The Third Volume

by Fergus Hume

  CHAPTER XXVI.

  AN OLD SERVANT.

  LEAVING the two men to talk over their dark secrets together, Jenny wentinto the garden. Her brow burned as with fever, and her understandingwas confused by the thoughts which filled her mind. What was the meaningof her father's words? Why had Mr. Hilliston come over from Eastbourneto request her silence? And what was the connection between him and hersole surviving parent? She paced up and down the gravel walk vainlyasking herself these questions, and racking her brain as to possibleanswers. Hitherto the sky of her young life had been pure and serene;but now, by her own act--as though she had unconsciously wrought amalignant spell--a sudden storm had arisen, which threatened to overturnthe foundations of her small world. In the very unexpectedness of theseevents lay their terror.

  As Tait shrewdly surmised, Jenny was by no means satisfied with theevidence of Hilliston at the trial of Mrs. Larcher. So far as she couldjudge from the unsatisfactory report in _The Canterbury Observer_, hehad given his version of the affair glibly enough; yet there seemed tobe something behind which he was anxious to suppress. Definitely enoughhe stated that he had not been at The Laurels on the fatal night; thathe had not seen Captain Larcher since he left for London; that he hadnot noted whether Mrs. Larcher wore that all-important dagger when sheleft the ballroom. But, pressed by an evidently suspicious counsel, heaccounted so minutely for every moment of his time, his evidence hadabout it such an air of frank falseness, that even unsophisticated Jennysaw that the man was acting a part. She did not believe him guilty ofthe crime, but she was certain in her own mind that he knew who hadstruck the fatal blow; nay more, Jenny thought it not impossible that hehad been at The Laurels after three that morning, in spite of hisdenial, and had seen the tragedy take place. Tait's hints, confirmingher own doubts, led her to gravely doubt the purity of Mr. Hilliston'smotives then and now.

  But what most perplexed the girl was the reason why the lawyer called tosee her father on the subject and requested her silence. She knewnothing of the tragedy save through the papers--those old, faded papers,dated 1866, which she had found in the garret. She was not born when themurder took place, so Hilliston could not possibly wish to close hermouth for her own sake. It was on her father's account that Jennyfeared. What could he know of an obscure crime perpetrated in a countrytown so many years ago; she could recall no mention of his name in thereport of the trial; yet his words led her to suspect that he was moreclosely connected with that tragic past than he chose to admit. Could itbe that her father was a relative of Jeringham, and, knowing thatJeringham was still alive, wished to stop all inquiries made as to hiswhereabouts, lest he should be punished for his early sin? This was theonly feasible suggestion she could make, and yet it failed to satisfyher too exacting mind.

  Again, there was Kerry. Kerry certainly had a personal interest in thecase; else he could scarcely have related the episode of the scarfpin.Moreover, he had been very angry when he found her with the papers inher possession; and putting these two things together it would seem asif he knew more than he chose to tell. Jenny thought, for thegratification of her own curiosity, she would ask Kerry to explain thesematters; and so went to the kitchen in search of him. Maria was there,cross and deaf as usual, and intimated that Kerry had been out some twohours on a message. This sounded extraordinary to Jenny, who knew thatthe old servant rarely left the house; but it argued that her father wasanxious to have him out of the way during the visit of Hilliston. Whatdid it all mean? A horrible fear seized the girl, lest she should haveset some machinery in motion which would end in crushing her unhappyfather. Unhappy he had always been, and given to seclusion. There mustbe some reason for this, and Jenny felt a vague alarm, which she couldneither express nor display. Dearly enough had she paid for meddlingwith that old bundle of papers.

  Again she returned to the garden, and went outside into the lane inorder to see if Kerry was in sight. In a few minutes he came shufflinground the corner, and his withered face relaxed into a grin when he sawher standing by the gate. She was the apple of his eye, and though hescolded her often himself, yet he never let anyone say a word againsther. To look askance at Jenny was to lose Kerry's favor and win hisenmity forever.

  "Ah! there ye are, me darling Miss Jenny," he said, with the familiarityof an old servant, "watching and waiting for poor old Kerry. Sure it isa sunbeam you are in this dark lane."

  "Kerry! I want to speak to you."

