"Of course he's a wretch, dear; but oh!"--with an ecstatic expression--"what a nice wretch!"
"I see; you marry the adjective."
"The man, Beatrice, the man. Give me a real man and I ask for nothing better. But the genuine male is so difficult to find nowadays."
"Really! Then you have been more successful than the majority."
"How sarcastic, how unfriendly! I did look for sympathy."
Beatrice embraced her companion affectionately. "You have it, Dinah. I give all sympathy and all good wishes to yourself and Jerry. May you be very happy as Mr. and Mrs. Snow!"
"Oh, we shall, we shall! Jerry would make an undertaker happy!"
"Undertakers generally are--when business is good."
"Oh! you are quite too up-to-date in your talk, Beatrice Hedge."
"That is strange, seeing how I live in a dull country garden like a snail, or a cabbage."
"Like a wild rose, dear. At least Vivian would say so."
"Mr. Paslow says more than he means," responded Beatrice, blushing redder than the flower mentioned, "and I dare say Jerry does also."
"No, dear. Jerry hasn't sufficient imagination."
"He ought to have, being a journalist."
"Those are the very people who never imagine anything. They find their facts on every hedge."
"Is that an unworthy pun on my name?"
"Certainly not, Miss Hedge," said the other with dignity; "Jerry shan't find anything on you, or in you, save a friend, else I shall be horribly jealous. As to Vivian, he would murder his future brother-in-law if he caught him admiring you; and I don't want to begin my married life with a corpse."
"Naturally. You wisely prefer the marriage service to the burial ditto, my clever Dinah."
"I'm not clever, and I really don't know how to answer your sharp speeches, seeing that I am a plain country girl."
"Not plain--oh! not plain. Jerry doesn't think so, I'm sure."
"It's very sweet and flattering of Jerry, but he's mercifully colour-blind and short-sighted. I am plain, with a pug nose, drab hair, freckles, and teeny-weeny eyes. You are the reverse, Beatrice, being all that is lovely--quite a gem."
"Don't tell my father that I am any sort of jewel," remarked Beatrice dryly, "else he will want to sell me at an impossible price."
Dinah laughed, but did not reply. Her somewhat flighty brain could not concentrate itself sufficiently to grasp the subtle conversation of Miss Hedge, so she threw herself back on the mossy stone seat and stared between half-closed eyelids at the garden. This was necessary, for the July sunshine blazed down on a mass of colour such as is rarely seen in sober-hued England. The garden might have been that of Eden, as delineated by Martin or Doré, from the tropical exuberance of flower and leaf. But the buildings scattered about this pleasance were scarcely of the primitive type which Adam and his spouse would have inhabited: rather were they expressions of a late and luxurious civilisation.
And again, they could scarcely be called buildings in the accepted sense of the word, as they had been constructed to run on iron rails, at the tail of a locomotive. To be plain, seven railway carriages, with their wheels removed, did duty for dwellings, and very odd they looked amidst surroundings alien to their original purpose. A Brixton villa would scarcely have seemed more out of place in the Desert of Sahara.
Placed in an irregular circle, like Druidical stones, the white-painted woodwork of these derelicts was streaked fantastically with creepers, which, spreading even over the arched roofs, seemed to bind them to the soil. Titania and her fastidious elves might have danced on the smooth central sward, in the middle of which appeared a chipped sundial, upheld by three stone ladies, unclothed, battered, and unashamed. At the back of these ingeniously contrived huts bloomed flowers in profusion: tall and gaudy hollyhocks, vividly scarlet geraniums, lilies of holy whiteness, and thousands--as it truly seemed--of many-hued poppies. The wide beds, whence these blossoms sprang, stretched back to a girdle of lofty trees, and were aglow with the brilliant flowers of the nasturtium. The trees which shut in this sylvan paradise from the crooked lane rose from a tangled jungle of coarse grasses, nettles, darnels, and oozy weedy plants, whose succulence betrayed the presence of a small pond gorgeous with water-lilies. Paths led through the miniature forest, winding in and out and round about, so as to make the most of the small space; and the whole was bounded by a high brick wall, mellow and crumbling, but secure for all that, seeing it was topped with iron spikes and bits of broken bottles. One heavy wooden gate, at present bolted and barred, admitted the outside world from the lane into this Garden of Alcinous.
