CHRISTMAS EVE.
BEATRIX went back to her room, accompanied by Mrs. Dulcimer and Bella
Scratchell. In going through the dimly-lighted hall she passed a group
of figures standing close together near the foot of the staircase; the
Vicar, Mr. Namby, and one other, a taller figure than either of the
two, a man standing with half-averted face, listening to some remark of
Mr. Dulcimer’s. Towards this one, whose face was hidden, Beatrix looked
intently, but there was no time for more than that one earnest look,
for Mrs. Dulcimer’s supporting arm was round her, and Bella was on the
other side. Between these sympathisers, she was led up the shallow old
stairs to the familiar corridor which had to-night so awful and even
unknown an air. Death lay yonder in the bedchamber where the coroner
and his jury had gone in silently half an hour ago, to look upon the
marble form that had so lately been master and owner of all things at
the Water House. In the place of that stern ruler there was now only
the lifeless clay. A dreadful blankness and emptiness had descended
upon the house, so quiet, so changeless heretofore, but now pervaded
with the one idea of death.
Beatrix shivered as she passed the door of the room where her dead
father was lying. Mrs. Dulcimer perceived that shuddering recoil, and
again suggested that her sweet Beatrix should come to the Vicarage. But
again Beatrix was firm.
‘Do you think I am frightened at the thought of death?’ she asked
bitterly. ‘My father’s life was a living death--to me. He is no further
removed from me now than he was yesterday.’
‘My dear child, if I could stay with you here, I would not so much
mind,’ said Mrs. Dulcimer, ‘but I shall be obliged to go back to the
Vicarage almost immediately. There is Clement’s tea. He would not think
of sitting down to tea without me if he were ever so hungry. And then
later in the evening there will be the carol singers. We always give
them cake and hot elder wine. So you see, my love, I shall be obliged
to go.’
Beatrix gave a weary sigh.
‘Indeed, dear Mrs. Dulcimer, I shall be better alone,’ she said. ‘I am
grateful for your kindness, but I would rather be alone. I do not want
even Bella, and I am sure it is cruel to keep her in this melancholy
house. Do go home, Bella, or go to the Vicarage with Mrs. Dulcimer and
hear the carols.’
‘Beatrix, how can you suppose that I would leave you?’ exclaimed Bella,
and again Beatrix sighed wearily.
It would have been an infinite relief to her to be quite alone. She had
recognised Cyril in that little group in the hall, and he had let her
pass, without one word of consolation, without one pitying look. He
must have known that she was passing, she told herself, and he had kept
his face averted; he had stood coldly by and made no sign of sympathy
or kindly feeling.
Mrs. Dulcimer tied her bonnet strings, kissed Beatrix repeatedly,
promised to come and see her directly after morning service next day,
and then hurried off to superintend the Vicar’s evening meal.
‘I shouldn’t be surprised if Kenrick was to pop in upon us to-night,’
she said, as she was going away. ‘He promised to spend Christmas with
us.’
Beatrix gave a little start at Kenrick’s name. He was so near Cyril in
her mind, and just now she was deeply moved by Cyril’s strange coldness.
Mrs. Dulcimer saw her startled look, and had an inward movement of
triumph. Here was one of her good-natured schemes assuredly about to
prosper. Kenrick had evidently made an impression upon Beatrix; and now
death had made Beatrix mistress of a splendid fortune.
‘I only hope that foolish boy will remember his engagement to eat his
Christmas dinner with us,’ thought the Vicar’s wife, as she trudged
sturdily homewards, with her petticoats held well out of the mud, and
her country-made boots defying the slushy road.
When Mrs. Dulcimer had gone the two girls sat at opposite sides of the
hearth, very much as they had been seated the night before, only there
was no pretence of reading to-night. Beatrix sat looking idly at the
fire with great melancholy eyes. Bella watched her, ready to offer any
scrap of consolation which might suggest itself.
‘It seems painfully clear that my father committed suicide,’ Beatrix
said, at the end of a long reverie.
‘Oh, I hope not,’ exclaimed Bella, piously. ‘We must not think that,
dear. He may have taken an overdose of laudanum.’
‘Yes, if he had been in the habit of taking laudanum. But he was not.’
‘How can you know that? Poor Mr. Harefield was so reserved. He lived so
much apart from you.’
‘But if he had taken laudanum habitually somebody would have known of
it. Peacock, for instance, who always waited upon him. No, Bella, there
was something in that Italian’s visit. I believe my father poisoned
himself.’
‘But why?’
‘For the last ten years his life has been one long regret. Yes. I am
sure of that now. His coldness and unkindness to me were the growth of
despair. He told me that he had closed his heart against all human
affection ten years ago. That was the time of my mother’s death. And
last night those long years of grief culminated in a paroxysm of
despair, and in a rash moment--a moment in which he was not responsible
for his actions--he threw away his life.’
