"hurseton, in essex, lies about ten miles from the coast, and is elevated on a wide plateau whence can be obtained a fine and picturesque view of the famous marshes. it is a quaint, old-world village, gathered round an ancient saxon cross, which occupies the centre of the village green. the church—eleventh century—is dedicated to st. peter, and is, for the most part, sunken in the ground owing to its antiquity. the tower and spire are of wood. many of the gentry have country seats in this popular vicinity. the rising watering-place of market-on-sea, five miles distant, is much frequented by londoners during the holiday season. hurseton can be reached from town by rail a little over the hour."
so far the guide-book; but the above-mentioned gentry referred to therein were not at all pleased by the advertisement, as many of the cheap trippers came to visit the place from market-on-sea, and by no means improved the countryside with their rowdy manners. miss berengaria plantagenet was especially wrathful at the yearly plague of sightseers, and would have put them all in jail had she been able. she was a dignified old lady, small in stature, with a withered rosy face, white hair, and eyes as keen as those of a robin, if not so shallow. her mansion—so she called it—stood at the end of the village, a little way back from the long, straight road which ran towards the coast and the marshes. but the term mansion was rather a misnomer. the place had originally been a small farmhouse, and miss berengaria—as she was usually called—had added to it considerably, so that it formed an irregular pile of buildings, all angles and gables, sloping roofs and stacks of twisted chimneys. some of it was thatched, a portion was covered with mellow red tiles, and a kind of round turret, quite out of keeping with the rest of the building, was slated. every species of architecture was represented in "the bower," and the name did not fit it in the least. but miss berengaria had dwelt in it for forty years—ever since she had been disappointed in love—and, being a lady of singularly independent character, she gave the house its odd appellation. the low pile of buildings—for the most part of these did not exceed one story in height—looked quaint and queer, but then miss berengaria was queer herself.
every morning she could be seen in her garden snipping and picking and clipping and scolding. the gardens were divided from the highroad by a low hedge of holly and hawthorn, carefully trimmed, and presented a pleasant spectacle of lawn and flower-beds. in summer the place was gay with cottage flowers, for miss berengaria, being old-fashioned herself, would have no new-fangled importations. the flowers she loved were snapdragon, sweet-william, heart's-ease, and all those homely blossoms such as john bunyan loved. the house was covered with virginia creeper, wistaria and ivy, and through the thick growth peeped the latticed windows under heavy eyebrows of gray thatch. it might have been a cottage out of a fairy tale for quaintness; and its mistress might have been a fairy herself in stature and oddity. the villagers liked her, though she was rather dreaded.
"a sharp old lady," said the host of the conniston arms, "and quite the lady, bless you! though she do keep fowls and ducks and though she do sell her fruit. she looks like a gipsy by way of dress in the day, but when she claps her diamonds on at night, bless you! she's as grand as the queen herself."
this report was perfectly true. miss berengaria always dressed—as she put it—anyhow during the day; but at night she appeared in silver gray silk covered with costly lace, and wearing jewels of great value. she had a weakness for jewels, and had many, which she wore every evening. people hinted that she would be robbed, as the cottage was situated in rather a solitary position, and a quarter of a mile from the village. but miss berengaria was a stout-hearted old lady and laughed such ideas to scorn.