Almost the entire population of the Weald knew of this Eden--that is, by hearsay--for no one entered the jealous gate, unless he or she came to do business with the eccentric character who had created the domain. Jarvis Alpenny was a miser, hence the presence of disused rail carriages, which saved him the trouble and cost of building a house. In The Camp--so the place was called--he had dwelt for fifty years, and he was as much a recluse as a man well could be, who made his income by usury. It seemed odd, and was odd, that a money-lender should not only dwell in, but carry on his peculiarly urban profession in, so rural a locality as the Weald of Sussex. Nevertheless, Alpenny did as large a business as though he had occupied some grimy office in the heart of London. Indeed, he really made more money, as the very seclusion of the place attracted many needy people who wished to borrow money secretly. As the local railway station was but three miles distant, these secretive clients came very easily to this rustic Temple of Mammon. Any one could stay in Brighton without arousing the curiosity of friends; and it was surely natural to make excursions into the bowels of the land! Jarvis Alpenny showed a considerable knowledge of human nature in thus isolating his habitation; for the more difficult people find it to obtain what they want, the more do they value that which they obtain.
Alpenny called Beatrice his daughter. He would have spoken more correctly had he called her his stepdaughter, for that she was. And apart from the difference in the name, no one would have believed that the wizen, yellow-faced, sharp-featured miser was the father of so beautiful a girl. She dwelt in The Camp like an imprisoned princess, and no dragon could have guarded her more fiercely than did Durban, the sole servant and factotum of the settlement, as it might truly be called. Alpenny himself might have passed for the wicked magician who held the aforesaid princess spell-bound in his enchanted domain. But as the Fairy Prince always discovers Beauty, however closely confined, so had Beatrice Hedge been discovered by Vivian Paslow. He was a poor country gentleman who dwelt in a two-miles distant grange; and his only sister, confessing to the biblical name of Dinah, was the decidedly plain girl who had just whispered to Beatrice how she had become engaged, on the previous day, to Gerald Snow. That Gerald was the son of a somewhat needy vicar, and possessed an objectionable mother, made no difference to Dinah, who was very much in love and very voluble on the subject.
"Of course," resumed Miss Paslow, after a pause in the conversation, "I and Jerry will be horribly poor. Vivian has no money and I have less. Mr. Snow the vicar has only a fifth-rate living, and Mrs. Snow is a screw like your father."
"Dinah!" Beatrice winced and coloured at these plain words.
"Well, Mr. Alpenny is a screw, and only your stepfather after all. As to Mrs. Snow--oh, my gracious"--with expressive pantomime--"I'm glad Jerry and I won't have to depend upon her for food. Whenever the poor famished darling comes to Convent Grange, I simply rush to make him a glass of egg and milk in case he tumbles off his chair."
"That may be emotion, caused by the sight of you Dinah."
"How nasty, how untrue! No! I did the tumbling when he proposed yesterday. He proposed so beautifully that I think he must have been reading up. I was in the parlour and Jerry came in. He looked at me like that, and I looked at him in this way, and afterwards----" Here Dinah, who was at the silly boring stage of love, told the wonderful story for the fifth time, ending with the original remark that for quite three hours after Jerry left her, Jerry's kisses were warm on her maiden lips.
"Why didn't you bring Mr. Snow in, Dinah?" asked Beatrice, who had listened most patiently to these rhapsodies.
"Oh, my dear!" fanning a red and freckled face with a flimsy handkerchief, "he's much better in the lane, minding the horses. You see he will make me blush with his looks and smiles and hand-squeezings, when he thinks that no one is looking--which they usually are," finished Miss Paslow ungrammatically.
"And you came over to tell me. That is sweet of you."
"Well, I did and I didn't, dear, to be perfectly candid. You see, Jerry and I were going for a ride this morning, just to see if we entirely understood how serious marriage is; but Vivian is such a prig----"
"He isn't!" contradicted Beatrice indignantly.
"Oh yes, he is," insisted Dinah obstinately; "he doesn't think it quite the thing that I and Jerry should be too much alone--as though we could make love in company! He wouldn't like it himself, though he did insist on my coming here with him, and rode in the middle, so as to part Jerry and me. So poor, dear, darling Jerry is holding the horses in the lane, while Vivian is doing business with your father in there," and Miss Paslow pointed a gloved finger at a distant railway carriage, which was so bolted and barred and locked and clamped that it looked like a small dungeon.
A grave expression appeared on the face of Beatrice. "Do you know what kind of business Mr. Paslow is seeing my father about?"
"Oh, my dear, as though your father--which he isn't--ever did any sort of business save lend money to people who haven't got any, as I'm sure we Paslows haven't. We've got birth and blood and a genuine Grange with a ghost, and Vivian has good looks even if I haven't, in spite of Jerry's nonsense; but there isn't a sixpence between us. How Mrs. Lilly manages to feed us, I really don't know, unless she steals the food. Our ancestors had the Paslow money and spent it, the mean pigs!--just as though our days weren't more expensive than their days, with their feathers and lace and port wine."
"Then Mr. Paslow is borrowing money?" remarked Beatrice, when she could get in a word, which was not easy.