  The change in her tone struck him at once, and he peered sharply intoher fresh face with his bleared eyes. A look of wonder stole into themat the sight of her white cheeks, and he crossed himself before replyingso as to avert any evil that might befall. Kerry always lived in a stateof suspense, waiting for a bolt from the blue. Jenny's scared facealmost assured him that it had fallen.

  "What is it, _alannah_?" he asked, pausing at the gate. "Is anythingwrong?"

  "Oh, no! nothing is wrong, Kerry! What could be wrong?" said Jennynervously; "only papa has a visitor."

  "Augh! His riverence?"

  "No; not the vicar. A stranger--or at least almost a stranger," shesaid, half to herself. "It is many years since Mr. Hilliston came here."

  "Mr. Hilliston!" cried Kerry, with an ashen face. "The black curse onhim and his! What is he doing with the master?"

  "I don't know, Kerry," replied Jenny, rather astonished at the old man'svehemence; "he has been with father over two hours."

  "And I was sent away," muttered Kerry, under his breath. "Sorrow befallyou, black attorney that you are. Never did you cross a thresholdwithout bringing grief to all hearts. It was an evil day we saw you, andan evil day when we see you again."

  He uplifted his hands as though about to invoke a curse on Hilliston,then, unexpectedly letting them fall, he turned sharply on Jenny.

  "How did he come, miss?"

  "By train from Eastbourne--no doubt he walked from the station."

  "I'll drive him back," exclaimed Kerry, in quite an amiable voice. "Surehe'll be weary on his legs. Why not? I'll borrow his riverence's trapand the little mare with the white foreleg, but----"

  "Kerry, father might not like it."

  "Get along with ye," said Kerry cheerfully; "sure his riverence hasoffered the trap a hundred times. I'll take it on myself to explain tothe master. Keep Mr. Hilliston here till he sees me arriving up thisroad--a dirty one it is, too, bad cess to it!"

  He was hurrying off, when Jenny stopped him. She saw that his borrowingof the vicar's honey trap was a mere excuse to get Hilliston to himselffor half an hour, and, rendered more curious than ever by Kerry's artfulway of arranging matters, she ran after him and pulled his sleeve.

  "Kerry! Kerry! Has Mr. Hilliston come over to see papa about the Larcheraffair?"

  "How should I know," retorted Kerry, relapsing into his crusty humor;"for shame, Miss Jenny! Is it your business or mine?"

  "It is mine," said the girl, with a resolute look on her face. "Mr.Hilliston came over to ask me to be silent about what was contained inthose papers you took from me."

  "How does he know of that, miss?"

  "Because all London now knows the story of the Larcher affair."

  "Augh! Get away with ye. Sure it's a fool you're making of old Kerry,"said the servant, in an incredulous and angry tone.

  "Indeed, I am doing no such thing. I did not know there was any harm inreading those papers, and I did so. But I did more than that, Kerry. Itold the story of the tragedy to Frank Linton; and he has written a bookon the trial."

  "A book! With the real names?"

  "No! The names are fictitious, and the scene is laid in a differentplace. But the whole story is told in the novel."

  "Does the master know?" asked Kerry, muttering something between histeeth.

  "He does now. Mr. Hilliston saw the book in London, and came over totell him, and to ask me to say no more about it."

  "What's that for, anyhow," demanded Kerry, who seemed to scent newdanger.

&n
bsp; "Because Mr. Larcher is here!"

  Kerry flung up his hands with a cry of astonishment. "Mr. Larcher, miss!Who are you telling about?"

  "Oh, Mr. Claude Larcher," said Jenny, rather alarmed, for he had grippedher arm, "the son of the deceased man. He is staying at the Manor Housewith Mr. Tait."

  For a few minutes Kerry stood looking at the ground in silence. Up tothe present he had succeeded in preserving his calm, but the last pieceof news upset him altogether, and he burst into violent speech.

  "Augh! it's sorrow that is coming to this house, and the black cursewill be on the threshold. Cold will the hearth be soon, and the oldmaster will be driven out. Ohone! and we and time will have sent himinto the cold world. Whirra! whirra!"

