The Solitary Farm

"Oh, don't trouble about that," said Bella wearily; "no, thank you, Mr. Vand, I don't care to eat. I feel too miserable."

"Not trouble about the property!" cried Mrs. Coppersley, paying no attention to the latter part of this speech; "but I do care. Things must be settled somehow. I must arrange my future life," and she cast a tender glance on the handsome musician. "Your future must be settled also."

"I shall look after that," said Bella, not liking her aunt's tone.

"You had better be sharp, then," said Mrs. Coppersley, in a dictatorial manner, "for the sooner things are settled the better. I'm not young, and" – she cast a second tender glance on her swain, who was eating largely – "ah, well, its useless to talk of weddings when funerals are in the air. To-morrow evening, Bella, after I have seen the lawyer – and he lives in Cade Lane, London – I'll tell you what I have arranged."

Bella looked in astonishment at her aunt, who suddenly seemed to have acquired the late captain's tyrannical manner. Apparently Mrs. Coppersley forgot – as Bella thought – that she would not inherit the solitary farm, and needed to be reminded of the fact that her niece was the mistress of Bleacres. In fact, Bella was on the point of saying as much, when she remembered that Vand was present. Not being anxious to discuss family matters in his presence – even though he was about to enter the family as Mrs. Coppersley's husband – she abruptly left the room. Mrs. Coppersley poured herself out a second cup of tea, and remarked in a high tone of satisfaction, that some people's noses were about to be brought to the grindstone.

Bella heard the remark as she put on her hat and walked out of the front door. It accentuated her lonely feeling, for she saw plainly now what she had long guessed, – that Aunt Rosamund had very little affection for her. The late captain also had never cared much for his daughter, and now that Cyril had vanished in an enigmatic manner, the poor girl felt more wretched than ever. Listlessly she walked down the narrow path as far as the boundary channel, and wondered how it would all end. Had she been a religious girl she might have sought comfort in prayer, but she knew very little about true religion, and did not care for the sort preached by Mr. Silas Pence in the Little Bethel at Marshely. As his name flashed into her mind, she looked up and saw him standing on the opposite side of the channel, so it was apparent – although she knew nothing about such things – that some telepathic communication had made her think of him. The preacher was in his usual dismal garb, and had accentuated the same by wearing black gloves and a black tie in place of his usual white one. Patience on a monument might have been taken as a type of Mr. Pence on this occasion, but he was not smiling on grief in the person of Miss Huxham. In fact he did not smile at all, being shocked to see her out of doors.

"Why are you not weeping in your chamber?" reproved Silas, in his most clerical manner; "the loss of so good a father – "

"You have doubtless said all you had to say on that subject at the funeral, Mr. Pence," retorted Bella, whose nerves were worn thin with worry; "spare me a repetition of such stale remarks."

It was a horribly rude speech, as she well knew. But Pence had a way of irritating her beyond all endurance, and the mere sight of him was sufficient to set her teeth on edge for the day. It was intolerable that he should intrude on her privacy now, when she particularly wished to be alone. She intimated as much by turning away with a displeased air, and walked for a short distance along the bank path leading to Mrs. Tunks' hut. But Silas, absolutely ignorant of the feminine nature, and entirely devoid of diplomacy, persisted in thrusting his company upon her. Bella turned sharply, when she heard Silas breathing hard behind her, and spoke with marked indignation.

"I wish to be alone, if you please," she declared, flushing.

"Ah, no; ah, no," remonstrated Pence, stupidly. "Allow me to comfort you."

"You cannot," she retorted, marvelling at his density.

"Allow me to try. I was on the point of calling at the house to – "

Bella interrupted him cruelly. "You can call there still, Mr. Pence, and my aunt will be glad to see you. She has Mr. Vand to tea, so you will find yourself in congenial company."

"Your company is congenial enough for me."

"That is very flattering, but I prefer to be alone."

Silas, however, declined to be shaken off, and his reproachful looks so exasperated Bella that she felt inclined to thrust him into the water. And his speech was even more irritating than his manner. "Let me soothe you, my dear, broken-hearted sister," he pleaded in a sheep-like bleat.

