The Third Volume

by Fergus Hume

  CHAPTER XXVII.

  A GLIMPSE OF THE PAST.

  HILLISTON remained a considerable time with his friend, and it was notuntil sunset that he left the house. He had a satisfied look on hisface, as though the interview had answered his expectations; and solifted up in spirit did he appear that he stepped out into the lane asjauntily as though he were quite a young man. It was over three miles tothe railway station, and he would be obliged to walk back; but theprospect did not annoy him in the least; on the contrary so great a loadhad been removed from his mind by the late conversation that he felt fitto walk twice the distance. Yet such unusual light-heartedness mighthave recalled to his mind the Scotch superstition regarding its probablereason.

  As he walked smartly to the end of the lane, the sun had just droppedbehind the hills, leaving a trail of red glory behind him. Against thecrimson background rose the gables and chimney of the Manor House, andthe sight recalled to Hilliston the fact that young Larcher was stayingin the mansion. He paused doubtfully, not certain whether to go in orpass on; for in his many schemes the least slip might prove prejudicialto their accomplishment.

  "If I call in I can say my visit here was to do so," he thought; "but itis too late; and though Claude might believe me, the little man wouldcertainly be suspicious. Besides they are sure to find out from JennyPaynton that I have seen her father. No! I shan't go in, but to-night Iwill write a letter stating that Paynton is a client whom I called tosee about business. I have made it all right there, and it will take acleverer man than Tait to upset my plans this time."

  His meditations were interrupted by the rattle of wheels, and he turnedto see Kerry driving a dappled pony in a small chaise. The old mandistorted his withered face into a grotesque grin of welcome, and jumpedout with extraordinary alacrity, when he came alongside Hilliston.

  "Augh! augh, sir!" said Kerry, touching his hat in military fashion."It's a sight for sore eyes to see ye. Miss Jenny told me you had walkedover from the station, so I just borrowed the trap of his riverence, thevicar, to take you back."

  "That is very kind of you, Kerry," replied Hilliston, in his most genialmanner; "I am glad to accept your offer and escape the walk. You driveand I'll sit beside you."

  Kerry did as he was told, and in a few minutes the trap containing thepair was rattling through the street at a good pace. Shortly they leftthe village behind and emerged into the open country. The road wound toright and left, past farmhouses, under bending trees, behind hedgerows,and occasionally passed over a stone bridge spanning a trickling brookmatted with cresses. All this time neither of them had spoken, as eachwas seemingly wrapped up in his own thoughts, but as a matter of factthey were thinking of each other. Kerry wished to speak to Hilliston,but did not know how to begin; while Hilliston was in the samepredicament regarding Kerry.

  It was the latter who finally began the conversation, and he did so in away which would have startled a less brave man than the lawyer. At themoment they were crossing a rather broad stream with a swift current,and Kerry pulled up the pony midway between the parapets of stone whichprotected the sides of the rude bridge. Rather astonished at thisstoppage, for which he could assign no reason, Hilliston roused himselffrom his musings and looked inquiringly at Kerry. The man's eyes,significant and angry, were fixed on him in anything but a friendlymanner.

  "Do you know what I'm thinking, sir?" he said, coolly flicking thepony's back with the whip.

  "No, Kerry," replied Hilliston, with equal coolness. "Is it of anythingimportant?"

  "It might be to you, sir," replied Kerry dryly. "I was just thinkingwhether it wouldn't be a good thing to send horse and trap and you and Iinto the water. Then there would be an end to your black heart and yourblack schemes."

  "That is very possible, Kerry," said Hilliston, who knew his man, "butbefore going to extremities you had better make certain that you areacting for the best. Without me your master is ruined."

  "We'll talk it over, sir," answered Kerry, and with a smart flick of hiswhip sent the pony across the bridge. When they were over and weretrotting between hedgerows he resumed the conversation. "Why have yecome here again, sir?" he asked abruptly. "We were quit of you fiveyears ago, and now you come to harry the master once more."

  "I come for his own good, Kerry."

  "Ah, now don't be after calling me Kerry. There's no one here, and it isDenis Bantry I am to you, Mr. Francis Hilliston."

  The lawyer winced at the satirical emphasis placed on the name, butjudged it wise to humor the old man. Kerry, as he called himself now,could be very obstinate and disagreeable when he chose, so knowing hispowers in this respect Hilliston wisely conducted the conversation on asbroad lines as was possible. Nevertheless, he carried the war into theenemy's camp by blaming Kerry for not taking better care of the bundleof papers which, through his negligence, had fallen into the hands ofJenny.

  "And how was I to know, sir?" retorted Kerry querulously. "The paperswere safely put away in the garret, and Miss Jenny had no call to gothere."

  "Well, Kerry, you see what it has led to. The account of the tragedy isall over London."

  "And what of that, sir? Wasn't the account of it all over Horristontwenty-five years ago?"

  "No doubt," said Hilliston coolly; "but that is all over and done with.It is useless to dwell on the past and its errors. But now CaptainLarcher's son is bent on finding out the truth."

  "And why shouldn't he, sir?"

  "I don't think you need ask the question, Kerry," replied the lawyer, inso significant a tone that the old servant turned away his head. "It isnot desirable that Claude Larcher should be enlightened. We know whattook place on that night if no one else does, and for more reasons thanone it is advisable that we should keep our knowledge to ourselves."