‘But how did he come by the poison?’ asked Bella. ‘He must have
obtained the poison somehow. That would be a deliberate act--just as
deliberate as yours when you went into six different chemists’ shops.’
‘Why do you look at me like that, Bella?’ inquired Beatrix, struck by
something curious in the other’s intent gaze. ‘Do you suppose that I
did not tell the truth about the laudanum I bought at Great Yafford?’
‘I know you told the truth. I was with you in the pony carriage, you
know. Don’t you remember my asking the meaning of all those little
packages? I was only thinking, just now, that had I been you I don’t
think I should have told the coroner about that laudanum.’
‘Why not? There was no harm in my buying it. I had as much right to buy
that as any other medicine.’
‘Of course, dear. But still I am sorry you told about it.’
‘Why, in goodness name?’
‘Because it might make a bad impression upon some people--people who
don’t know you as your friends know you. People who think that you and
your father lived unhappily together. It might put curious ideas into
their heads.’
‘Bella, what do you mean?’ cried Beatrix, starting up from her chair.
‘Do you mean that there is any creature on this earth so vile in mind
and heart as to be capable of believing that I poisoned my father?’
‘My dear Beatrix, there are people wicked enough to be ready to believe
anything evil of those who are richer than themselves.’
‘I am sorry such a hideous suggestion should come from you, Bella,’
said Beatrix, coldly.
Bella saw that she had gone a little too far, and knelt down by
her dear Beatrix’s chair, and tried to soothe the irritation her
suggestions had caused. Beatrix’s wounded feeling was not easily
appeased.
‘If such a thing can enter into the mind of my earliest friend, my old
playfellow, what measure of evil am I to expect from strangers?’ she
said.
‘My dearest Beatrix, have I been speaking of my own thoughts? I only
said I was sorry you mentioned those unfortunate purchases at Yafford.’
‘I shall never be sorry for having spoken the truth.’
* * * * *
Mrs. Dulcimer had her wish gratified. At the gate of the Vicarage
a large and blundering vehicle loomed upon her through the rainy
darkness. It was one of the Great Yafford flies, a cumbrous conveyance
of wood, iron, and mouldy leather, which Mr. Bollen, of ‘The George,’
innkeeper and postmaster, facetiously called a landau.
‘Have you brought any one from the town?’ asked Mrs. Dulcimer.
‘Yes, mum, I’ve bringed a gen’leman from t’ steation.’
Mrs. Dulcimer went into the house delighted. She forgot the awfulness
of things at the Water House, forgot everything but this propitious
arrival of Sir Kenrick.
‘My dear Kenrick!’ she exclaimed, making a friendly rush at the
newly-arrived guest, as he stood in the hall talking to the Vicar. ‘How
good of you to remember your promise!’
‘My dear Mrs. Dulcimer, do you suppose there is any house in which I
would sooner spend my Christmas than in this? But what terrible news
this is about Mr. Harefield.’
‘Is it not awful? Poor Beatrix, without a relative; and with hardly a
friend except Clement and myself. With her great wealth, too--for now
she is mistress of everything.’
‘There is no one else, I suppose, to whom Mr. Harefield can have left
his estates?’
‘Not a creature. He lived like a hermit, and Beatrix is his only child.
It is a great fortune for a girl to be mistress of.’
‘Is it really so large a fortune?’ inquired Kenrick, in a
conversational tone, taking off his coat and wraps.
‘Immense. Mr. Harefield’s mother was old Mr. Pynsent’s only daughter,
and a great heiress. There is the Lincolnshire property. I have heard
Mr. Scratchell say that it brings in more than the Yorkshire estate.’
‘In plain words, Beatrix will have something like ten thousand a year,’
said the Vicar, rather impatiently. ‘A great deal too much money for
any young woman, and likely to be a burden instead of a blessing.’
‘Not if she marries an honourable man, Clement,’ remonstrated Mrs.
Dulcimer. ‘All depends upon how she marries. She ought to marry some
one who can give her position. She does not want a rich husband.’
Mr. Dulcimer sighed.
‘If our English Church had what it ought to have, educational
establishments for women, I should recommend Beatrix to avoid the
rocks and shoals of matrimony, and bestow her wealth upon such an
institution. She could live very happily as the foundress and superior
of a Protestant convent, like Madame de Maintenon, at St. Cyr.’
‘With this difference,’ said Sir Kenrick. ‘Madame de Maintenon was an
old woman, and had had two husbands.’
‘But her only period of happiness was at St. Cyr.’
‘So she said; yet she intrigued considerably to be Queen of France, _à
la main gauche_.’
‘Clement!’ exclaimed Mrs. Dulcimer, looking the image of horror; ‘the
word convent makes me shudder. When a Protestant clergyman talks
approvingly of convents, people may well say we are drifting towards
Rome.’
