The Solitary Farm Part 29

"It is a feasible idea, certainly," said Bella musingly, and astonished at the knowledge of the negro, quite forgetting that he had been educated at Oxford; "but where the jewels came from, matters little.

What we have to find out, is where they are, and Mr. Pence----"

"I shall see this man," interrupted Durgo quietly; "he may lie to others: he will tell the truth to me."

"No violence," warned Bella anxiously.

Durgo nodded. "I fear your police too much," said he, with an ironical grin, and strode out of the house, looking more burly and defiant than ever. Bella had regretted her employment of his services, but what else could she do when so much was at stake? Bella wished to marry Cyril, and, to do so, desired to be certain that she was not Captain Huxham's daughter. The papers--if her wild surmise was correct--would prove if what Pence said was true. Then, since Cyril's father had not murdered her father--she put it in this confused way--she would be able to marry her lover with a clear conscience. That he might be the son of an a.s.sa.s.sin troubled her very little. To get her way after the manner of a woman deeply in love, she would have set the world on fire, or would have wrecked the solar system. And in placing the safety of Pence in the hands of a semi-civilised negro, she undoubtedly was risking his life.

But she did not care, so long as she attained to the knowledge which she was confident he possessed.

It will be seen that Bella Huxham was no Sunday-school angel, or even the amiable heroine of a _Family Herald_ novelette, who never by any chance does wrong. She was simply an average girl, with good instincts, brought up so far as school-training was concerned in a conventional way. At home no one had taught her to discern right from wrong, and, like the ordinary healthy young animal of the human race, she had not pa.s.sed through sufficient sorrow to make her inquire into the truths of religion. Bella needed trouble to train her into a good, brave woman, and she was certainly getting the training now. But she made mistakes, as was natural, considering her inexperience.

That same evening, Mr. Silas Pence was seated in his shabby sitting-room, making notes for his next Sunday sermon. He occupied lodgings in a lonely cottage on the verge of the common, and did so because his landlady was a member of the Little Bethel congregation, who boarded and lodged him cheaply in order to have the glory of entertaining the minister. The landlady was a heavy-footed, heavy-faced woman, with two great hulking sons, and occupied the back part of the premises. Silas inhabited the best sitting-room and the most comfortable bedroom. There was no fence round the front of the cottage, although there was a garden of vegetables at the back, so the sitting-room window looked straight out on to the purple heather and golden gorse of the waste land. An artist would have delighted in the view, but Silas had no eye for anything beautiful in nature, and paid very little attention to the changing glories of the year. The lodging was cheap, and the situation healthy, so he was perfectly satisfied.

On this especial evening, the young preacher sat at the red-repp covered table, reading his Bible and making his notes. It was after ten o'clock, and his landlady was asleep, as were her two sons, both agricultural labourers worn out with the heavy toils of the day. The sitting-room window was wide open, and the blind was up, so that the cool night breeze was wafted faintly into the somewhat stuffy room, which was crowded with unnecessary furniture. Silas made a few notes, then threw down his pencil and sighed, resting his weary head on his hand.

Pence was by no means a bad man, but he was weak and excitable. The pursuit of Bella aroused the worst part of his nature, and made him think, say, and do much which he condemned. The better part of him objected to a great deal which he did, but the tide of his pa.s.sion hurried him away and could not be checked by the d.y.k.es of common-sense.

At times--and this was one of them--he bitterly blamed himself for giving way to the desire for Hepzibah, as he called Bella Huxham, in his own weak mind. But, sane in all other ways, he was insane on this one point, and felt that he would jeopardise his chance of salvation to call her wife. Nevertheless he was sane enough to know his insanity, and would have given much to root out the fierce love which was destroying his life.

But the insane pa.s.sion which he cherished for a woman who would have nothing to do with him led him deeper and deeper into the mire of sin, and in spite of his prayers and cries for help, the Unseen would do nothing to extricate him from the mora.s.s of difficulties into which he had plunged himself. At times Silas even doubted if G.o.d existed, so futile were his attempts to gain comfort and guidance. Much as he loved Bella, he desired to win clear of the unwilling influence which she exercised on his nature, and vainly prayed for light whereby to know the necessary means to get rid of the tormenting demon. But no answer came, and he relapsed into despair, wondering what his congregation would say if any member knew the unmastered temptations of his inner life. The struggle made him weak and ill and thin and nervous, and but that deep in his heart he knew vaguely that G.o.d was watching over him, and would aid at the proper time, he would have taken his own miserable life.