as it was now winter, miss berengaria was attired in a wincey dress with a tartan shawl, and wore rubber boots on her feet and large gardener's gloves on her hands. having finished clipping and pruning—she kept no gardener, saying she knew more than a trained professional—she tripped round to the back of the house, where a colony of fowls, pigeons, ducks, turkeys and geese welcomed her coming with much noise. her hobby—amongst others—was fowl-farming, and she gave up a large portion of her time to rearing and fattening birds for the market. as her income was five thousand a year there was no need for her to work so hard, but she was out at all times and in all weathers attending to her feathered pets. a particularly ugly [pg 80]bull-dog, called sloppy jane, accompanied her. miss berengaria did not approve of the name, but the dog would answer to no other, so it had to be adopted. sloppy jane was devoted to her mistress and to alice. while miss berengaria was feeding the fowls and wondering when the gong would sound for breakfast, alice came out with a paper in her hand. she was a tall, slim girl with a fair face and brown eyes and hair. not particularly pretty, perhaps, but with such a sweet expression and such a charming disposition that young men fell in love with her on the spot. nor after a closer acquaintance did any see fit to change their opinions. had sir simon seen her he might have approved of bernard's choice, but there being a standing quarrel between the old baronet and miss berengaria, on the rights of a footpath, the old man had never come near "the bower" for years. the old gentlewoman, in spite of a rather sharp manner, was fond of alice, and miss malleson was devoted to her. the morning was sharp and cold, but there was a blue sky and occasional glints of sunshine. "and i shouldn't wonder if we had snow," said miss berengaria, looking up. "perhaps a snowy christmas. ah, we had them when i was a girl. but there! the weather's deteriorated like everything else."
"aunt," said alice, in a faint voice—miss berengaria always liked to hear the name, although she was no relative—"aunt!"
at the sound of the faint voice the old dame wheeled round—she was active in spite of being eighty years of age—and uttered an exclamation on seeing the white face of the girl. alice was deathly pale and, clinging with one hand to some wire netting, held a newspaper in the other. "what's the matter, child? anything wrong?"
"bernard?" gasped alice. "oh, bernard! bernard!"
"this must be looked into," said miss berengaria, using her favorite expression. "something is wrong with that silly boy. what's he been doing, child? it must be something bad if it's in the paper."
"i don't believe he did it," said alice, trembling. "he is innocent."
miss berengaria trembled also and sat down. "don't hint at horrors, alice," she said, with an effort at self-command. "i'm not fit for such things. i don't suppose the boy's killed anyone—though, to be sure, as he's a soldier now, it's his trade."
"murder!"
"eh! what's that? murder, alice!" the old lady's ruddy cheeks grew white, and she stretched out her hand for the paper. "show me!" she said resolutely.
alice did not hand her the paper. she seemed almost incapable of understanding what was said.
"bernard is dead!" she moaned.
"dead! great heavens!"
"he is drowned. it's all in the paper. it's all—oh—oh!"
breaking off suddenly she dropped the paper, and fled towards the house like a creature suddenly aroused to life. miss berengaria did not lose a moment. with an activity wonderful in a woman of her years she sprang to her feet, and hurried up the path round to the front of the house, following in the wake of the weeping girl. she saw alice disappear into the porch and enter the breakfast-room, where the meal was already waiting. there, on the hearth-rug, alice fell prone. miss berengaria knelt down and took her hand. she had not fainted, but, cold and shivering, was sobbing as though her heart would break. and perhaps it would, under this unexpected and terrible calamity. bernard was her idol, and now he was dead, and his memory fouled with the accusation of an awful crime.
finding that alice still had her senses miss berengaria nodded and sat down. "the best thing for you, my dear," she said in a soft voice. "weep your heart out, while i read the paper."
these words sound rather heartless, but the old lady did not intend them to be so. she realized that tears would relieve the strain on the almost stunned girl, and welcomed them gladly. alice knew that her friend spoke for the best, but she gave no sign as, lying prone on the rug, she concealed her agonized face, while miss berengaria adjusting her spectacles, glanced through the paper. already the gong had sounded, the meal smoked on the table, and there was no fear of interruptions by the servants. but neither miss berengaria nor alice was able to eat in the face of this bolt from the blue.
"where is it, my dear?—oh, here! murder and suicide. a nice heading, upon my word. rubbish! i don't believe a word of it."
"read! read!" moaned the girl at her feet.
"alice," said miss berengaria, severely, "before reading a word i tell you that i don't believe a word of it. bernard, though a silly boy, would not kill a fly, nor would he kill himself. murder and suicide! oh, rubbish—rubbish!"
"but you know, and i know, he quarrelled with his grandfather."
miss berengaria looked at the girl's white face as she half crouched, half sat on the rug, with her eyes wild and her brown hair in disorder.