"Mr. Paslow!--how cold you are, Beatrice, when you know Vivian worships the ground you tread on, though he doesn't say much. Borrowing money, do you say? I expect he is, although he never tells me his business. So different to Jerry, who lets me know every time he has a rise in his salary on the Morning Planet, which isn't often. I think the editor must be a kind of Mrs. Snow, and she--well----" Dinah again expressed herself in pantomime.
It was quite useless speaking to Miss Paslow, who was only nineteen and a feather-head. Besides, she was too deeply in love to bother about commonplace things. Beatrice felt nervous to hear that Vivian contemplated borrowing money, as she knew how dangerous it was for anyone to become entangled in the nets of her stepfather. She would have liked to question Dinah still further, but thinking she would get little information from so lovelorn a damsel, it occurred to her that Jerry Snow should be brought on the scene. Then the lovers could chatter nonsense, and Beatrice could think her own thoughts, which were greatly concerned with Mr. Alpenny's client. The means of obliging Dinah and gaining time for reflection suggested themselves, when a bulky man showed himself at the door of the carriage which served as a kitchen. He wore, as he invariably did, summer and winter, a suit of white linen, and on this occasion an apron, to keep the steaming saucepan he held from soiling his clothes.
"There's Durban," said Beatrice, rising and crossing over; "he can hold the horses and Mr. Snow can come in."
Dinah gave a faint squeal of delight, and shook the dust from her shabby riding-habit while Beatrice explained what she wanted.
Durban was of no great height, and so extremely stout that he looked even less than he really was. His lips were somewhat thick, his nose was a trifle flat, and his hair had that frizzy kink which betrays black blood. Even a casual observer could have told that Durban had a considerable touch of the tar-brush--was a mulatto, or perhaps one remove from a mulatto. Apparently he possessed the inherent good-humour of the negro, for while listening to his young mistress he smiled expansively, and displayed a set of very strong white teeth. Nor was he young, for his hair was touched at the temples with grey, and his body was stout with that stoutness which comes late in life from a good digestion and an easy conscience. He aped youth, however, for he carried himself very erect, and walked--as he now did to the gate--in an alert and springy manner surprising in one who could not be less than fifty years of age. It seemed remarkable that so kindly a creature as the half-caste should serve a sour-faced old usurer; but, in truth, Beatrice was his goddess, and her presence alone reconciled him to an ill-paid post where he was overworked, and received more kicks than halfpence. He would have died willingly for the girl, and showed his devotion even in trifles.
Before returning to Dinah, whose eyes were fixed in an hypnotic way on the gate through which her beloved would shortly pass, Beatrice cast an anxious glance at the dungeon which did duty as Mr. Alpenny's counting-house. The girl had never been within, as Jarvis was not agreeable that she should enter his Bluebeard chamber. For the rest he allowed her considerable freedom, and she could indulge in any fancy so long as the fancy was cheap. But she was forbidden to set foot in Mammon's shrine, and whether the priest was without, or within, the door was kept locked. It was locked now, and Vivian Paslow was closeted with the usurer, doubtless handing over to Alpenny the few acres that remained to him for a sum of money at exorbitant interest. That the man she loved should be a fly in the parlour of the money-lending spider annoyed Beatrice not a little. Her attention was distracted by another squeal from Dinah, whose emotions were apt to be noisy.
"Jerry! oh Jerry!" sighed the damsel, clasping her hands, and in came Mr. Snow, walking swiftly across the grass, apparently as frantic for Dinah as Dinah was for him. At the moment neither lunatic took notice of the amused hostess.
"My Dinah! my own!" gasped Jerry, devouring his Dulcinea with two ardent eyes, the light of which was hidden by pince-nez.
Jerry assuredly was no beauty, save that his proportions were good, and he dressed very smartly. He possessed a brown skin which matched well with brown hair and moustache, and had about him the freshness of twenty-two years, which is so charming and lasts so short a time. Dinah with her freckles, her drab hair, and nose "tip-tilted like the petal of a flower"--to mercifully quote Tennyson--suited him very well in looks. And then love made both of them look quite interesting, although not even the all-transforming passion could render them anything but homely. Beside the engaged damsel, Beatrice, tall, slender, dark-locked and dark-eyed, looked like a goddess, but Jerry the devoted had no eye for her while Dinah was present. Had he been Paris, Miss Paslow decidedly would have been awarded the apple. Not having one, he stared at Dinah and she at him as though they were meeting for the first time. Beatrice, impatient of this oblivion to her presence, brought them from Heaven to earth.
"I have to congratulate you, Mr. Snow," she remarked.
"Mr. Snow!" echoed Dinah, jumping up as though a wasp had stung her; "you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Beatrice! Haven't you known Jerry for--oh! for ever so long?
"For quite three years, dear; but, you see, I don't visit at the Vicarage," and Beatrice spoke with some bitterness, as Jerry's mother had always been unkind to the lonely girl, for reasons connected with what Mrs. Snow regarded as her anomalous position.