With his head buried in his hands, Silas thought thus, with many groans and with many bitter tears, the shedding of which made his eyes burn.

Occupied with his misery, he did not see a dark, ma.s.sive form glide towards the open window, nor did he hear a sound, for Durgo stepped as light-footed as a cat. The sill of the window was no great distance from the ground, and the big negro flung his leg over the sill and into the room. But in getting hastily through, he was so large and the window so small, that he made a sliding noise as the window slipped still further up. Silas started to his feet, but only to see Durgo completely in the room, facing him with a grim smile.

"I have come to speak with you, sir," said the negro.

Silas turned white, being haunted by a fear known only to himself. But he read in the eyes of this black burglar--or, rather, he guessed by some wonderful intuition, that his fear and the cause of his fear were known to this man. Durgo saw the look in the preacher's eyes, and read his thoughts in his turn. The negro was not boasting when he hinted that he possessed certain psychic power. "Yes," he said, keeping his burning gaze directly on the miserable white man; "you stole papers from Captain Huxham's room, and I----"

"I did not," interrupted Pence wildly, and making a clutch at his breast coat-pocket. "How dare you--"

"The papers are in your pocket," interrupted Durgo, advancing, as he noted the unconscious action and guessed its significance. "Give me those papers."

"I have no papers. I will alarm the house----"

"Do so, and you shall be arrested."

"What do you mean?"

"You saw my master, Edwin Lister, enter the Manor-house, and thought that he was his son. Cyril Lister told me as much. From what you said to Miss Huxham about her not being the daughter of the sailor, I believe that you followed my master into the house. What took place?"

"Nothing! nothing! I swear that I did not----"

"Those papers," said Durgo, pointing to the white hand which still clutched feebly at the breast-pocket, "say that the girl is not Captain Huxham's daughter. I want to know whose daughter she is."

"You are talking rubbish. I have no papers."

"I am making a guess, and I believe my guess is a true one. Will you give up those papers, or must I wring your neck?"

With widely-open eyes, the preacher flung himself against the mantel-piece and clutched at a handbell. Just as he managed to ring this feebly, for his hands were shaking, and he was utterly unnerved, Durgo, seeing that there was no time to be lost, sprang forward and laid a heavy grasp on the miserable man's throat, ripping open his jacket with the other hand. In less than a minute he had the papers in his hand.

"No! no! no!" shouted Silas, and made a clutch at them.

Durgo thrust the papers into his pocket, and raising Pence up shoulder high, dashed him down furiously. His head struck the edge of the fender, and he lay unconscious. But Durgo did not wait to see further. He glided out of the window like a snake--swift, silent, stealthy, and dangerous.

CHAPTER XVI

THE PAPERS

Next morning the news was all over the village, that Silas Pence had been seized with epilepsy, and in falling had cut his head open against the old-fashioned fender. He had just time--said the gossips--to ring the bell before the catastrophe, and the landlady being, fortunately, awake, had rushed into the room to his a.s.sistance. In an hour he had become conscious, and had been put to bed, after giving the explanation of how he came by the wound in his head. As Silas was fairly popular, everyone was more or less sorry, and many were the callers at the cottage on the common.

Dora heard the news from one of her scholars, and retailed it to her friend when she came home to luncheon. Bella turned pale when she heard of the affair. She guessed that this was the work of Durgo, and reproached herself for having enlisted his services. But then, she argued, that if Durgo really was responsible for the preacher's sickness, he would have appeared in Miss Ankers' cottage in the morning, to explain what had taken place, and possibly--supposing he had been successful--to show the papers. Then again, if this was Durgo's work, Bella wondered why the preacher had not denounced him. It seemed to her, on this a.s.sumption, that Pence feared to say too much, lest he should be questioned too closely. Dora certainly had no more suspicions than had anyone else, but what the story of the young man was absolutely true.

"He never _did_ look healthy," said Dora, when the meal was ended, "so I am not surprised to hear that he has these epileptic fits."

"Perhaps he'll get over them," hinted Bella feebly, and not looking at her friend, lest she should betray herself.

"My dear, people with epilepsy never recover," rebuked Dora seriously, "and I wonder that the man dared to ask you to marry him, seeing what he suffered from. What a terrible thing to have a husband with fits."

"Are you sure that it was a fit?" asked Bella, trying to salve her conscience with the idea that Durgo had nothing to do with the matter--a vain attempt.

