CHAPTER VI
LUCILLE
"I am Miss Lucille Darrel."
People are usually cognizant of their own names, but few could throwmore convincing certainty into the announcement than the speaker. Onefelt sure at once that her name was as she stated and had been so for along time. The first adjective one would think of applying to MissDarrel would be "positive." She was that by every implication of herbeing. Her hair was positively white, her eyes positively black. Hermanner and expression were positive, and her very walk, as she steppedinto the Pellbrook living room, was positive and unhesitating.
Iris chanced to be there alone, for the moment; alone, that is, save forthe casket containing the body of Ursula Pell. The great room, set inorder for the funeral, was filled with rows of folding chairs, and theoppressive odor of massed flowers permeated the place.
The girl stood beside the casket, tears rolling down her cheeks and herwhole body shaking with suppressed sobs.
"Why, you poor child," said the newcomer, in most heartfelt sympathy;"Are you Iris?"
The acquiescent reply was lost, as Miss Darrel gathered the slim youngfigure into her embrace. "There, there," she soothed, "cry all you wantto. Poor little girl." She gently smoothed Iris' hair, and together theystood, looking down at the quiet, white face.
"You loved her so," and Miss Darrel's tone was soft and kind.
"I did," Iris said, feeling at once that she had found a friend. "Oh,Miss Darrel, how kind you are! People think I didn't love Aunt Ursula,because--because we were both high-tempered, and we did quarrel. But,underneath, we were truly fond of each other, and if I seem cold anduncaring, it isn't the truth; it's because--because----"
"Never mind, dear, you may have many reasons to conceal your feelings. Iknow you loved her, I know you revere her memory, for I saw you as Ientered, when you thought you were all alone----"
"I am alone, Miss Darrel--I am very lonely. I'm glad you have come, I'vebeen wanting to see you. It's all so terrible--so mysterious; and--andthey suspect me!"
Iris' dark eyes stared with fear into the kind ones that met hers, andagain she began to tremble.
"Now, now, my child, don't talk like that. I'm here, and I'll look afteryou. Suspect you, indeed! What nonsense. But it's most inexplicable,isn't it? I know so little, only what I've read in the papers. I camefrom Albany last night; I started as soon as I possibly could, andtraveled as fast as I could. I want to hear all about it, but not fromyou. You're worn out, you poor dear. You ought to be in bed thisminute."
"Oh, no, Miss Darrel, I'm all right. Only--I've a lot on my mind, yousee, and--and----" again Iris, with a glance of distress at the cold,dead face, burst into tumultuous weeping.
"Come out of this room," said Miss Darrel, positively. "It only shakesyour nerves to stay here. Come, show me to my room. Where shall I lodge?This house is mine, now, or soon will be. You knew that, didn't you?"
"Yes," said Iris, listlessly. "I knew Aunt Ursula meant to leave it toyou, but I don't know whether she did or not. And I don't care. I onlycare for one thing----"
But Miss Darrel was not listening. She was observing and admiring thehouse itself--the colonial staircase, the well-proportioned rooms andhalls, and the attractive furnishings.
"I'll give you the rose guest room," Iris said, leading her toward it,as they reached the upper hall. "Winston Bannard is here, but no othervisitors. If there are other heirs, I suppose Mr. Chapin has notifiedthem."
"I suppose so," returned Miss Darrel, preoccupiedly. "When will theservices be held?"
"This afternoon at two. It will be a large funeral. Everybody in Berrienknew Aunt Ursula, and people will come up from New York. Now, have youeverything you want to make you comfortable in here?"
"Yes, thank you," replied Miss Darrel, after a quick, comprehensiveglance round the room, "and, wait a moment, Iris--mayn't I call youIris?"
"Yes, indeed, I'm glad to have you."
"I only want to say that I want to be your friend. Please let me andcome to me freely for comfort or advice or anything I can do to helpyou."
"Thank you, Miss Darrel, I am indeed glad to have a friend, for I amlonely and frightened. But I can't say more now, someone is calling me."