  Jenny was so dumfounded by the unexpected eloquence of the old man thatshe could do nothing but stare at him. He caught her eye, and seeingthat he had been indiscreet in so betraying himself, he cut short hislamentations, wiped his eyes, and relapsed once more into the crusty,faithful Kerry whom she knew. But he gave her a word of warning beforehe took his departure. "Say nothing of this, Miss Jenny," he remarked;"sure it's an old fool I am. Keep a silent tongue as the master andlawyer wishes you to do, and then, please the saints, things will go thebetter."

  "But, Kerry, before you go, tell me. What is Mr. Hilliston to myfather?"

  "He is your father's best friend, miss," said Kerry, with emphasis; "hisbest and his worst," and with that enigmatic reply he hurried off downthe lane in the direction of the vicarage, leaving Jenny in a state ofbewilderment.

  She could understand nothing, and at that moment sorely needed somefriend with whom she could consult. Kerry gave her no satisfaction, andspoke so indefinitely that his conversation mystified in place ofenlightening her; it was no use to make a confidant of Frank Linton, asnotwithstanding his London reputation, which she had greatly contributedto, Jenny did not consider him sufficiently steady to be told of thecommotion raised by his novel in her immediate circle. She could,therefore, discuss the matter with no one, and so annoyed was she by thewhole affair that she by no means could bring herself to go back to thehouse while Hilliston was yet there. He would be gone, she trusted, inanother half hour or so, and pending his departure she strolled alongthe lane in the hope of evading him.

  But she only escaped Scylla to fall into Charybdis, for, as she turnedthe corner, Tait and Claude met her almost face to face. Jenny wouldhave given much to escape this awkward meeting, and intimated her wishfor solitude by passing the young men with a curt bow. The sight ofClaude, the memory of his father's death, coupled with the suspicionsshe entertained, wrought her up to a pitch of excitement which she hadgreat difficulty in concealing. She was, therefore, greatly annoyed whenTait took off his hat, and placed himself directly in her path. Thelittle man thought it was too favorable an opportunity for introductionto be overlooked.

  "Don't go away, Miss Paynton," he said, smiling. "I wish to introduceyou to my friend Mr. Larcher. Claude, this is Miss Paynton, of whom youhave heard me speak."

  "How do you do, Miss Paynton?" said Claude, with a suave bow. "I hopeyou will pardon the irregularity of this introduction."

  This remark made Jenny laugh, and set her more at ease. She was notparticular as to forms and ceremonies herself, and the idea that a youngman should apologize for such a trifle struck her as ridiculous.Moreover, a glance assured her that Mr. Larcher was by no means aformidable person. He was decidedly good-looking, and had pleasant blueeyes, with a kindly look, so speech and glance broke the ice at oncebetween them.

  "Do you stay here long, Mr. Larcher?" she asked, pointedly ignoring herprevious conversation with Tait.

  "As long as I may," he replied, smiling. "London does not invite me atthis time of the year. I prefer the fragrant country to the dusty town."

  "He is a true lover of the fields, Miss Paynton," broke in Tait,admiring her self-possession, "and insisted that I should come out for awalk, so that he might lose no time in steeping himself in the sweetnessof nature. Quite idyllic, isn't it?"

  "Quite!" said Jenny lightly. "Good-by at present, Mr. Larcher! I amgoing to the vicarage, and have not a moment to spare. Mr. Tait, can Ispeak with you a minute?"

  Tait obeyed with alacrity, and Claude was left to muse on the freshcharm of Jenny, and the sweetness of her voice. Her trim figure, herexquisite neatness, and springing gait made him admire her greatly, andwhen she tripped away with a smiling nod, he was so taken up in watchingher that he failed to observe the grave face with which Tait joined him.

  "As I thought," said the latter, when they resumed their walk.

  "What is up now?"

  "Oh, nothing more than usual! Hilliston has called on Paynton already.He is there now."

  "You don't say so! I did not think he would have been so smart. However,you have stolen a march on him. Do you intend to see him now? To waithis coming out?"

  "Why, no," said Tait, after a moment's deliberation. "Rather let us gohome again that Hilliston may not see us. I wish to wait and see whatexcuse he will make for not calling on you. You'll get a letter full oflies to-morrow, Claude."