"My dear, am I sure that the hair grows on my head? Of course, I am sure. The man himself explained how he fell, just as he clutched at the bell. He hit his poor head against the iron fender--you know, dear, one of those old-fashioned kitchen fenders, now out of date. It's a mercy there was no fire in the grate, or he would have been burnt to death.

Why, a cousin of mine once"--and Dora went off into a long and wearisome tale of a member of her family who had suffered in the same way.

When the little old school-mistress returned to her duties, Bella sat down to consider things. On the face of it, Durgo had done nothing, and Silas really might suffer from fits. But as he had never fallen before, and as Bella knew that Durgo would stop at nothing to get the papers, which she believed existed, she began to believe that the fall was by design and not by accident. This belief taking full possession of her, she longed feverishly to see the negro, and to ask questions. But, although she watched for quite two hours at the window, he never appeared. Then--as her nerves were strung up nearly to snapping pitch--she determined to call round at Cyril's lodgings and tell him of her interview with the black man. For the moment, she was unwilling to do this, as she guessed that Cyril would be angry. Still, as it was more or less certain that Durgo himself would tell her lover--always supposing the papers existed and had been obtained--Bella thought it would be wiser to be first in the field with her story. Besides, in any case, she would have to confess to Cyril, so why not now? The only chance of getting at the truth of the matter of the murder lay in herself and Durgo and Cyril working amicably together, and in keeping nothing back from one another.

There was a certain amount of risk in going to Cyril's lodgings, as his landlady, Mrs. Block, was one of the most notorious gossips in the village. She would be certain to talk of the visit, and to make unkind comments on the fact of a young lady choosing to visit a bachelor without a chaperon. And a chaperon Bella could not have, since she wished no one else to be present during her conversation with Cyril. A third party would mean that she would be unable to speak plainly and all knowledge of the case--inner knowledge that is--must be confined to herself, her lover, and to the negro. It would never do to let the outside world know of the means they were taking to arrive at the truth, and a chaperon might easily play the part of a she-Judas.

And after all--as Bella reflected, when hurrying along the road--she had no one to consider but herself, since it mattered very little what was said about her, so long as Cyril was true. She was at war with her aunt--if, indeed, Mrs. Vand was her aunt--she had no friend but Dora, and there was really no person whom she desired to conciliate. Under these circ.u.mstances, she took her courage in both hands and with a calm face, but with her heart in her mouth, she rapped at the door of Lister's lodgings. Luckily he had observed her from the window, and opened the door himself.

"I am so glad to see you Bella," he said, shaking hands in a conventional manner, as the stout form of Mrs. Block appeared at the end of the pa.s.sage, "for I was just coming round to propose a walk on the common."

"It is a beautiful day," said Bella, likewise conventional.

"Very. Wait until I get my hat and stick. Mrs. Block, if anyone calls, I am going to the common with Miss Huxham."

"And a very lovely sweet walk it is," said Mrs. Block, coming nearer to see if Bella was dressed in sufficiently deep mourning for her presumed father, "as I said to Block, if he'd only make the money a man like him ought to make, I'd be strolling on that there common, dressed up as fine as nine-pence. But there, you never get what you want in this world, and ain't it dreadful, Miss Huxham, about poor Mr. Pence?"

"Very dreadful!" a.s.sented Bella politely, then as Cyril was ready, she went with him out of the gate, leaving Mrs. Block looking after them.

Luckily for the couple, Mrs. Block had nothing to say against the visit.

Indeed it was in her heavy mind that Cyril, having failed to take Bella out as promised, had been called upon by a young lady weary of waiting.

"So like a man," soliloquised Mrs. Block, standing on her door-step, broom in hand, "they never thinks, never, never! And if this Mr. Lister commences neglect afore marriage, what will it be when the honeymoon's over. Ah, poor Miss Huxham! what with her pa dying, and her aunt robbing, and him as should love her neglecting--it's a miserable life she'll have. Ah, well, there's always the grave to look forward to," and ending her soliloquy thus cheerfully, Mrs. Block entered the house and shut the door with a bang.

Meanwhile the lovers, quite ignorant of Mrs. Block's opinion, walked along the village street, and soon emerged on to the common. They pa.s.sed the cottage wherein Silas Pence lodged, and this recalled the episode of the so-called fit to Cyril, as he had heard all particulars from his garrulous landlady. "I'm sorry for Pence," said Cyril, glancing at the cottage.

"Why?" asked Bella nervously.