The Solitary Farm Part 11

The room wherein she sat, with the blinds down, was opposite the study and was a large apartment spa.r.s.ely furnished. Huxham did not care for a drawing-room, as he preferred his den, but Mrs. Coppersley had bothered him incessantly until he provided her with furniture for the place. She selected the furniture herself, and what with her brother's stinginess and her own bad taste, the result was woefully bad. The room, s.p.a.cious, lofty and stately, was decorated as beautifully as was the study, and required the most exquisite furniture to enhance its faded splendours.

But Mrs. Coppersley had bought a magenta-hued sofa and many magenta-covered chairs, together with a cheap sideboard, so sticky as to look like a fly catcher, and two arm chairs of emerald green. The inlaid floor she had covered with lineoleum, diapered white and black, and her artistic taste had led her to paint the mellow oak panelling with pink Aspinall's enamel. As the curtains of the many windows were yellow, and the blinds blue, the effect was disastrous, and suggestive of a paint-box. An artist would have died of the confusion of tints, and the barbarism of destroying the oak panels, but Mrs. Coppersley was more than satisfied with the result, and when seated in the drawing-room on Sunday felt herself to be quite the lady.

At the present moment Bella's nerves were less troubled than usual; the blinds were down in sympathy with the funeral, and a dim twilight pervaded the room, hiding more or less the atrocious grandeur. She sat in one of the green arm-chairs near the fire-place, reading the burial service and listening to the solemn tolling of the bell. But after a time she dropped the book on her lap and leaned back to close her eyes and reflect on her grave position. If only she had not seen Cyril on that night she could have married in ignorance that he had anything to do with the death of her father; but, enlightened as she was, it appeared impossible that she should become his wife. She had said nothing of his visit at the inquest, but the hideous doubt remained in her mind, although she strove to banish it by a.s.suring herself over and over again that Lister could have had no hand in the matter. But how could she prove his innocence?

She was alone in that sinister house, and although it was bright suns.h.i.+ne out of doors she felt scared. The cool dim room, the dreary booming of the distant bell, the impressive words of the burial service which she had just been reading--all these things united in a weird appeal to her psychic instincts, to those mysterious senses which deal with the unseen. In the arm-chair she sat with closed eyes strung up to breaking-point, and felt that if the psychic influence which seemed to control her became more insistent, she would scream. A thought flashed across her mind that her father was walking that dim, chill apartment, trying to communicate the truth; and in her nervous excitement she could almost have sworn that she heard the heavy tread of his feet.

Thus, when she really did hear a light footstep in the entrance hall without, she uttered a piercing scream, and staggered to her feet. The hall door, she knew, had been left open since the coffin had been carried down the path between the standing corn, so that anyone could enter. Perhaps the a.s.sa.s.sin had come back to review the scene of his crime, or to commit another.

White-faced and panic-stricken by the power of her own emotions engendered by the circ.u.mstances, she clung to the back of the arm-chair, straining her eyes towards the door. At the sound of her thin high-pitched scream the footsteps had ceased for a moment, as though the intruder was listening. Now they recommenced and drew near the outside of the door. Unable to utter a sound Bella stared through the dim lights and saw the door open cautiously. A face looked in and the eyes set in the face blinked in the semi-gloom. Then the door opened widely and Cyril Lister stepped in.

"Oh, my darling!" With a sudden rush of relief Bella ran rapidly towards the door to throw herself into her lover's arms. Then a gruesome memory of that sinister visit made her falter and pause half way. Cyril closed the door and stood where he was, holding out his hungry arms.

"Dearest," he said softly. "Oh, my poor girl."

But Bella did not move; she stood looking at him as though fascinated.

He wore a white drill suit made, tropic-fas.h.i.+on, high at the neck, with white shoes, and a panama hat. His white-clothed figure accentuated the twilight of the room, which now looked brown and grim. Considering that her father was dead and even now was being laid in an untimely grave, Cyril might have come to her dressed in mourning, unless--ah, unless.