"i don't see what sir simon has to do with it," said she, tartly.
"he is dead."
"dead!"—miss berengaria shivered. "you don't mean to say that."
"read! read! everything is against him—everything. oh, how can i bear my life? how can i live?"
"alice," said the old dame again, although she was very white, "if this lying paper means to say that bernard murdered sir simon, i tell you again that i don't believe a word of it. you, who love him, ought to believe in his innocence."
"but the evidence."
"a fig for evidence. circumstantial evidence has hanged an innocent man before now. bernard gore kill that old tyrant——?"
"hush! he is dead!"
"and so we are to speak well of him," snapped miss berengaria. "oh, well"—she rubbed her nose—"we'll tell lies about him like the majority of tombstones do of those who lie below, but i tell you, foolish girl that you are, bernard did not kill the old man, nor did he kill himself."
"but the paper says——"
"i don't care what the paper says," said miss berengaria, resolutely. "no, indeed. i am a better judge of character than any paper. that poor boy was vilely treated by that—there! there! i won't say a word [pg 84]against sir simon. he's dead, and we must be lenient. but bernard gore is innocent. before i read i tell you that."
"i hope it may be so," cried alice, clasping her hands.
"it is so," said the other, sharply and in a truly feminine way. "all i know is that sloppy jane adored him, and she's not the dog to adore anyone who would shed blood."
alice could not but see that this reasoning was not based on facts. but, all the same, ridiculous though it was, she derived a certain comfort from it. miss berengaria, who had been thus optimistic to quieten the poor girl, nodded, when alice took a seat in the opposite chair more composed, and addressed herself to mastering the facts of the case. alice, with clasped hands, stared at the old lady as she read silently but with frequent raising of her eyebrows and sometimes a sniff. the paper stated that sir simon and his grandson, bernard, were enemies, that the young man, having been hanging round the house for a fortnight courting the housemaid, had secured an interview with the elder when miss randolph was at the theatre. he had evidently quarrelled with sir simon, and, having chloroformed him, had quietly strangled him with his own handkerchief, after which he left the house. then followed an account of the pursuit and failure to capture gore. "he escaped the officers by plunging into the river," said the journal. "next morning his khaki coat and hat were found on the opposite bank, so doubtless he got rid of them when attempting to swim. but what, with the cold and the fog, undoubtedly he must have succumbed to the force of the current." finally the paper stated that an inquest would be held within two days on the dead body. at the conclusion of this somewhat bald article, miss berengaria gave a short laugh and threw down the paper. "i don't believe a word of it," she said, folding her arms, "and i'm going up to london."
"what for, aunt?"
"to see into the matter myself. i believe that beryl creature is responsible for the whole thing."
"but see," said alice, picking up the paper, "he was at the theatre with lucy and a mrs. webber."
"i don't care. failing bernard, julius comes in for the money."
"he comes in for it even without that," said alice, bitterly. "don't you remember that sir simon disinherited bernard because he would not give me up? i implored bernard, for his own sake, to break our engagement, but he refused. he gave up all for me, and now he is dead—dea—dead. oh," sobbed alice, "how unhappy i am!"
"how foolish you are," said miss berengaria, her eyes hard and bright. "do you think a man, who could act towards you in so noble a way, would commit a cowardly murder, and then shirk the consequences? not at all. i'm ashamed of you. i once loved," said the old lady, rising and marching energetically about the room, "and my lover was a fool and a villain. bernard is neither. he is a fine fellow, god bless him and bring him safely out of this trouble! he shall have my help—yes, my best help," added miss berengaria nodding.
"but he is dead."
"he is not dead, you weak-minded, silly, hysterical girl. that sort of man has as many lives as a cat. he's alive, to vindicate his reputation and to bring home the crime to the real assassin."
"but who can that be?" asked alice, comforted by this assurance.
"i don't know," said miss berengaria, taking a seat at the table. "come and pour out my coffee, and eat."
alice dragged herself to the table and took up the silver pot. "i can't eat," she said faintly.