Jerry coloured and blinked behind his glasses. "I know what you mean, Miss Hedge," he said regretfully, "but don't worry. Call me Jerry as usual; what does it matter what mother thinks?"
"Ah," said Dinah, quivering with alarm, "what does she think of us?"
"Well, she"--Jerry hesitated, and finally answered the question with a solemn warning--"I don't think I'd call at the Vicarage for a few days, Dinah sweetest. She--she--well, you know mother."
"Why does Mrs. Snow object?" asked Beatrice very directly.
"I know oh, none better!" almost shouted Dinah; "no money!"
Jerry nodded, with an admiring glance at her cleverness. "No money."
"I thought so; and Mrs. Snow wants you to marry a millionairess?"
Jerry nodded again. "As though a millionairess would look at the likes of me!" said he, with the chuckle of a nestling.
"I wouldn't give even the plainest of them a chance!" cried Dinah jealously; "you could marry anyone with the way you have, Jerry dear."
Miss Hedge laughed gaily. "Show me the way you have, Jerry dear!" she mimicked, whereat the young lover blushed redder than the poppies.
"Oh, what rot! See here, girls both, we're all pals."
"Dinah is something more than a pal since yesterday," observed Beatrice pointedly.
"Oh, you know what I mean. Well, then father is pleased and would marry us himself, to save fees; but mother--oh, Lord!"
"Will she part us, Jerry?" demanded Dinah in a small voice.
Bashful as he was, Mr. Snow rose to the occasion, and taking her in his strong arms kissed her twice.
"That's what I think!" said he, with the air of Ajax defying the lightning. "We'll be cut off with a shilling by mother; but we shall marry all the same, and live on the bread and cheese and kisses provided by the Morning Planet."
"Thank you," said Miss Paslow tartly, "I provide my own kisses."
"No, darling heart!" gurgled the ardent Jerry, "I do that!" and was about to repeat his conduct when the ceremony was interrupted.
From the dungeon came the sound of a shrill voice indulging in abusive language. A few moments later and the narrow door was flung violently open. Vivian Paslow came out quietly enough, and was followed by a bent, dried-up ape of a man who was purple with fury. The contrast between the money-lender and his client was most marked. Alpenny was the missing link itself, and Vivian appeared beside him like one of a higher and more human race. Without taking any notice of the furious old creature, he walked towards the startled Beatrice and shook her by the hand.
"Good-bye, Miss Hedge," he said loudly; then suddenly sank his voice to a hurried whisper. "Meet me to-night at seven, under the Witches' Oak."
"Leave my place!" cried Alpenny, hobbling up, to interrupt this leave-taking; "you shall not speak to her."
Paslow took his amazed sister on his arm and crossed to the gate, while Jerry, blinking and puzzled, followed after. Beatrice, as startled by Paslow's request as she was by the scene, remained where she was, and her stepfather chased his three visitors into the lane with opprobrious names. But before he could close the gate, Vivian turned suddenly on the abusive old wretch.
"I came to do you a service," said he, "but you would not listen."
"You came to levy blackmail. You asked----"
"Silence!" cried Paslow, with a gesture which reduced Alpenny to a stuttering, incoherent condition. "I never threatened you."
"You did--you do! You want your property back, and----"
Vivian, with a swift glance at Beatrice, silenced the man again. "If I lose my property, I lose it," said he sternly; "but the other thing I refuse to lose. And, remember, your life is in danger."
Alpenny spluttered. "My life, you--you scoundrel!"
"Father! Father!" pleaded Beatrice, approaching anxiously.
Paslow took no notice, but still looked at the angry old man with a firm and significant expression. "Remember the Black Patch," said he in a clear, loud voice. The effect was instantaneous. Alpenny, from purple, turned perfectly white; from swearing volubility, he was reduced to a frightened silence.
Beatrice looked at him in amazement, and so--strange to say--did Vivian, who had spoken the mysterious words. For a moment he stared at the shaking, pale-faced miser, who was casting terrified looks over his shoulder, and then went out of the gate. Alpenny stood as though turned into stone until he heard the clatter of the retreating horses. Then he raised his head and looked wildly round.
"The third time!" he muttered; and Beatrice was sufficiently near to notice his abject fear. "The third time!"
Beatrice meditated in the parlour-carriage on the scene which had taken place at noon between her stepfather and Paslow. Without vouchsafing the least explanation, Alpenny had crept back to his den and was there still, with the door locked as usual. Twice and thrice did Durban call him to the midday meal, but he declined to come out. Beatrice had therefore eaten alone, and was now enjoying a cup of fragrant coffee which Durban had lately brought in. At the moment, he was washing up dishes in the kitchen, to the agreeable accompaniment of a negro song, which he was whistling vigorously. The girl, as she wished to be, was entirely alone. Durban could not explain the reason for the quarrel, and Alpenny would not; so Beatrice was forced to search her own thoughts for a possible explanation. So far she had been unsuccessful.