"I don't want soothing. I am not broken-hearted, and I am not your sister."

Pence sighed. "This is very, very painful."

"It is," Bella admitted readily, "to me. Surely you are man enough, Mr. Pence, to take a plain telling if you won't accept a hint. I want you to leave me at once, as I am not disposed to talk."

"If I had my way I would never, never leave you again."

"Perhaps; but, so far as I am concerned, you will not get your way."

"Why do you dislike me, Miss Huxham?"

"I neither like nor dislike you," she retorted, suppressing a violent inclination to scream, so annoying was this persecution. "You are nothing to me."

"I want to be something. I wish you to be my sealed fountain. Your late lamented father desired you to be my spouse."

"I am aware of that, Mr. Pence. But perhaps you will remember that I refused to marry you, the other day."

"You broke my heart then."

"Go and mend it then," cried Bella, furiously angry, and only too anxious to drive him away by behaving with aggressive rudeness.

"You alone can mend it." Pence dropped on his knees. "Oh, I implore you to mend it, my Hephzibah! You are to me a Rose of Sharon, a Lily of the Vale."

"Get up, sir, and don't make a fool of yourself."

"Oh, angel of my life, listen to me. Lately I was poor in this world's goods, but now I have gold. Marry me, and let us fly to far lands, and – "

"I thought you were desperately poor," said Bella, suspiciously; "where did you get the money?"

"An aged and God-fearing Christian aunt left it to me," said Pence, dropping his eyes. "It is a small sum, but – "

"One hundred pounds in gold, perhaps?"

Pence rose, as though moved by springs, and his thin white cheeks flushed a deep scarlet. "What do you mean?"

Bella could not have told herself what she meant at the moment. But it had suddenly occurred to her to try and rid herself of this burr by hinting that he had something to do with the robbery, if not with the murder. Under ordinary circumstances she would never have ventured to do this, being a kind-hearted girl; but Pence exasperated her so greatly that she was, on the impulse of the moment, prepared to go to any length to see the last of him. "I mean," she said, in reply to his last question, "that my father had one hundred pounds in gold in his safe."

"You accuse me of – "

"I accuse you of nothing," cried Bella, cutting him short and flaming up into a royal rage. "I am tired of your company and of your silly talk. I only wish that Mr. Lister would come along and throw you into the channel."

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 partition 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 superstitious 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 passed 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 passed 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."

"And that is just what I like least about his sermons," retorted the girl. "As a Christian he should be more merciful."

"You don't know anything about it," said Mrs. Coppersley tartly.

"I know what Christ preached," replied Bella quietly; "and Mr. Pence has not the spirit of His preaching."

"In what way, pray?"

"Mr. Pence does not do as he would be done by. I wonder how he would like to suffer the condemnation which he measures out so freely to other people."

"Silas Pence is a good man, and no condemnation is possible where he is concerned," cried Mrs. Coppersley fervently, and bounced into the house.

"In that case he should make allowance for those who are not good."

"Not at all," said the elder woman, stating her views uncompromisingly. "The good shall go to heaven, and the wicked to hell: that's Scripture."

"As translated by man," finished Bella neatly; "but the Sermon on the Mount, Aunt Rosamund – "

"Bella, you are irreligious," interrupted the lady, removing her hat and placing it on the kitchen-table. "I won't have freethinkers in my house."

Bella raised her finely-marked eye-brows. "Your house?"

"Yes," almost shouted Mrs. Coppersley violently, for she felt somewhat nervous as to what she was about to say, "my house. I didn't tell you before, as I have a kind heart, but it is time we understood one another. To-night I shall explain myself, so that you may understand your position."

"You shall explain yourself now," said Bella, pale but determined.

"I have no time," said her aunt brusquely; "Henry is coming to dinner."

"I don't care if Mr. Vand is coming to dinner twenty times over," said Bella, her eyes growing hard with anger. "You have said so much that you must say all, Aunt Rosamund."

"Don't bully and bounce me, miss."

"I shall act exactly as I please, and it is my pleasure that you would explain what you mean."