Iris ran downstairs and found Winston Bannard eagerly asking for her.
"I've unearthed Aunt Ursula's diary!" he exclaimed.
"Was it hidden?"
"Not exactly, but old Hughes wouldn't let me rummage around in the deskmuch, so I took a chance when he was out of the way, and it was in anupper drawer. Come on, let's go and read it."
"Why? Now?"
"Yes. Look here, Iris, you want to trust me in this thing. You want tolet me take care of you."
"Thank you, Win--I'm glad to have you----" but Iris spoke constrainedly,"By the way, Miss Darrel is here."
"Who's she? Oh, that cousin of Aunt Ursula's?"
"Not really her cousin, but a relative of Mr. Pell's. I never knew her,did you?"
"No; what's she like?"
"Oh, she's lovely. Kind and capable, but rather dictatorial, or, atleast, decided."
"Does she get the house?"
"She says so. And I know Auntie spoke of leaving it to her, because, Ibelieve, Mr. Pell had wished it."
"What about the jewels, Iris?"
"Oh, Win, I wish you wouldn't talk or think about those things, tillafter----"
"After the funeral? I know it seems strange--I know I seem mercenary,and all that, but it isn't so, Iris. There's something wrong going on,and unless we are careful and alert, we'll lose our inheritance yet."
"What _do_ you mean?"
"Never mind. But come with me and let's take a glimpse into the diary. Itell you we ought to do it. It may mean everything."
Iris followed him to a small enclosed porch off the dining room and theyput their heads together over the book.
It was funny, for Ursula Pell couldn't help being funny.
One entry read:
"Felt like the old scratch to-day, so took it out on Iris. Poor girl, Iam ashamed of myself to tease her so, but she's such a good-naturedlittle ninny, she stands it as few girls would. I must make it up to herin some way."
And another read at random:
"Up a stump to-day for some mischief to get into. Satan doesn't look outproperly for my idle hands. I manicured them carefully, and sat waitingfor some real nice mischief to come along, but none did, so I hunted upsome for myself. It's Agnes' night out, and I stuffed the kitchen doorkeyhole with putty. Won't she be mad! She'll have to ring Polly up, andshe'll be mad, too. I'll give Agnes my black lace parasol, to make up.What a scamp I am! I feel like little Toddie, in 'Helen's Babies,' whoused to pray, 'Dee Lord, not make me sho bad!' Well, I s'pose 'tis mynature to."
"These are late dates," said Bannard, running over the leaves, "let'slook further back."
It was not a yearly diary, but a goodsized blank book, in which thewriter had jotted down her notes as she felt inclined; something waswritten every day, but it might be a short paragraph or several pages inlength.
"Here's something about us," and Bannard pointed to a page:
The entry ran:
"To-day I gave the box for Iris into Mr. Chapin's keeping. I shall neversee it again. After I am gone, he will give it to I. and she can have itfor what it is worth. I'll leave the F. pocket-book to Winston. Thehouse must go to Lucille, but the young people won't mind that, as theywill have enough."
"That's all right, isn't it, Iris. Looks as if we were the principalheirs."
"You can't tell, Win. She may have changed her mind a dozen times."
"That's so. Let's see if there's anything about Mr. Bowen and hischalice."
"Oh, she only thought of that last Sunday."
"Don't be too sure. I shouldn't be surprised if the old chap got roundher long ago, and had the matter all fixed up, and she pretended it wasa new idea."
"I can't think that."
"You can't, eh? Well, listen here:
"'Sometimes I thin
k it would be a good deed to use half of the jewelsfor a gift to the church. If I should take the whole Anderson lot, therewould be plenty left for W. and I.'"
"What is the Anderson lot?" Iris asked.
"A certain purchase that the old man got through a dealer or an agent,named Anderson. Aunt Ursula used to talk over these things with me and,all of a sudden she shut up on the subject and never mentioned jewels tome again."
"She talked of them to me, sometimes, but never anything of definiteimportance. She spoke of the Baltimore emeralds, but I know nothing ofthem."