The tiny parlour was entirely white in its decorations, and looked extremely cool on this hot, close day. The walls were hung with snowy linen, the furniture was upholstered with the same, and the carpet, the curtains, the ornaments, even the cushions were all pearly white. Everything, when examined, was cheap in quality and price, but the spotlessly clean look of the room--if it could be called so--made up for the marked want of luxury. Beatrice herself wore a white muslin, with cream-hued ribbons, therefore no discordant colour broke the Arctic tone of the parlour. Only through the open door could be seen the brilliant tints of the flowers, blazing against a background of emerald foliage. The Snow Parlour was the name of this fantastic retreat, and the vicar's wife took the appellation as a personal insult. Rather should she have regarded it a compliment of the highest, as this maiden's bower was infinitely prettier than she was or ever could be.
Since it was impossible to learn anything definite from Durban or his master, Beatrice was striving to possess her soul in peace until seven o'clock: at that hour she intended to meet Vivian by the Witches' Oak, and there ask him bluntly what he had said or done to make stepfather so furious. Having settled this in her own mind, she lay back in the deep chair, sipping her coffee, and allowing her thoughts to wander; they took her back over some five-and-twenty years, and into a life barren and uneventful enough. Beatrice should have been happy, for, like the oft-quoted nation, she had no history.
All her life Beatrice had never known a mother's love. According to Alpenny, who supplied the information grudgingly enough, Mrs. Hedge with her one-year-old baby had married him, only to die within three months after the ceremony. Then Durban had taken charge of the child; since the miser, for monetary and other reasons, would not engage a nurse. For two years the old servant had tenderly cared for the orphan, and it was a great pain to him when Alpenny placed the little Beatrice in charge of a Brighton lady, called Miss Shallow. The spinster was in reduced circumstances, and apparently under Alpenny's thumb as regards money matters. She received the child unwillingly enough, although she feared to disobey a tyrant who could make things disagreeable for her; but later, she grew to love her charge, and behaved towards the orphan with a devotion scarcely to be expected from a nature soured by misfortune.
For twenty years Beatrice had lived with the old gentlewoman in the poky little Hove house, and from her had received the education and upbringing of a lady. Every week Durban came over to see his darling, and Beatrice grew attached to the kind, good-natured old servant, who lavished all his affection on her. Alpenny, not anxious to be bothered, and having little love for his stepdaughter, whom he regarded as an encumbrance, visited Miss Shallow more rarely, and even when he did, took scant notice of the tall and beautiful girl, who had been instructed to call him "father." This she did unwillingly enough, as there was always an antagonism between the cold nature of the one and the warm humanity of the other. When Miss Shallow died, the girl was ill-pleased to take up her abode at The Camp, in close association with a man she mistrusted and disliked, although she could assign no tangible reason for the feeling of abhorrence which possessed her.
How well Beatrice remembered her first sight of the place. It was then but a neglected wilderness, and she recoiled at the sight of such uncivilised surroundings. Alpenny slept in one carriage, and Durban in another; two other carriages were used as counting-house and kitchen; while the remaining three were in a rusty, ruinous state, almost buried in rank grass and coarse vegetation. And it was a wet day, too, when the girl, grieving for her dear friend, came to view her future home, so that everything was dripping with moisture, and the outlook was infinitely dreary. She could have cried at the idea of living amidst such desolation; but her courage was too high, and her pride too great, to admit of her indulging in such futile lamentation before the cold-eyed usurer.
Durban, always sympathetic and watchful, was quick to see her grief, although she tried to conceal it, and at once began to suggest interesting work, so that she should have the less time to eat her heart out in the wilderness. He deftly pointed out how she and he could make the place a paradise, and how Nature could solace the sorrow of the girl for the loss of her guardian. Having obtained unwilling consent from Alpenny, the kind-hearted servant painted and repaired the ruined carriages, and turning one into a dainty bedroom, made the remaining two into a parlour and dining-room. In some way sufficient money was extorted from Alpenny to admit of cheap furnishing, and Beatrice, more contented, came to take up her abode in the strange locality. She was now twenty-five, and for three years had dwelt in this hermitage.
