, and moved forward two or three steps as though
about to seek safety in flight. "Beatrice!" he said brokenly.
"Your answer?" she demanded, making every effort to appear calm.
But the answer was not to come from Paslow. Even while he opened his
mouth to speak, Jerry appeared on the lawn with two ladies. One was
Dinah, as they could see by the evening-dress; the other a tall,
slim, fair-haired woman, fashionably arrayed in walking-costume. The
moonlight was strong, but neither Beatrice nor Paslow could tell who
the strange woman was.
"Hullo, Vivian!" shouted Jerry; "here is Miss Carr, who wants to see
you."
He would have said more, but was drawn back by Dinah, who apparently
was still jealous of the stranger. Beatrice remembered that this was
the woman with whom Jerry had been speaking during the day, the same
that had awakened the jealousy of Dinah. Also, she was the daughter
of the ex-butler. She advanced with gliding steps, and looked like a
beautiful lithe tigress stealing towards her prey.
With Dinah, still jealous, Jerry after that one abrupt introduction
disappeared down the avenue, probably to be scolded. But Beatrice did
not look at the retreating lovers, nor indeed at the advancing Miss
Carr, whose foot was now on the lowest step of the terrace. All her
attention was concentrated on Vivian Paslow, who stood at the top of
the steps as though frozen into stone. The woman came up the steps, and
was now so near that Beatrice could see the smile on her fair face.
"You!" said Vivian hoarsely, and fell back a pace.
"Myself," said Miss Carr, "and no ghost either."
Beatrice rose with a bound, and felt a sudden jealous anger surge in
her heart. She looked from one to the other imperiously. "Who is this
woman?" she asked the cowering man.
"My--my--wife," he said in low, broken tones. "God help me, my wife
come back from the dead!"