"They're mentioned here; see:
"'The Balto. emeralds will make a wonderful necklace for I. when shegets older. I hope I may live long enough to see the child decked out inthem. I believe I'll tell her the jewels are all in the crypt.'"
"In the crypt! Oh, Win, you know Mr. Browne said he thought they wereburied! Isn't a crypt a burial place in a church?"
"Yes; but a crypt may be anywhere. Any vault is a crypt, really."
"But a bank vault wouldn't be called a crypt, would it?"
"Not generally speaking, no. But, she probably changed the hiding placea dozen times since this was written."
"Well, we'll know all when we hear the will. Isn't it a queer thing toput all of one's fortune in jewels?"
"She didn't do it, her husband did. And everybody says he was a shrewdold chap. And, you know he made wonderful collections of coins andcurios, and all sorts of things."
"Yes, up in the attic is a big portfolio of steel engravings. I can'tadmire them much, but they're valuable, Auntie said once. It seems UnclePell was a perfect crank on engravings of all sorts."
"I know. She gave me an intaglio topaz for a watch-fob. I didn't caremuch about it."
"I'm crazy to see my diamond pin. I've heard about that for years. Nomatter how often she changed her will, she told me, that diamond pin wasalways bequeathed to me. Perhaps it's her choicest gem."
"Perhaps. Listen to this, Iris:
"'I am going to New York next Tues. I shall give Winston acheap-looking pair of gloves, but I shall first put a hundred-dollarbill in each finger.'
"She did that, you know, and I was so mad when she gave them to me I waswithin an ace of throwing them away. But I caught sight of a bulge inthe thumb, and I just thought, in time, there might be some joke on.Didn't she beat the dickens?"
"She did. Oh, Win, you don't know how she humiliated and hurt me! ButI'm sorry, now, that I wasn't more patient."
"You were, Iris! Here's proof!
"'I put a wee little toad in Iris' handbag to-day. We were going to thevillage, and when she opened the bag, Mr. Toad jumped out! Iris loathestoads, but I must say she took it beautifully. I bought her a muff andstole of Hud. seal to make up.'"
"Poor auntie," said Iris, as the tears came, "she always wanted to 'makeup!' I believe she couldn't help those silly tricks, Win. It was a sortof mania with her."
"Pshaw! She could have helped it if she'd wanted to. Somebody's coming,put the book away now."
The somebody proved to be Miss Darrel, who, when Bannard was presented,gave him a cordial smile, and proceeded to make friendly advances atonce.
"We three are the only relatives present," she said, "and we mustsympathize with and help one another."
"You can help me," said Iris, who was irresistibly drawn to the strong,efficient personality, "but I fear I can't help you. Though I am morethan willing."
"It is a pleasure just to look at you, my dear, you are so sweet andunspoiled."
Bannard gave Miss Darrel a quick glance. Her speech, to him, savored ofsycophancy.
But not to Iris. She slipped her hand into that of her new friend, andgave her a smile of glad affection.
Luncheon was announced and after that came the solemn observances of thefuneral.
As Miss Darrel had said, the three were the only relatives present.Ursula Pell had other kin, but none were nearby enough to attend thefuneral. Of casual friends there were plenty, and of neighbors andvillagers enough to fill the house, and more too.
Iris heard nothing of the services. Entirely unnerved, she lay on thebed in her own room, and sobbed, almost hysterically.
Agnes brought sal volatile and aromatic ammonia, but the sight of themaid roused Iris' excitement to a higher pitch, and finally Miss Darreltook complete charge of the nervous girl.
"I'm ashamed of myself," Iris said, when at last she grew calmer, "but Ican't help it. There's a curse on the house--on the place--on thefamily! Miss Darrel, save me--save me from what is about to befall!"
"Yes, dear, yes; rest quietly, no harm shall come to you. The shock hascompletely upset you. You've borne up so bravely, and now the reactionhas come and you're feverish and ill. Take this, my child, and try torest quietly."
Iris took the soothing draught, and fell, for a few moments, into atroubled slumber. But almost immediately she roused herself and sat boltupright.