"Oh!"--she stretched out an arm as he advanced slowly--"don't come near me--don't come near me."

"Bella!" He stopped in sheer surprise. "Bella, darling, don't you know me?"

"Ah, yes, I know you," she gasped, retreating towards the chair.

"Perhaps I know you too well."

"Because I have not been to see you before?" he asked, surprised.

"Bella, dearest, I would have come but that I have been abroad during the week. I had to go to Paris to see a--a friend of mine."

She noted the hesitation and s.h.i.+vered. "When did you go?"

Cyril came near, and again she shrank away. "On the afternoon when your father found us in the corn-field."

"It's not true; it's not true. How can you lie to me?"

"Bella!" Cyril stopped short again, and in the faint light she could see that he looked thoroughly puzzled and amazed. "What do you mean?"

The girl's legs refused to support her any longer, and she sank into the chair. "My father is being buried," she gasped.

"I know, I know," he replied sympathetically. "I went to the funeral, but finding you were not present, I came here to comfort you."

"You--you--you went to the funeral?" her eyes dilated.

"Why should I not go. After all, even though we quarrelled, he was your father, and a last tribute of respect----"

"Oh, stop, stop. You can say this to me--to me, of all people?"

Lister frowned and pinched his lip. "This lonely house and this cold, dull room have unnerved you," he said after a pause. "I make every allowance for what you have gone through, but----"

"But you know, you understand."

"Know what? understand what?" he inquired sharply.

"I said nothing at the inquest. I held my tongue. I never----"

"Bella!" Cyril, now thoroughly roused, advanced and seized her wrists in no gentle grasp, "are you crazy, talking in this way?"

"I have had enough to make me crazy," she said bitterly, "let me go."

"Not till you explain your mysterious behaviour. No"--he grasped her wrists tighter as she strove to release herself--"not till you explain."

"Ah!" she cried out shrilly, "will you murder me also?"

Lister suddenly released her wrists and fell back a pace. "Murder you also?" he repeated. "Am I then in the habit of murdering people?"

"My father. You--you----"

"Well, go on," said he, as the word stuck in her throat.

"Oh"--she wrung her hands helplessly--"I saw you; I saw you."

"Saw me what?" His voice became impatient and almost fierce.

"I saw you enter the house--this house."

"Saw me--enter this house? When?"

"On the night my father was murdered--at eight o'clock."

"What the devil are you talking about?" cried Cyril roughly. "I was in London at eight o'clock on that night, and went to Paris the next morning. I never heard of the murder, as I saw no newspapers. When I returned last night I read the account of the inquest in the evening papers, and I came down this morning to comfort you. I really think trouble has turned your head, Bella."

The girl stared at him in astonishment. Even though she had spoken so very plainly, Cyril did not seem to comprehend that she was accusing him of having committed a dastardly crime. Her heart suddenly grew light.

Perhaps, after all, she was mistaken, and--and--"You can prove your innocence?"

"My innocence of what, in heaven's name?" he cried angrily.

"Of--of--the--the--murder," she faltered.

Lister stared, and scarcely could believe his ears. "You are not serious?"

"Oh, my dear:" she sobbed, "I wish I were not."

"And you accuse me of murdering your father?"

"No, no! Really, I don't accuse you of actually--that is, of really--but I saw you enter this house at eight o'clock, or a little after, on that night. I intended to come down, thinking you and my father might quarrel, but I drank the tea--you must have seen about the tea at the inquest--that is, in the report given in the papers. Then I fell asleep, and woke to hear that my father was dead. But I never betrayed you, Cyril. G.o.d is my witness that I have held my tongue."

Lister pa.s.sed his hand across his forehead, and fell helplessly into a near chair. "You accuse me of murdering your father?" he said again.

"No, no;" she repeated feverishly, "but I saw you--you looked up--you wore the grey clothes, as you had done in the afternoon when father interrupted us."

"Bella! Bella! You must have been dreaming, or the drug----"