by Fergus Hume
CHAPTER XXV.
THE RECLUSE.
MEANWHILE Jenny was proceeding homeward in a rather unhappy state ofmind. The conversation had left an unpleasant impression, and she was byno means sure what it would lead to. A hundred times did she wish thatshe had not meddled with the matter; but it was now too late forregrets, and she recognized that she must bear the burden of herwrong-doing. Though, indeed, she could see no reason to characterize heraction by so harsh a name.
"A bundle of old papers in a garret," she thought, walking quicklythrough the lane; "where was the harm in reading them? And, as theycontained an interesting story, I fail to see where I acted wrongly intelling it to Frank. The Larcher affair can have nothing to do withpapa, even though Kerry was so angry. I'll speak to Kerry, and ask himif I have done wrong."
According to her promise she was determined to say nothing to her fatherfor at least twenty-four hours, for she was curious to see if Mr.Hilliston would call to speak of the matter. If he did so, then would bethe time to exculpate herself; but, pending such visit, she saw noreason why she should not consult with Kerry. He had expressed anger ather possession of the papers, so he, if anyone, would be able to explainif she had been rash. On Kerry's answer would depend the explanation dueto her father.
Thus thinking, she speedily arrived in a deep lane, at the end of whichshe turned into a white gate set in a rugged stone wall. Nut trees bentover this wall, dropping their fruit into the ruts of the road, and onthe opposite side rose a steep green bank topped by blackberry bushes.This byway was little frequented, and here quiet constantly reigned,unbroken save by the voices of birds. It was a great place fornightingales, and many a summer evening did Jenny stand under thebending boughs listening to the warblings of those night singers. Sobird-haunted was the spot that here, if anywhere, Keats might havecomposed his famous ode. Indeed, the road was known as Nightingale Lane,for obvious reasons.
Passing through the gate, Jenny saw before her the little garden,odorous with homely cottage flowers--sweet-williams, delicate peablossom, ruddy marigolds, and somber bushes of rosemary. A hawthornhedge on the right divided the flowers from the kitchen garden; while tothe left grew gnarled apple and pear trees, now white with bloom. Asprawling peach tree clung to the guarding wall of the lane, and beds ofthyme and mignonette perfumed the still air. In the center of thissweetness was built the humble cottage of Ferdinand Paynton, a broad,low-roofed building, with whitewashed walls and quaint windows,diamond-paned and snowy curtained. Pots of flowers were set within, andunder the eaves of the thatched roof twittered the darting swallows. Oneoften sees such peaceful homesteads in the heart of England, breathingquiet and tranquillity. Rose Cottage, as it was called, from theprevailing flower in the garden, was worthy to be enshrined in a fairytale.
Here lived Ferdinand Paynton, with his only daughter, and two servants,male and female. The one was Kerry, a crabbed old Irishman, stanch assteel, and devoted to his master; the other a withered crone who wasnever seen without her bonnet, yet who bore the reputation of being anexcellent cook, and an economical housekeeper. As Mr. Paynton was poor,and spent more than he could afford on books, Maria was very necessaryto him, as she scraped and screwed with miserly care, yet withal gavehim good meals, and kept the tiny house like a new pin. Kerry attendedprincipally to the garden and the books; looked after Jenny, whom he wasalways scolding, and passed his leisure time in fishing in the Lax.
Hot or cold, wet or fine, summer or winter, nothing varied in theroutine of Rose Cottage. Mr. Paynton rose at nine, took his breakfast,and read his paper till ten, then walked for an hour or so in the gardenwith Jenny. Till luncheon he wrote; after luncheon he slept, and thenwrote again till dinner time. The evening in summer was spent in thegarden, in winter within doors, before a roaring fire in the bookroom.For more than twenty years life had gone on in this peaceful fashion,and during that time Jenny could not remember the occurrence of a singleepisode worth recording. Rose Cottage might have been the palace of theSleeping Beauty during the hundred years' spell.
The inhabitant of this hermitage was a puzzle to the gossips ofThorston, for, after the industrious inquiries of twenty years, theywere as wise as ever touching his antecedents. Then he had arrived withKerry, and his daughter, a child of five, and, staying at the Inn of St.Elfrida, had looked about for a small place in the neighborhood. RoseCottage, then empty and much neglected, appeared to be the most secludedspot procurable, so Mr. Paynton set it in order, patched the roof,cultivated the garden, and took up his abode therein. Here he had livedever since, rarely leaving it, seeing few people, and accepting noinvitations. The man was a recluse, and disliked his fellow-creatures,so when Thorston became aware of his peculiarities he was left alone tolive as he chose. It may be guessed that his peculiar habits made himunpopular.
The vicar was friendly to the misanthrope, for in Paynton he found akindred soul in the matter of books; and many a pleasant evening didthey spend in discussing literary subjects. The bookroom was thepleasantest apartment in the house, cosy and warm, and lined throughoutwith volumes. In the deep window stood the desk, and here FerdinandPaynton sat and wrote all day, save when he took his usual stroll in thegarden. Jenny had also grown up in the bookroom, and, as her educationhad been conducted by her father, she was remarkably intelligent for acountry maiden, and could talk excellently on literature, old and new.For the softer graces of womanhood she was indebted to the care of Mrs.Linton, who from the first had taken a great interest in the motherlessgirl.