The garden afforded her endless delight and occupation: Durban was the fairy who procured the seeds, and who turned up the coarse, weedy ground for the planting of the same; Durban had dug the pond, and had conducted the water thereto through cunningly contrived pipes; and Durban had planned the paradise with her aid. The smooth lawn, the beds of brilliant blossoms, the pond with its magnificent water-lilies, the many winding paths, and the mossy nooks which afforded cool retreats on hot days, were all the work of herself and Durban. No millionaire could have created a more delightful spot than had these two by their indefatigable industry and eye for the picturesque. A portion of the wood Beatrice left to Nature, so that its uncultured look might enhance the civilised appearance of the blossoms; and the contrast was really charming. But that Jarvis Alpenny jealously kept the gates closed, The Camp would have become a show place, as everyone in the neighbourhood had heard of its rare floral beauties; and not a few young men had heard of another beauty still more rare and desirable.
It was at this point that Beatrice began to think of Vivian and his sister, who were the only friends she possessed. Jerry certainly might be included, seeing that he was a constant visitor at Convent Grange, and the future husband of Dinah Paslow; but there was no one else in the parish of Hurstable with whom she cared to exchange a friendly word. She had met Mr. and Mrs. Snow once or twice; but although the vicar was willing enough to speak with so pretty a girl, the vicar's wife objected. She was the tyrant of the place, and ruled her husband, her son, "her" parish---as she called it--and her friends with a rod of iron. But for this aggressive despotism, Mr. Snow might have called at The Camp; but the vicaress ordered her vicar not to waste his time in visiting a girl who rarely came to church, and who occupied what the lady described as "a degraded position." On the several occasions upon which Mrs. Snow had met the usurer's daughter, she had behaved disagreeably, and had never said a kind word. Yet Mrs. Snow called herself a religious woman; but like many a self-styled Christian, she read her own meaning into the Gospel commandments, and declined to obey them when they clashed with her own snobbish, sordid nature. Beatrice Hedge, according to Mrs. Snow, was beyond the social pale, seeing that her father was a money-lender; so she paid no attention to her, and many of "her" parishioners followed her example. It is to be feared that the lady and her followers quite forgot that one of the apostles was a tax-gatherer and a publican.
Beatrice cared very little for this boycotting; she was accustomed to a lonely life, and, indeed, preferred it, for she found the conversation of Mrs. Snow and her friends extremely wearisome--as it was bound to be, from its aggressive egotism and self-laudation. She had books to read, the garden to tend, Vivian to think of, and sometimes could indulge in a visit to Convent Grange, the home of the Paslows. Dinah she liked; Vivian she loved, and she was certain in her own mind that Vivian loved her; but of this, strange to say, she could not be sure, by reason of his attitude. It was a dubious attitude: at times he would pay her marked attentions, and frequently seemed to be on the verge of a proposal; then he would draw back, shun her society, and turn as chilly as an Arctic winter, for no known reason. Beatrice fancied that it might be her relationship to Alpenny that caused this young gentleman of old descent to draw back; and then, again, she felt sure that he was above such a mean spirit. Moreover--and this might be his excuse--Vivian was but an impoverished country squire, and might hesitate to conduct a wife to the half-ruinous Grange. Had he only known how gladly Beatrice would have shared his bread and cheese when sweetened by kisses, surely, as she often thought, he would have proposed. But something kept him silent, and seeing how he changed from hot to cold in his wooing--if it could be called so--she had too much pride to inveigle him into making a plain statement, such as her heart and her ears longed to hear. The position was odd and uncomfortable. Both the man and the woman could not mistake each other's feelings, yet the man, who could have arranged matters on a reasonable basis, refused to open his mouth; and it was not the woman's right to usurp the privilege of the stronger sex, by breaking the ice.
The appointed meeting for this night puzzled her more than ever. Never before had she met him save at the Grange or at The Camp, and more often than not in the presence of Dinah. Now he asked her to talk with him in a lonely spot, and under an ill-omened tree, where, it was locally reported, the witches of old days had held their Satanic revels. In answer to his request she had nodded, being taken by surprise; but now she began to question the propriety of her proposed action. She was a modest girl, and occupied a difficult position, so it was scarcely the thing to meet a young gentleman on a romantic summer night, and under a romantic tree. But her curiosity was extremely strong. She wished to know why Alpenny had grown so white and had appeared so terrified when Paslow pronounced four mysterious words. What was the "Black Patch"? and why did it produce such an effect on the usurer, who, as a rule, feared nothing but the loss of money? Vivian could explain, since he had brought about the miser's terror, therefore did Beatrice make up her mind to keep the appointment; but she smiled to think what Mrs. Snow would say did that severe lady know of the bold step she was taking.
"Some more coffee?" said a voice at the door, and she looked up to see the smiling servant.
"No thank you, Durban," she replied absently, and setting down the empty cup; then, seeing that he was about to withdraw, she recalled her scattered thoughts and made him pause, with a question. "What is the Black Patch?" asked Beatrice, facing round to observe the man's dark face.
Durban spread out his hands in quite a foreign way, and banished all emotion from his dark features. "I do not know."
"My father appeared to be startled by the words."
"He did, missy, he did!"