"I didn't kill her!" she said, her large dark eyes burning into MissDarrel's own.
"No, no, dear, you didn't kill her. Never mind that now. We'll find itall out in good time."
"I don't want it found out! It must not be found out! Won't you takeaway that detective man? He knows too much--oh, yes, he knows too much!"
"Hush, dear, please don't make any disturbance now. They're taking youraunt away."
"Are they?" and suddenly Iris calmed herself, and stood up, quite stilland composed. "Let me see," she said; "no, I don't want to go down. Iwant to look out of the windows."
Kneeling at the front window of Miss Darrel's room, in utter silence,Iris watched the bearers take the casket out of the door.
"Poor Aunt Ursula," she whispered softly, "I _did_ love you. I'm sorry Ididn't show it more. I wish I had been less impatient. But I will avengeyour death. I didn't think I could, but I must--I know I _must_, and Iwill do it. I promise you, Aunt Ursula--I vow it!"
"Who killed her?" Miss Darrel spoke softly, and in an awed tone.
"I can't tell you. But I--_I_ am the avenger!"
It was an hour or more later when the group gathered in the living room,listened to the reading of Ursula Pell's last will and testament.
Mr. Bowen's round face was solemn and sad. Mrs. Bowen was pale withweeping.
Miss Darrel kept a watchful eye on Iris, but the girl was quite hernormal self. Winston Bannard was composed and somewhat stern looking,and the servants huddled in the doorway waiting their word.
As might have been expected from the eccentric old lady, the will waslong and couched in a mass of unnecessary verbiage. But it was dulydrawn and witnessed and its decrees were altogether valid.
As was anticipated, the house and estate of Pellbrook were bequeathed toMiss Lucille Darrel.
The positive nod of that lady's head expressed her satisfaction, and Mr.Chapin proceeded.
Followed a few legacies of money or valuables to several more distantrelatives and friends, and then came the list of servants.
A beautiful set of cameos was given to Agnes; a collection of rare coinsto the Purdys; and a wonderful gold watch with a jeweled fob toCampbell.
A clause of the will directed that, "if any of the legatees prefer cashto sentiment, they are entirely at liberty to sell their gifts, and itis recommended that Mr. Browne will make for them the most desirableagent.
"The greater part of my earthly possessions," the will continued, "is inthe form of precious stones. These gems are safely put away, and theirwhereabouts will doubtless be disclosed in due time. The entirecollection is together, in one place, and it is to be shared alike by mytwo nearest and dearest of kin, Iris Clyde and Winston Bannard. And Itrust that, in the possession and enjoyment of this wealth, they willforgive and forget any silly tricks their foolish old aunt may haveplayed upon them.
"Also, I give and bequeath to my niece, Iris Clyde, the box tied with ablue silk thread, now in the possession of Charles Chapin. This boxcontains the special legacy which I have frequently told her should behers.
"Also, I give and bequeath to my husband's nephew, Winston Bannard, theFlorentine pocket-book, which is in the upper right-hand compartment ofthe desk in my sitting room, and which contains a receipt from Craig,Marsden & Co., of Chicago. This receipt he will find of interest."
"That pocket-book!" cried Bannard. "Why, that's the one the thiefemptied!"
Everyone looked up aghast. The empty pocket-book, found flung on thefloor of the ransacked room, was certainly of Florentine illuminatedleather. But whether it was the one meant in the will, who knew?
After concluding the reading of the will, Mr. Chapin handed to Iris thebox that had been intrusted to his care. It was very carefully sealedand tied with a blue silk thread.
Slowly, almost reverently, Iris broke the seals and opened the box. Fromit she took the covering bit of crumpled white tissue paper, and foundbeneath it a silver ten-cent piece and a common pin.
"A dime and pin!" cried Bannard instantly; "one of Aunt Ursula's jokes!Well, if that isn't the limit!"
Iris was white with indignation. "I might have known," she said, "Imight have known!"
With an angry gesture she threw the dime far out of the window, and castthe pin away, letting it fall where it would.
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