CHAPTER XIII THE EX-BUTLER

It really did seem as though the course of this true love was about to run smooth. Durban, to whom Beatrice explained all that had taken place during Ruck's visit, heard what she had to say in silence, and seemed relieved when he heard the whole.

"I am glad that Mr. Paslow arrived at the moment," said Durban, when the story was ended. "He and the Major now understand one another."

"I never knew that Vivian was acquainted with Major Ruck."

"He met him at Mr. Alpenny's town office, missy."

"The Major seemed to threaten Vivian," observed the girl thoughtfully.

Durban shrugged his fat shoulders. "That is so like the Major," he retorted carelessly; "he is all stage thunder. Now that he knows you have not the necklace, he will trouble you no more. Mr. Paslow is not rich, missy; and you have lost the master's money; still, I should like you to marry the man you love, and go away."

"Why do you want me to go away?" she demanded peremptorily.

"It will be better," murmured Durban, uneasily.

"You are still keeping something from me, Durban?"

"Nothing that is necessary for you to know, missy."

Beatrice saw very well that the old servant was fencing, and wondered what it was that he feared. "The necklace?" she said suddenly.

"I do not know where it is, missy."

"Did you ever see it?"

"Once. Colonel Hall showed it to me--a very fine set of diamonds."

"Where did Colonel Hall get it?"

"I cannot say--somewhere in the West Indies, I think."

"You were Colonel Hall's servant in the West Indies, Durban?"

"I was, missy." Durban looked at her with fire in his dark eyes. "He was the best of masters, and I loved him. He brought me to this place with him, and here he met with his death."

"Do you know who killed him?"

"No, missy, I do not."

"Why did you take service with Mr. Alpenny?"

"I was poor," said Durban, with a shrug, "and my master, the Colonel, was dead. I had no home, and I was thankful to accept the situation. I might not have stayed in it for so long, missy, but that Mr. Alpenny married. It was you who have kept me at The Camp all these years."

"And what about Mrs. Hall?"

"Nothing, missy. She was a silent lady. I know very little about her."

"Durban"--Beatrice looked at him keenly--"are you telling me the truth?"

"I am, missy. Why should I tell you a lie? All I know of Mrs. Hall is, that she was the daughter of a West Indian planter, who was my father's master in the time of slavery. I was born on the estate, and afterwards entered the service of Colonel Hall--a captain he was then--to whom I became greatly attached. He saw Mrs. Hall, and fell in love with her. They married, but did not get on well together, for what reason I cannot tell you. They came here to see Mr. Paslow's father, who was an old friend of the Colonel's. Mrs. Hall stopped in London for a time, and then came down for one night with the nurse and her child. My master was murdered, and the necklace disappeared. That is all I know."

"But, Durban, Major Ruck says that the Colonel gave the necklace to my mother before his death."

"That is not true," cried Durban vehemently, and his eyes blazed. "There was no reason why he should give it to--to--Mrs. Hedge. And I saw the necklace in the Colonel's hands on the very night the crime was committed. Yes, and I saw him place it in the green box beside his bed. Next morning the window was open, the Colonel was lying dead with a cut throat, and the Obi necklace was gone. I can tell you no more, and I don't know why you wish to know all this."

"Because," said Beatrice slowly, "it is my belief that the same man with the black patch who murdered Colonel Hall murdered Mr. Alpenny; and in both cases I believe that the murder was committed for the sake of this necklace."

"I did not know that Mr. Alpenny had it, missy."

"Major Ruck says that he had, and married my mother for the sake of the necklace, which doubtless--as it has not been found after his death--he turned into money."

"It might be so," murmured Durban moodily. "Major Ruck knew a great deal about Mr. Alpenny which I did not know. He was a kind of decoy duck to the master--a man about town who brought foolish youths to borrow money. A dangerous man, missy, and one you are well rid of. Missy"--he laid his hand on her arm--"be advised; seek to know no more. Mr. Alpenny's life was not a good one or a clean one. Marry Mr. Paslow, and go away."

"I'll think of it, Durban," said Beatrice, after a few moments of thought, and there the conversation ended for the time being.

All the same, Beatrice had no idea of going away. She even thought that she would not marry Vivian Paslow until things were made clear, and she--so to speak--knew where she stood. What with Vivian's marriage to Maud Ellis, and the late Mr. Alpenny's hints that the young man had committed crimes, there was much in Paslow's life which she did not understand. Had she loved him less, she would have had nothing more to do with him. But she did love him with all her heart and soul; consequently she believed that he was more sinned against than sinning. It was nothing out of the common that a young man in London should be entrapped into such a marriage; and, after all, it was not unusual that Vivian should strive to hide from her--the woman he really loved--the folly of which he had been guilty eight years ago. That she could forgive, and did forgive, and was ready to marry her lover as soon as he wished. But she could not rid herself of a vague fear that if she did marry him, it would only be the beginning of fresh misery. Durban's desire that the young couple should go away, seemed to her ominous; and Vivian, although under stress of circumstances had confessed the marriage, did not seem to be communicative regarding the other mysteries. What if at the back of all these things lurked some terrible scandal which might ruin her happiness and that of Paslow's?