Into this room came Jenny, with her mind full of the recent conversationwith Tait. She threw down her music-book on the table and went to kissher father. He was seated in his armchair, instead of at his desk asusual, and looked rather sternly at her as she bent over him. Tall andwhite-haired, with a sad face and a slim figure, the old man lookedsingularly interesting, his appearance being enhanced by his peculiargarb, a dressing gown and a black skullcap. Indeed, he was more like amediaeval magician than an aged gentleman of the nineteenth century. Helooked like a man with a history, which was doubtless the reasonThorston gossips were so anxious concerning his past. In country townscuriosity is quite a disease.
In the hurry of her entrance Jenny had not noticed that a stranger waspresent, but on greeting her father with a fond kiss, she turned to seean elderly gentleman looking at her intently. Mr. Paynton explained thepresence of the stranger with less than his usual suavity, but from thetone of his voice Jenny guessed that he was angry with her. As itafterward appeared he had good reason to be.
"Jenny, this is my friend, Mr. Hilliston."
Hilliston! Jenny could not suppress a start of surprise, even of alarm.The prophecy of Tait had been fulfilled sooner than she had expected.There was something uncanny in the speedy accomplishment of aprognostication in which, at the time, she had hardly believed.
"Hilliston! Mr. Hilliston!" she repeated, with a gasp of surprise,"already!"
This time it was Hilliston's turn to be surprised, and his face darkenedwith suspicion.
"What am I to understand by 'already,' Miss Paynton?" he said quickly.
"Why! That is--Mr. Tait----" began Jenny, in excuse, when her father cuther short. He rose from his chair, and exclaimed in a voice of alarm:
"Tait! Then you have seen him already?"
"Yes, father," said the girl, in some bewilderment at his tone.
"Where?"
"In the church, half an hour ago."
"Did he question you?"
"He did."
"And you replied?"
"I answered his questions," said Jenny quietly, "if you refer to theLarcher affair."
"I do refer to it," groaned her father, sinking back into his chair."Unhappy girl! you know not what trouble you have caused."
Hilliston said nothing, but stood moodily considering what was best tobe done. He saw that Tait had been too clever for him, and hadanticipated his arrival. Yet he had come as speedily as possible; not
amoment had he lost since his arrival in Eastbourne to seek out Jenny andask her to be silent. But it was too late; he had missed his opportunityby a few minutes, and it only remained for him to learn how much thegirl had told his enemy. No wonder he hated Tait; the fellow was toodangerous a foeman to be despised.
"We may yet mend matters," he said judiciously, "if Miss Jenny willrepeat so much of the conversation as she remembers."
"Why should I repeat it?" said Jenny, objecting to this interference, asTait guessed she would. "There was nothing wrong in the conversationwith Mr. Tait that I know of."
"There was nothing wrong in your telling Linton the story you found in_The Canterbury Observer_," replied Hilliston dryly; "yet it would havebeen as well had you not done so."
"Father," cried Jenny, turning toward the old man with an appealinggesture, "have I done wrong?"
"Yes, child," he answered, with a sigh, "very wrong, but you sinned inignorance. Kerry told me you had found the bundle and read about thetrial, but I passed that over. Now it is different. You repeated it toyoung Linton, and Mr. Hilliston tells me that all London knows the storythrough his book."
"I am very sorry," said Jenny, after a pause, "but I really did not knowthat it was wrong of me to act as I have done. A bundle of oldnewspapers in a garret! Surely I was justified in reading them--intelling Frank what I conceived would be a good plot for a story."
"I don't blame you, Miss Paynton," said Hilliston kindly; "but it sohappens that your father did not want that affair again brought beforethe public. After all, you have had less to do with it than Fate."
"Than Fate," interrupted Paynton, with a groan. "Good Heavens, am I tobe----"
"Paynton!" said Hilliston, in a warning voice.
"I forgot," muttered the old man, with a shiver. "No more--no more.Jenny, tell us what you said to Mr. Tait."
Considerably astonished, the girl repeated the conversation as closelyas she could remember. Both Hilliston and her father listened with thekeenest interest, and seemed relieved when she finished.
"It is not so bad as I expected," said the former, with a nod. "All youhave to do, Paynton, is to warn Kerry against gratifying the curiosityof these young men. They will be certain to ask him questions."
"Kerry will baffle them; have no fear of that," said Paynton harshly,"and, Jenny, you are not to refer to this subject again with Mr. Tait."
"Am I not to speak to him?"
Her father interrogated Hilliston with a look, received a nod, andanswered accordingly.
"You can speak to Mr. Tait, if you choose, and no doubt you will beintroduced by the vicar to Mr. Larcher. I place no prohibition on yourspeaking to them, but only warn you to avoid the subject of the Larcheraffair. Promise!"
"I promise. I am sorry I ever had anything to do with it."
"Say no more about it, my dear," said Hilliston, patting her shoulder."How could you be expected to know? But now you have been warned, do notspeak more of it. We do not wish the unjustifiable curiosity of theseidle young men to be gratified."
"If you assist them to learn that which had better be hidden, you willruin me," cried Paynton, with a passionate gesture.
"Father! Ruin you?"
"Yes! It means ruin, disgrace--perhaps death! Ah!"
He broke down with a cry, and Hilliston, taking Jenny by the hand, ledher to the door.
"Go away, my dear. Your father is ill," he said, in a whisper, andpushing her outside the door, locked it forthwith. Jenny stood in thepassage, in an agony of fear and surprise. Ruin! Disgrace! Death! Whatwas the meaning of those terrible words?