"Do you know the reason?"
"I am not in your father's confidence, missy."
"That is strange, seeing that you have been with him for over twenty years, Durban."
"For twenty-four years, missy."
"You never told me the exact time before, Durban."
The man shrugged his shoulders. "You never asked me, missy."
"That is true." Beatrice leaned back again in her chair, and remembered that she and Durban had talked but little about the past. "I should like to know about my mother," she said after a pause.
"There is nothing to know, missy. She married master--and died."
"I was then about a year old?"
"Yes, missy."
"I am twenty-five now, and you have been with Mr. Alpenny for four-and-twenty years; so it seems, Durban, that you first came here with my mother, and remained in Mr. Alpenny's service."
"It is so, missy; I remained for your sake."
"Then you were my mother's servant?"
Durban's face might have been that of a wax doll for all the expression it showed. "I was, missy."
"And you know all about my parents?"
"What there is to know, missy, which is very little. You have never asked about them before; why do you question me now?"
Beatrice mused. "I hardly know," she confessed. "I suppose Mr. Paslow's remark about the Black Patch, whatever that may be, made me ask now. Mr. Alpenny was afraid when Mr. Paslow spoke."
"So you said before, missy; and, as I replied, I do not know the reason at all. I am simply a servant."
"And my friend," said Beatrice, extending her hand.
Durban's face lighted up with passionate devotion, and his dark eyes blazed with light. Falling on one knee he imprinted a reverential kiss on the small white hand: "I love you with all my heart, missy. I love you as a father--as a mother; as the Great God Himself, do I love you, my dear mistress."
"Then you will help me?"
"You have but to ask, and I obey," said Durban simply, and rose to his feet with a light bound, strangely out of keeping with his stout person. "What would you have?"
"The key of the little gate."
Durban stared, for Beatrice was making a very serious request. There were two gates to The Camp, a large one opening on to the lane, and a smaller one hidden in a corner of the wall, through which admittance could be gained to a narrow woodland path, which arrived, after devious windings, at the cross-roads. Alpenny's clients usually entered from the lane, but were always dismissed through the--so to speak--secret path. The miser kept the key of this small gate, and, indeed, of the larger one also, so that if any one had to go out, or come in, Alpenny had to be applied to. It was therefore no easy matter for Durban to oblige his young mistress.
"Why do you want the key, missy?"
Beatrice did not answer at once. It suddenly crossed her mind that if she acknowledged bow she intended to question Vivian about the Black Patch, that Durban would make some difficulty over obtaining the key. After his admission that he knew nothing, she had no reason to think that he would raise any objections; but the thought came uninvited, and she obeyed it. Wishing to tell the truth, and yet keep Durban in the dark as to her real errand, she determined to go to the Grange and see Dinah; then she could meet Vivian there, and could question him at her leisure. "Miss Paslow is engaged," she said suddenly.
Durban nodded and grinned. "To young Mr. Snow," he replied. "I saw."
"Well, I want to go to Convent Grange this evening at six, to see Miss Paslow, and talk over the matter."
Durban shook his head. "Master is angry with Mr. Paslow for some reason, and will not let you go. Besides, at night----" Durban shook his head again very sagely.
"That's just it," said Beatrice, rising; "I know that my father would object, therefore I wish to slip out of the small gate secretly, and return about nine; he will never know."
"He will never know, certainly, missy; but the way to Convent Grange is dark and lonely."
"Not on a summer night; the moon is out, and there will be plenty of people on the road."
"Would you like me to come, missy?"
"If you will," assented Beatrice carelessly. She would rather have gone alone, but since the Grange was now her goal, and not the Witch Oak, Durban's presence did not matter. "But there is no need."
"Oh, I think so; there will be a storm to-night, and then it will grow dark. Besides, people may not be about, and the path to Convent Grange is lonely. I shall come also."
"Very good; and the key----
"I can get it. Master keeps it hanging up in the counting-house, but I can get it." Durban grinned and nodded, and then was about to go away, when he suddenly stopped, and his dark face grew serious. "One thing tell me, missy, and do not be angry."
"I could never be angry with you, Durban. What is it?"
"Do you love Mr. Paslow, missy?"
"Yes," replied Beatrice without hesitation. She knew that whatever she said to her faithful servant would never be repeated by him.
"And does he love you?"
This time she coloured. "I think so--I am not sure," was her faint reply, as she cast down her eyes.
Durban came a step nearer. "Does he love any one else?" he asked.
Beatrice raised her head sharply, and sent a flaming glance towards the questioner. "What do you mean?"
"If he doesn't love you, does he love any one else?" persisted Durban.