While thinking thus, it occurred to Beatrice that she had never learned what Vivian had done on that night when he left her under the Witches' Oak. They were together walking in the garden after dinner when she considered this question, and she asked Vivian at once to explain. He removed his cigar and looked at her searchingly.

"What a woman you are to ask questions!" he said, with a forced laugh.

"I want them answered," said Beatrice rather imperiously.

Vivian shrugged his shoulders. "I am not averse to doing so," he said in a weary manner. "Well, on that night I left you and ran to see who was watching. It was a red-headed little beast called Waterloo, employed as a spy by Mr. Alpenny!"

"I know him--I have seen him."

"Seen him?" Vivian started and looked uneasy. "When?--where?"

"In this very garden." And Beatrice related how the tramp had suddenly appeared to mar the beauty of the scene. "He wanted to see you," she concluded, "but Durban sent him away."

"Had I seen the brute I should have horsewhipped him," cried the young man angrily. "He was a spy of Alpenny's."

"On me?--on you?"

"On us both. Alpenny knew that I loved you, and did not want us to meet. He told Waterloo, who was hanging round The Camp, to keep his eye on you and on me. Waterloo confessed----"

"Did you catch him?"

"Yes, I did, and nearly broke his neck. He confessed that he had been set to watch by Mr. Alpenny, and had been lurking outside the great gates of The Camp."

"I saw him," said Beatrice, recalling the vague shadow which she had seen crouching in the shade on that fatal night.

"He saw you go past," went on Paslow, "and followed to the Witches' Oak like your shadow. When I caught him he told me all this, so I gave him a kicking and let him go. The dog was not worth fouling my hands with. Then I went back to the Oak to find you. You had gone, so I fancied that you had gone home. I did not follow, as I thought that I might run up against Alpenny and that there would be more trouble. I went home to the Grange, and then was coming along the next morning to see you, and give you the key, when I met Durban."

"It was then that you heard of the murder?"

"Yes; and afterwards went up to town to see Alpenny's lawyer about your chances of getting the money. You see, Beatrice, Major Ruck, and other creatures employed by Alpenny, were quite capable of destroying the will, so as to get the money themselves."

"But how could they do that?"

"By bribing or blackmailing the lawyer of Alpenny. The man is not above reproach, as he did much dirty work for Alpenny. Ruck knows of many of these underhanded dealings; and on hearing of Alpenny's death, it struck me that Ruck might try to force the lawyer--Tuft is his name--to destroy any will that might be made in your favour, by threatening to communicate with the police. However, I saw Tuft, and he produced the will. It was genuine enough, as I know Alpenny's handwriting very well. The money was left, as you know, to Lady Watson. I believe that years ago Alpenny admired her, although I do not see why he should leave her such a large fortune and cut you out."

"He hated me," said Beatrice sadly; "he always did. Before he died he told me to expect nothing, and I am a pauper, as you know. Vivian," she said suddenly, "let us put off our marriage for a time. I can go out as a governess, and we can wait."

"Why should we wait?" he asked quickly, and his arms went round her in a firm embrace.

"Are you sure," murmured Beatrice, "that if I marry you, all trouble will be at an end?"

"Quite sure. My first wife is dead, so I can take a second. Ruck and those other beasts cannot harm me now. No, Beatrice, we shall marry in a week as you promised."

"I have no wedding-dress!"

"That does not matter. I marry you and not your clothes. If we postpone our marriage, it may never take place."

"Why not?"

"Because there are those who would stop me from marrying you. Not Ruck--he can do nothing. Beatrice,"--he caught her hands and looked deep into her eyes--"I own to you that I have been a fool. My marriage with that adventuress introduced me into strange company. I will not tell you now what straits I have been in and what trouble I have undergone. Only trust me and marry me. I shall then tell you the whole of my life's history. Believe me, there is nothing in it for which you will cease to love me. My worst sin is having kept this first marriage from you."

"I will trust you," whispered Beatrice, who was much perplexed; "but is it not possible to clear up these mysteries?"

"You may clear them up," said Vivian, after a moment's hesitation. "I cannot help you--I dare not," he ended, and abruptly left her.

What did it all mean? Beatrice asked herself that question again and again, but without receiving any answer. But for her overwhelming love, she would have hesitated to step forward in the dark, as she really was doing when consenting to this marriage. But she felt that Vivian needed her aid, and that only when they were man and wife would that aid be of any real service. She made no attempt to continue the conversation when they met again in the drawing-room, nor did she seek out the old servant to ask questions. But since Vivian hinted that by her own unaided efforts she might arrive at the truth, whatever it might be, she determined to search on. In one way or another she was resolved with all the force of her strong nature to put an end to these provoking mysteries.

