The Solitary Farm Part 14

The red faded from Pence's face, and he looked wickedly white. His eyes flashed with sinister lights. "I dare say you do," he said venomously, "but Mr. Lister had better keep out of my way, and out of the way of the police."

The girl felt her heart almost stop beating. "Now it is my turn to ask you what you mean?" she said slowly and preserving her coolness.

But the preacher saw that she was shaken, and followed up his advantage.

"I think you had better make terms with me. Accept me as your husband, or----"

"Or what?"

"I shall tell the police what I saw," he finished spitefully.

"What did you see?" she asked in a shaking voice.

"On the evening of the murder I came here at a quarter to eight," said Silas slowly, his glittering eyes on her pale face. "I wished to adore the shrine wherein was my jewel; that is, I desired to gaze on the house, beneath whose roof you slept."

"Oh, stop talking like this, and speak plainly," she interrupted wearily.

"I shall speak plainly enough now," said the young man calmly. "While watching by the entrance through the bushes, on the other side of the channel, I was suddenly brushed aside by that Lister person. It was growing dark, but I recognised his figure, his insolent face, his lordly air of prosperity. He walked up to the house and I turned away, sick at heart, knowing that he had gone to see you. When I looked again, on my way back to Marshely, he had disappeared. So you see----" He paused.

"I see what?" she questioned nervously.

"That the Lister person must know somewhat of this crime, if, indeed, he did not strike the blow himself."

"How can you say that, when you lately intimated that Mr. Lister--if it _was_ Mr. Lister, which I doubt--had come to see me?"

"I remember the evidence given by yourself and your aunt at the inquest," retorted Pence sharply. "You were locked in your room, and were in a drugged sleep. Mrs. Coppersley had gone to my lodgings to deliver the note from your late father, which I found on my return. That Lister person must have seen your father, and, as they were not on good terms--"

"How do you know that they were not?"

"Because your late father hated the very name of Lister, and said that he would rather see you dead than married to him. Also in the note left at my lodgings, your father said that he had quarrelled seriously with this Lister person, and had locked you in your room. Now, if I showed that note to the police, and related how the Lister person had brushed me aside so that he could cross the channel, he would be arrested."

"No, he would not," said Bella doggedly, but her heart sank.

"Yes, he would. He hated your late father; he was alone in the house with him, and I believe that he killed him so that he might marry you."

"As if I would marry any man who murdered my father," said Bella angrily. "You are talking a lot of nonsense, Mr. Pence. Mr. Lister was in London on that evening, and afterwards went to Paris."

"I don't believe it. Who told you?"

"He told me so himself."

"Naturally he has to make the best of things. But I know the Lister person well by sight, and I am prepared to take my oath that he entered the Manor-house about eight o'clock on the night of the murder."

"Mr. Lister has a good _alibi_," said Bella, with a carelessness which she was far from feeling, and gathering up her skirts to go. "You can tell the police what you like, Mr. Pence. I am not afraid for Mr.

Lister's good name."

"You will make no terms?" demanded Pence, annoyed by her feigned coolness.

"No," she said abruptly; "do what you like."

"I'll give you three days to think over the matter," cried Pence as she turned away; "if by that time you do not agree to become my wife, I shall denounce that Lister person to the police."

Bella took no notice of the threat, but walked swiftly away in the direction of Mrs. Tunks' hut. Hearing no footsteps she concluded that Mr. Pence had not followed, and a cautious look round revealed him crossing the planks on his way home. Bella felt sick with apprehension, and when she reached the hut had to lean against the door for support.

But she had no time to consider matters, for unexpectedly the door opened and she fell into the bony arms of Mrs. Tunks.

"I knew you were coming, dearie," croaked the old creature; "the crystal told me."

"A glance along the path told you," retorted Bella, recovering her balance and entering the hut. "Why do you talk to me of the crystal, Mrs. Tunks? You know I don't believe in such things."

"Well I know your blind eyes and stubborn heart, lovey. Only trouble will make you see truths, and you ain't had enough yet. There's more coming."

"How do you know?" asked Bella, sitting down on a broken-backed chair with a sudden sinking of the heart.

"I know, I know," mumbled Mrs. Tunks, squatting on a stool near the fire. "Who should know but I, who am of the gentle Romany? Hold your peace, dearie and let me think," and she lighted a dingy black clay pipe. "Luke ain't here," added Mrs. Tunks, blowing a cloud of smoke, "so we've the whole place to ourselves, lovey, and the crystal's ready."