"yes, you can; and, what's more, you're going to. no nonsense with me, miss. you and i have a hard task before us."
"what is that?"
miss berengaria laid down her knife and fork with which she was about to carve a piece of bacon. "well, i am astonished," she said, glaring. "in my young days a girl in love would have been ashamed to make such a speech. why, bless me! haven't we got to prove bernard's innocence?"
"will that bring him to life?" said alice, bitterly.
"it would, if it were necessary; but it isn't. bernard's in hiding."
"can you be sure?"
"alice malleson," said the resolute old dame, "if you were younger i would shake you and send you to bed on bread and water. you don't deserve to be loved by such a man. he gave up all for you, and you believe the worst of him."
"bernard has a temper, and he might have—"
"but he didn't. i know he has a temper. i admire his temper. i saw him thrash a tramp for throwing away a loaf of bread, and that warmed my heart towards him. had i married the villain i didn't marry, and he hadn't been such a villain as he was, i would have had a son just like bernard—perhaps two or three. dear! dear, what a loss to the british empire that i never married."
in spite of her grief alice could not help smiling at this way of putting things. but certainly miss plantagenet was right. had she been a mother, her dauntless nature was of the sort that would have bred brave sons for the motherland. the old lady was one of those strong people always to be relied upon in time of calamity. the worse the trouble the quicker miss berengaria rose to the occasion. she prided herself on facing facts, alleging that only in this way could things be settled. at the present moment she acknowledged silently to herself that things looked black against bernard gore and that he really might be dead for all she knew. but to alice she refused to admit these thoughts.
"this must be looked into," she said energetically, "and i am going up to town to see about the matter. when i have heard the evidence at the inquest i'll know how to shape my course."
"what will you do?" asked alice, brightening under this optimism.
"when acquainted with the facts," said miss berengaria, rolling up her napkin, "and when i have formed my theory—"
"your theory, aunt?"
"yes! my theory as to who murdered the old—well, it's sir simon i mean—we must be lenient to his memory. but when i have formed my theory i'll see a detective and place the matter in his hands. i shall [pg 88]then advertise for bernard and we must see if we can't get him to come here."
"he would be arrested if he did."
"not at all. i know where to hide him. there's the haunted room in the turret. if he were hidden there no one could find him. and if anyone of my servants—my good servants," said the old dame, emphatically, "denounces him i'll eat my hat, and that's a vulgar expression," added she, as she placed the napkin on the table with a smart tap. "child, come and help me to dress. i shall leave by the mid-day train. you can send all letters to the waterloo hotel, guelph street."
"but i am coming also," said alice, rising resolutely.
"no, you are not," rejoined miss berengaria, patting the hand laid on her shoulder, and turning back from the door. "though i am glad to see that you are ready to help."
"who has the right to help my darling but i?"
"ah!" miss berengaria rubbed her nose with satisfaction. "it does my heart good to hear you talk sense. is bernard innocent?"
"yes," said alice, emphatically.
"is he alive?"
the girl faltered, but miss berengaria's eyes were on her, and she faltered out a faint "yes."
"not so strong as you ought to be," said the aunt, sadly. "my dear, you must believe that he is alive, because he is. i have no reason to give, so don't ask me for one. he is alive, and all you have to do is to remain here and watch for his coming. yes. it is more than probable that bernard will come here."
"but the danger," said alice, faintly.
"bernard knows neither you nor i will give him up, and this is the place he will come to. the poor soul is being hunted down, i daresay. but he knows where to come to, bless him! watch, my dear child. it is probable he will come at night. then take him to the turret room, and tell the servants to hold their tongues. what's that?"
it was a demure old woman—all miss berengaria's servants were aged—who advanced with a telegram for alice. with shaking fingers, the girl opened it. "from mr. durham," she said. "he is bernard's lawyer and wants me to come to see him at once."
"no," said miss berengaria, taking the telegram from her. "i'll go myself. you stay here and wait for the coming of that poor boy."