"I have to lay the cloth and see to the dinner. You know that Jane never can cook to Henry's liking. I daresay the meat is burnt and the – " Mrs. Coppersley was about to pass into the scullery where the one small servant, over whom she tyrannised, slaved at the mid-day meal, when Bella caught her by the wrist. "How dare you, Bella?" cried the stout woman.

"Come into the drawing-room, out of Jane's hearing," whispered Bella fiercely. "I shall not wait another minute for an explanation. This house is either mine or yours."

"Very well," cried Mrs. Coppersley, bouncing towards the kitchen door, "If you will have it, you shall have it. I have tried to spare you, but – "

"Go on to the drawing-room, please," interrupted Bella imperiously, as she saw the small servant peeping round the corner; "there is no need for us to discuss private matters in public."

"The whole parish shall soon know what I am about to say," snapped Mrs. Coppersley, and rolled towards the drawing-room.

"Rolled" is precisely the word to use in connection with Mrs. Coppersley's way of walking, for she was an extremely stout, well-fed woman, large-limbed and clumsy. Her round, chubby face was rosy and her eyes were as black as her hair. She did not look uncomely, but there was something coarse and plebeian in her appearance. Although she was in mourning for her late brother she could not altogether restrain her flamboyant taste, and therefore wore a red feather in the hat she had left in the kitchen, and yellow gloves, which she was now impatiently removing.

Outside it was extremely warm and brilliant with sunshine, but in the vast drawing-room the air was pleasantly cool and agreeable. The blinds being blue, only a faint light came through them since they were down, and the cerulean atmosphere was almost religious in its feeling. Bella, ever sensitive to the unseen, in spite of her ignorance of psychic phenomenon felt the grave influence, but her aunt, being of a coarser fibre, bounced red-faced and hot into the room, openly cross at having been summoned to what was likely to prove a disagreeable interview.

"Henry will be here shortly," she said pettishly, "and he doesn't like to be kept waiting for his meals."

"On this occasion he must wait," said Bella dryly, "it will do him good."

"Don't speak of Henry in that tone, miss; you know he is the most amiable man in the world."

"Your speech about his impatience for dinner sounds like it. However, we need converse only for a few minutes. I understood you to say that this house is yours, Aunt Rosamund."

Mrs. Coppersley flopped down into one of the emerald arm-chairs and placed her pudgy hands on her stout knees. "It is," she said, glancing round the vari-coloured room with great pride. "The house is mine and the farm is mine, and Jabez's income of five hundred a year, well invested, is mine."

Bella grew pale. Mrs. Coppersley spoke with such conviction that she believed her to be telling the truth. "And what is left to me?" she demanded in a low tone, for the shock took away her breath.

"Your aunt's love," said Mrs. Coppersley, in a matter-of-fact way. "Jabez asked me to look after you; and so long as you behave yourself I shall do so."

Bella passed over this petty speech. "Do you mean to say that my father has left everything to you?" she asked pointedly.

"Everything," assented Mrs. Coppersley, with an air of triumph. "Jabez wasn't so rich as folk thought him, and although he had enough invested to give him five hundred a year, he had little ready cash. When my late husband died he left me a good sum. Jabez borrowed this and added it to his own, so that he might buy Bleacres. I agreed, but only on condition that Jabez should leave me the whole property when he died. I saw that the will was made, and Mr. Timson, the Cade Lane lawyer, is now proving it. When probate is obtained, my dear," ended Mrs. Coppersley amiably, "I shall marry Henry and will be happy for evermore."

"What about me?" gasped Bella, utterly overwhelmed.

"You can stay here until you marry," said Mrs. Coppersley coldly, "as I am a Christian woman, and wish to obey Jabez's request. He left you to me as a legacy, so I will look after you; only behave yourself."

"Do I ever do anything else?" asked Bella bitterly.

"Oh, dear me, yes," returned her aunt complacently. "You run after men."

Bella rose with a flushed cheek. "That is a lie."

Mrs. Coppersley rose, also in a violent rage and quite glad to vent her petty spite on one who could not retaliate. "Oh, I'm a liar, am I?" she said shrilly. "You call me a liar when I am only keeping you out of charity – "