The Solitary Farm Part 21

CHAPTER XII

CYRIL'S STORY

Bella looked from the astonished Durgo to the despairing Lister, and wondered what the scene meant. That the matter at issue was serious Cyril's demeanour gave her fully to understand. But what the matter might be she could not guess, save that it had something to do with this mysterious double who had caused all the commotion. The negro appeared to be as puzzled as herself, and stared at the seated figure with an open mouth, scratching his woolly head meanwhile.

"Not my master, but like my master," he muttered, staring hard, and speaking in his usual guttural manner but not in the usual negro dialect, so rude and clipped. "If you're not my master, Edwin Lister,"

he added, addressing himself to the young man, "who are you, sir?"

"Answer him, Cyril," said Bella, seeing that her lover did not speak.

"Did you ever see this man before?"

Lister looked up, pale and hollow-eyed. "Never," he said briefly.

"Did you ever meet Mr. Lister before?" Bella asked the negro.

"Lister! Lister!" gasped Durgo, retreating a step. "Is this young gentleman called Lister?"

"Cyril Lister," said that young man.

"But my master had no son."

"I am his son. Edwin Lister is my father."

"Oh!" A sudden light broke over Bella's face, and she clapped her hands.

"And your double?"

"Yes," said Cyril in low tones; "now you can guess how afraid I was to lay my suspicions before you."

"No," she said boldly. "Why you should be afraid I cannot guess."

Cyril rose slowly, laid two heavy hands on her shoulders and looked directly into her eyes. "My dear," he said in a hard voice, "can you not understand that this double was my father, who resembled me so closely that this man"--he jerked back his head towards the still staring negro--"mistook me for him."

"Well," said Bella, inquiringly.

"Well," repeated Lister, impatiently, "You thought that I had committed the murder, but now that you know the truth----"

Bella shook herself free and grew pale. "It was your father who struck the blow!" she said in a low, horrified tone.

"Yes. And if my father killed your father, how can we marry?"

There was a dead silence, and the unfortunate lovers looked at one another with white faces. If Cyril's surmise was true, a barrier had indeed been placed between them, and for the moment they saw no chance of over-leaping it. Quite oblivious of Durgo, they stared until the black man grew impatient of the silence.

"What does this mean?" he growled, looking from one to the other. "I come to find my master, Edwin Lister, and he is not here. But I find one who calls himself the son of my master, Edwin Lister." He peered into Cyril's face. "My master never told me that he had a son, and yet"--he looked again--"I believe that you are my master's son."

"Am I so like my father, then?" asked Cyril smiling faintly.

Durgo struck his huge hands together. "The same in every way," he said firmly; "figure and face and colour and walk. Even the clothes"--he ran his eyes over Cyril's grey suit--"yes, even the clothes."

"Oh!" It was Bella who spoke. "Cyril, do you remember that the grey clothes worn by your father on that night aided me to make a mistake?"

Lister nodded. "That was a suit of mine," he said, "made for me. When my father came home from Nigeria he had no ready-made clothes, so he borrowed that suit until he could get fitted out in civilised garments.

Well?"

Cyril addressed this last question to Durgo, who had started violently when Nigeria was mentioned.

"I am a Nigerian," he said in reply to the inquiry. "I was with your father at Ogrude, on the Cross River, for years. I came with him to London three months ago; but my master never said that he had a son."

"He had his reasons for keeping silence, no doubt," said Cyril quietly; "but I never saw you, Durgo, nor did I hear my father mention you."

"Yet you know my name," said the man suspiciously.

"Only because Miss Huxham mentioned it when you appeared just now."

"And I mentioned it to you before," Bella reminded him. "I told you how Durgo entered the Bleacres drawing-room and took your photograph, frame and all, from his pocket, and handed it to the girl."

"I thought that it was one of my master, Edwin Lister, taken when he was younger," he said simply, "but I see----"

"Yes! yes!" broke in Cyril impatiently. "I know what you see. I am a younger edition of my father."

"Yes! yes! yes!" cried Durgo, staring again. "Never did I see two so alike."

Bella glanced at the photograph and slipped it into her pocket. Her face was pearly white, and she dreaded the full explanation of what was to come. "We are still perplexed," she said quietly, and controlling herself with great difficulty. "You know nothing of Durgo, and he knows nothing of you. I think it will be best for us to sit down and discuss the matter quietly."

"I agree with you," said Cyril, dropping down promptly. "Durgo, tell your story and then I shall tell mine. When we each know what the other knows, we may be able to arrive at some conclusion."

"Regarding the murder," said Bella. "Perhaps," she added hopefully, "perhaps your father did not kill mine after all."

"I fear he did," said Cyril heavily. "Remember what was said at the inquest about the West African knife with which the crime was committed.

Nigeria is in West Africa."

"My master had no knife of that sort," said Durgo bluntly.

"Have you a description of the knife," asked Bella.

"I read it in the newspapers," said the negro. "When you told me of your father's death, I read the papers."

"You can read."

"I can read and write and do many things," said Durgo quietly. "I have a black skin, but my education has not been neglected."

"So I should think from the way in which you speak English."

"The missionaries taught me much, and Edwin Lister taught me the rest."