‘Please, ’um, the fowls are getting as cold as ice,’ said Rebecca, at
the door of the dining-room. ‘Do let me take your bonnet and shawl,
’um.’
They all went in, Mrs. Dulcimer having removed her wraps, and shaken
out her frillings hastily. The dining-table looked the picture of
comfort, with its composite meal, half tea, half supper, a pair of
fowls roasted to what Rebecca called ‘a turn,’ a dish of broiled ham, a
cold sirloin and a winter salad, made as only Rebecca--taught by the
Vicar himself--could make salads. Kenrick had a fine appetite after his
long damp journey from the South.
All tea-time the talk was of Mr. Harefield and Beatrix. The Vicar had
been in the little group of listeners standing by the door of the Water
House dining-room, and had heard the whole of the coroner’s inquiry.
‘That poor girl ought to have somebody to watch the proceedings on
her behalf,’ said Mr. Dulcimer. ‘I shall go over to Great Yafford on
Wednesday and see Mivers. He is about the cleverest lawyer in the town.’
‘Mr. Scratchell would surely protect Beatrix’s interests,’ suggested
Mrs. Dulcimer.
‘Mr. Scratchell is very good as a collector of rents, but I do not give
him credit for being exactly the man for a critical position.’
‘What do you mean by a critical position, Clement?’ exclaimed Mrs.
Dulcimer.
‘I mean that Beatrix’s position is a very critical one. Her admission
that she bought laudanum at six different shops, within one week of her
father’s death by that poison, is calculated to raise very painful
suspicions in the minds of those who do not know the girl’s nature as
well as you and I do.’
‘Oh, Clement, how dreadful!’
‘To protect her against such suspicion she must have a clever lawyer.
Mr. Harefield must have got the laudanum that killed him somewhere or
other. The mode and manner of his getting it ought to be found out
before this day week.’
‘It must be found out!’ exclaimed Mrs. Dulcimer. ‘Kenrick, you will
help this poor ill-used girl, will you not? Your chivalry will be
aroused in her defence.’
‘I am sure if I can be of any use’--faltered Kenrick.
‘You can’t,’ said the Vicar. ‘A clever lawyer will be of use--and no
one else. I shall write to Mivers directly after tea.’
‘Has Miss Harefield any idea that the admission she made about the
laudanum may be dangerous?’ inquired Kenrick.
‘Not the slightest. Poor girl, she is simply dazed--that is the
word--dazed! She did not even want me to stay with her. She did not
care whether I stayed or went away. Her brain is in a state of stupor.’
‘It was very lucky for her that she did make that statement about her
purchase of the laudanum,’ said the Vicar.
‘But why, if the admission was likely to do her harm?’ asked Kenrick.
‘Because to have concealed the fact would have done her more harm. The
chemists from whom she bought the stuff would have talked about it.’
‘Of course,’ assented Mrs. Dulcimer, ‘everything is talked about in
Great Yafford. Though it is such a large town, it is almost as bad as a
village for gossip.’
* * * * *
Not at the Vicarage only, but at every tea table in Little Yafford
the inquest at the Water House was the only subject of conversation.
Though very few people, save those actually concerned, had crossed
the threshold of the house during the inquiry, yet everybody seemed
to know all about it. They knew what the butler had said, what Mr.
Namby had said, what Beatrix and Bella had said--how each and every
witness had looked--and the different degrees of emotion with which
each particular witness had given his or her evidence. Opinions at
present were distinguished by their vagueness. There was a general idea
that Mr. Harefield’s death was a very mysterious affair--that a great
deal more would come out at the next inquiry--that the butler and Bella
Scratchell were both keeping back a great deal--that Beatrix and her
father had lived much more unhappily together than anybody had hitherto
suspected--that Beatrix, being of Italian origin on the mother’s
side, was likely to do strange things. In support of which sweeping
conclusion the better informed gossips cited the examples of Lucretia
Borgia, Beatrice Cenci, and a young woman christened Bianca, whose
surname nobody was able to remember.
Late in the evening Cyril Culverhouse came to the Vicarage. He had
promised to be there to hear the carol singers, in whom, as his own
scholars, he was bound to be interested. He was looking pale and
worried, and Mrs. Dulcimer immediately suggested a tumbler of Rebecca’s
port wine ‘negus,’ a restorative which the curate obstinately refused.
‘I am a little anxious about your friend Miss Harefield,’ he said.
‘I have written to a London lawyer to come down here immediately and
protect her interests.’
‘And I have written to Mr. Mivers, of Great Yafford,’ said the Vicar.
‘She ought to be well looked after between us.’
‘You were with her after the inquest, Mrs. Dulcimer,’ said Cyril, ‘How
did she seem?’
‘Dazed,’ exclaimed Mrs. Dulcimer, exactly as she had exclaimed before.
‘There is no other word for it. She reminded me of a sleep-walker.’