She nodded towards a bright spark of light, and Bella saw a round crystal the size of an apple, standing in a cheap china egg-cup. There was no light in the bare room, but the ruddy flare of the smouldering fire, and what with the semi-darkness, the fumes of Mrs. Tunks' pipe, and that bright unwinking spot, Bella felt as though she were being hypnotised.

The hut, built of turf, was square, and was divided by a wooden part.i.tion into two equal parts. One of these parts was again sub-divided into two sleeping dens--they could not be called bedrooms--for Mrs.

Tunks and her grandson. The day apartment, which did for sitting-room, dining-room, drawing-room, and general living-room, was small, and dirty, and dingy. The ceiling of rough thatch, black with smoke, could almost be touched by Bella without rising. The floor was of beaten earth, the chimney a wide gaping hollow of turf, and there was one small window, usually tightly closed, beside the crazy door. The furniture consisted of a deal table, of home manufacture, with its legs sunken in the earthen floor, and a few stools together with the broken-backed chair on which the visitor sat. There also was a rough wooden dresser, on which were ranged a few platters of wood and some china. The whole abode was miserable in the extreme, and in wet weather must have been extremely uncomfortable. Granny Tunks, as she was usually called, housed like an Early Briton or a Saxon serf; but she seemed to be happy enough in her den, perhaps because it was better than the rough life of the road, which had been her lot in life before she had married a Gorgio.

She was a lean, grim old creature with very bright black eyes and plentiful white hair escaping from under a red handkerchief. Her dress was of a brown colour, but tagged with bright patches of yellow and blue and crimson, and she wore also various coins and beads and charms, which kept up a continuous jingle. On the whole Granny Tunks was a picturesque figure of the Oriental type, and this, added to her sinister reputation as one acquainted with the unseen world, gained her considerable respect. The marsh folk, still superst.i.tious in spite of steam and electricity, called her "The Wise Woman," but Granny dubbed herself "A Witch-Wife," quite like a Norse warrior would have done.

Bella stared at the crystal until she felt quite dreamy, while Granny watched her with a bright and cunning eye. Suddenly she rose and took the gleaming globe in her skinny hand. "You've put your life-power into it," mumbled the witch-wife; "now I'll read what's coming."

"No, no!" cried Bella, suddenly startled into wakefulness. "I don't want to know anything, Mrs. Tunks."

Granny took no notice, but peered into the crystal by the red light of the fire. "You've trouble yet, before you, dearie," she said in a sing-song voice, "but peace in the end. You'll marry the gentleman you love, when a black man comes to aid your fortunes."

"A black man! What do you mean?"

"There's no more," said Mrs. Tunks; "the vision has faded. A black man, remember."

CHAPTER IX

THE COMING OF DURGO

The fortnight which followed the funeral of Captain Huxham pa.s.sed quietly enough at the Solitary Farm. Mrs. Coppersley went several times to London for the purpose of interviewing her late brother's lawyer, who had his office in Cade Lane. She said very little to Bella when she returned, and on her part Bella did not ask questions. Had she been more versed in worldly wisdom she would have accompanied her aunt to see the solicitor for herself, so that she might learn what disposition had been made of the property. But Bella was an unsophisticated girl, and moreover was so anxiously lamenting the continued absence of Cyril that she neglected needful things.

Lister had disappeared from the neighbourhood, and Bella had neither seen him again nor had she heard from him. Considering what had taken place at their last interview, she was inclined to think that Cyril had pa.s.sed out of her life for ever. But something told her that in spite of her unjust accusations he still loved her, and would return. Meantime, there was nothing for it but to wait in patience, and to busy herself with her ordinary pursuits. These, however, had lost their savour for the girl, since the whole of her mind was filled with the image of the man she loved.

Pence did not fulfil his threat of informing the police at the end of three days. Bella waited in dread for the arrival of Inspector Inglis to ask her questions concerning Lister, but the officer never appeared, and as the days glided by she began to think that Silas would say nothing.

With her aunt she went on Sunday to the Little Bethel, and heard him preach, but he did not seek a private interview with her. Even when he delivered his sermons he sedulously avoided her eye, so she deemed that he was ashamed of the wild way in which he had talked. What struck her most about the young man was his wan looks. He seemed to be thinner than ever, and his cheeks had a more hectic flush, while his eyes glittered feverishly, as though he were consumed with an inward fire. But his discourses became more and more powerful and were greatly admired by his congregation, who liked melodramatic religion. Mrs. Coppersley was especially loud in her expression of approval.

"What a gift," she said to Bella, when they returned home on the second Sunday through the rapidly-yellowing corn-fields. "He spares no one."