It was for this reason that the next morning found her climbing the Downs. Vivian had gone with Dinah into Brighton, and Beatrice, alleging the death of her stepfather as a reason for retirement, had remained at home. In reality, she wanted to trace out Orchard the ex-butler, who had turned shepherd, and whom Mrs. Lilly had told her of. From that elderly dame Beatrice obtained the information that Orchard lived on the Downs in a little wooden hut, like the savage maid in the popular song, and having gained a fair notion of its whereabouts, she set out to seek the man. He had been in the house at the time of Colonel Hall's murder, and apparently had seen something. Had he not done so, his nerves certainly would not have been so shattered as to make him give up the comfortable profession of a butler for the hard life of a shepherd. Certainly he might refuse to speak out, as he assuredly had not told the police anything likely to lead to the discovery of Colonel Hall's assassin. But Beatrice had great faith in her woman's wiles and in the power of her tongue to get what she wanted. It was the sole way in which she could do so, as she had no money wherewith to tempt the old man. But then so patriarchal a person might be above bribery and corruption.

It was a divine day, and the breezes were blowing freshly across the spacious Downs from the distant Channel. Beatrice loved to look on these wide spaces of green, and to watch the sheep moving across the close-shorn turf, which they kept in such good order. A mile's walk brought her into the vicinity where Mrs. Lilly had informed her that Orchard watched his flock, and she speedily saw the hut, a tiny box of a house roofed with turf and standing on the Downs, without railing, or fence, or garden round it--just like a house that had lost its way.

Fate favoured her, and she took it as a good omen when she saw the old man seated at the door eating his midday meal. He was bent and white-headed, and had a long white beard. In fact, he might have passed for Father Christmas had he been appropriately dressed. His eyes were faded, blue and mild, and he seemed in no wise disturbed when she approached. "Good day, miss," said the ex-butler.

"Good day," responded Beatrice. "Will you let me sit down? I have been walking for some time."

"Certainly, miss," said Orchard, with the deference of a former indoor servant; "but the air will do you good. I suppose, miss, you are one of the gentry from Brighton? They often come up here to breathe the air and get appetites. Sit down, miss."

By this time he had brought out a stool, and Beatrice sat down with a weary air, for she really was tired. "I come from the Weald," she said, waving her hand towards the luxurious verdure of the valley below. "I live there."

"A very nice place, miss. I lived there once myself."

"At Convent Grange?" said Beatrice, glad to see that Orchard was disposed to be communicative.

He turned a mild look of surprise on her, and considered her face attentively. "Why, yes, miss," he replied, "although I don't know how you come to know that."

"Mrs. Lilly told me."

Orchard let a glimmering smile rest on his pale lips. "Sarah Lilly?" he said musingly. "Ah, I have not seen her since we were fellow-servants together--and that was long ago. I might have married her, miss, as we liked one another. But she was married and I was married, so we couldn't come together."

"I should think not," said Beatrice, smiling at the grave way in which the old shepherd spoke. "Mrs. Lilly is a great friend of mine."

"Is she, miss? And no doubt"--he considered her still more attentively--"Mrs. Lilly told you how I came to be a shepherd?"

"Yes, she told me that."

"I did it for my nerves," said Orchard, looking away at the treeless green expanse; "they were shattered by the terrible calamity which happened in that house. The air here cured me."

"Do you know who killed Colonel Hall?"

"You are the first person who has asked me that question for many years, miss. Time was when many did so, but the Colonel has been buried these five-and-twenty years, and his terrible death is quite forgotten. I don't know who killed him--for certain, that is, miss."

"Have you no suspicion?"

"Oh yes," said Orchard calmly. "I believe that Mr. Alpenny murdered Colonel Hall to get a certain necklace."

"That cannot be true," said Beatrice aghast; "a Major Ruck----"

"I don't know him," interpolated Orchard.

"Well, he says that Colonel Hall gave the necklace to my mother."

"And who was your mother, miss?"

"Mrs. Hedge----"

"Who married Mr. Alpenny?" cried Orchard, rising suddenly to his feet and really startled out of his mildness.

"Yes. Mr. Alpenny is now dead, and----"

"I know--I know," said Orchard, waving his hand; "he met with the due reward of his wickedness. I can talk of him later, and I'll tell you why I suspect him. Mrs. Hedge's daughter--the Colonel's child----"

"What?" cried Beatrice, springing to her feet.

"Mr. Alpenny never told you, I suppose," said Orchard coolly; "but he married Mrs. Hall, who took the name of Mrs. Hedge because she was suspected of being concerned in the crime. You are Miss Hall--Miss Beatrice Hall!"