Beatrice twisted her hands. "I am sure he loves me, and no one else!" she cried passionately. "I can see it in his eyes--I can read it in his face. Yet he--yet he--oh!" she broke off, unwilling to remark upon Paslow's strange, wavering wooing, to a servant, even though that servant was one who would readily have died to save her a moment's pain. "Do you think he loves any one else?" she asked evasively.
"No." Durban's eyes were fixed on her face. "I have no reason to think so. If he loves my missy, he can never be fond of other women; but if he plays you false, missy "--Durban's face grew grim and darker than ever--"you have a dog who can bite."
"No! no!" said Beatrice, alarmed--since Durban could make himself unpleasant on occasions, and, from the look on his face, she feared for Vivian--"he loves me, and me only; I am sure of that!"
The man's face cleared. "Then we will go to the Grange this evening, and you can see him."
"But if my stepfather hates him, Durban, he will place some obstacle in the way, should Mr. Paslow ask me to marry him."
"If he asks you to be his wife, you shall marry him, missy."
"But my father----"
"He will say nothing."
"Are you sure? When Mr. Alpenny takes an idea into his head----"
"He will take no idea of stopping your marriage, missy. You shall be happy. I promised him that."
"Promised who?"
"Your real father," said Durban, and departed without another word. It would seem as though he were unwilling to be questioned. Beatrice began to think that there was some mystery connected with her parents, which Durban knew, but which Durban would not reveal.
Shortly after Durban resumed work, Beatrice received a surprise which rather pleased her. This was none other than an invitation to enter the counting-house. She had always desired to do so, being filled with that curiosity which led her grandmother Eve to eat apples, but hitherto Alpenny had declined to admit her. Now the door of the dungeon was open, and Alpenny, standing before it, beckoned that she should come in. In the bright sunshine he looked more decrepit and wicked than usual. He could not have been less than eighty years of age, and his spare figure was bowed with Time. That same Time had also robbed him of every hair on his head, and had even taken away eyebrows and eyelashes. As the old man was clean shaven, his gleaming head and hairless yellow wrinkled face looked rather repulsive. Nor did his dress tend to improve his appearance, for it was a shepherd's-plaid suit cut in the style of the early fifties, when he had been young, and presumably something of a dandy. In spite of the antiquity of the clothes, there was a suggestion of juvenility about them which matched badly with his Methuselah looks. Like an aged ghost he beckoned in the sunshine, and the white-painted erection behind him assumed, in the eyes of Beatrice, the look of a tomb.
Wondering that she should be invited into Mammon's Shrine, the girl walked across the lawn. In her white dress, with her beautiful face shaded by a coarse straw hat, she appeared the embodiment of youth and grace, contrasting markedly with the senile old villain, who croaked out his orders.
"Come in," said Alpenny testily, and with the screech of a peacock, as he pointed to the open door. "I wish to speak to you seriously."
Beatrice, ever sparing of words with crabbed age, nodded and entered the counting-house, glancing comprehensively around to take in her surroundings--as a woman always does--with a single look. The space naturally was limited. All the windows had been boarded up save one, which opened immediately over a rather large desk of mahogany which was piled with papers. The walls were hung with faded red rep. In one corner stood a large green-painted safe; in another stood a pile of tin boxes which reached quite to the roof. A paraffin lamp dangled by brass chains from a somewhat smoky ceiling; and at the far end of the carriage, in front of a dilapidated bookcase, was an oil stove, crudely set on a sheet of galvanised tin. A ragged carpet, disorderly in colour and much faded, covered the floor; and there were only two chairs, one before the desk, and another beside it, probably for the use of clients. The one window was barred, but not covered with any curtain; the others were sheathed in iron and barred strongly outside. From without, as has been said, the carriage looked like a dungeon: within, its appearance suggested the home of a recluse, who cared very little for the pomps and vanities of civilisation. This barren room represented very fairly the bare mind of the miser, who cared more for money itself, than for what money could do.
Motioning Beatrice to the client's chair, Alpenny seated himself before his desk, and from habit presumably, began to fiddle with some legal looking documents. Apparently he had got over the shock caused by Vivian's strange speech, and looked much the same as he always did--cold, unsympathetic, and cunning as an old monkey. In the dungeon Beatrice bloomed like a rose, while Alpenny resembled a cold, clammy toad, uncanny and repulsive. He began to speak almost immediately, and his first words amazed the girl. They were the last she expected to hear from the lips of one who had always treated her with indifference, and almost with hostility.
"Have you ever thought of marriage?" asked the usurer, examining his visitor's face with two small sharp eyes, chilly and grey.
"Marriage!" she gasped, doubting if she had heard aright.
"Yes, marriage. Young girls think of such things, do they not?"
Wishing to find out what he meant, Beatrice fenced. "I have no chance of marrying, father," she observed, regaining her composure.
"I grant that, unless you have fallen in love with Jerry Snow; and I credit you with too much sense, to think you could love a fool."