  "Augh," said Kerry gruffly, "you don't want it known that you were inthe garden on that night, sir?"

  "I do not," answered Hilliston, with hasty emphasis. "I spoke falsely atthe trial to save Mrs. Larcher. I rather think you did so yourself,Kerry."

  "For the master's sake--for the master's sake! As for the mistress shebrought all the trouble on our heads. I lied, sir, and you lied, but shewasn't worth it. But is there to be trouble over it now, Mr. Hilliston?"

  "No. Not if you baffle the inquiries of those young men at the ManorHouse. They will meet you and question you, and get the truth out of youif they can. Whether they do or not all depends upon yourself."

  "You leave it to me, sir," said Kerry confidently. "I'll manage to sendthem away without being a bit the wiser. And now, Mr. Hilliston, thatthis is settled, I would speak to you about my sister Mona."

  Hilliston changed color, but nevertheless retained sufficient composureto fix his eyes on the man's face with a sad smile. "What of her,Kerry?" he asked, in a melancholy tone; "you know she is dead and gone."

  "Augh! Augh! But her grave, sir. You must tell me where it is, for Ihave it in my mind to go and see it."

  "What would be the good of you doing that," said Hillistondisapprovingly.

  "Because I was harsh with her, sir. If she did wrong, she suffered forit, and it was wicked of me to let her go as I did. Where is her grave,sir?"

  "In Chiswick Cemetery," said Hilliston, as the chaise stopped at therailway station; "if you come up to London and call at my office I willtell you where to find it."

  Kerry was profuse in his thanks, and, touching his hat gratefully,accepted the shilling which Hilliston put into his hand; but when thetrain containing Hilliston started for Eastbourne, he threw away themoney, and shook his fist after the retreating carriages. Not a word didhe say, but the frown on his face grew deeper and deeper as he got intothe trap again, and drove slowly back to Thorston. Evidently he trustedHilliston no more than did Tait or Jenny.

  It was now quite dark, for the daylight and afterglow had long sincevanished from the western skies, and the moon was not yet up. Only thestars were visible here and there in the cloudy sky, and finding their
light insufficient to drive by, Kerry got down and lighted the carriagelamp. Heaven only knows of what he was thinking as he drove along thedusky lanes. The past unrolled itself before his eyes, and what he sawthere made him groan and heave deep sighs. But there was no use in soindulging his memories, and thinking of his master, Kerry braced himselfup to see what could be done toward meeting the dangers which seemed tothreaten on all sides. When he delivered the trap again to the groom ofthe vicar, he hit on an idea which he proceeded to carry out.

  Instead of going back at once to Rose Cottage, he borrowed a piece ofpaper and a pencil from the groom, and laboriously traced a few lines bythe light of the stable lantern. Putting this missive in his pocket, hewent off in the direction of the Manor House; but leaving the publicroad he skirted the low stone wall which divided it from the adjacentfields. Kerry knew every inch of the ground, and even in the darknesshad no difficulty in guiding himself to his destination. This was avantage point at the end of the wall, whence he could see into a sittingroom of the house. In a few minutes Kerry was perched on this wall,busily engaged in tying his letter to an ordinary sized stone.

  Almost immediately below him the mansion stretched in a kind of abruptright angle, in which was set two wide windows overlooking a bed offlowers. These were open to the cool night air, and the blinds had beendrawn down, so that Kerry from his lofty hiding-place could see rightinto the room. A tall brass lamp stood at one end, and under this satClaude Larcher, smoking and thinking. The glare of the lamp fell full onhis fresh-colored face and light hair, so that Kerry felt as though hewere gazing at a phantom out of that dread past.

  "He's as like his father as two peas," muttered Kerry, devouring thepicture with his eyes; "a fine boy and an honest gentleman. Augh! augh!To think that I have nursed him on my knee when he was a bit of lad, andnow I'm here telling him to go away. But it's better that than theother. A curse on those who brought him here and put sorrow into hisheart."

  Thus muttering, Kerry threw the stone lightly through the window. Itfell heavily on the floor within a few feet of Claude, who sprang to hisfeet with an exclamation. Not waiting to see the result, Kerry hastilytumbled off the wall, jumped the ditch, and made off in the darkness. Bya circuitous route he regained Rose Cottage, and entered into thekitchen worn out in body and mind. He had done his duty so far as in himlay, and mentally prayed that the result might tend to remove thethreatened danger.

  Meanwhile Claude had picked up the stone and ran to the window. He couldsee nothing, for Kerry was already halfway across the fields; he couldnot even guess whence the stone had been thrown. All was silent, andthough he listened intently, he could not hear the sound of retreatingfootsteps. With some wonderment he untied the paper from the stone andsmoothed it out. It was badly written and badly spelled, and ran asfollows:

  "Bewar of danger, Claude Larcher, tak a frind's advise and go quick away."

  There was no signature, and the young man was looking at it in growingperplexity when Tait entered the room.

  "What did you shout out about?" he asked carelessly. "I heard you in thenext room."

  "You would have shouted also," replied Larcher, holding out the paper."This was flung into the room tied round a stone."

  "You don't say so! Who threw it?"

  "I can't say. I rushed to the window at once, but saw no sign of anyone.What do you think of the hint therein contained?"

  Tait read the anonymous communication, pondered over it, and finallydelivered his opinion by uttering a name. "Hilliston," he saidconfidently, "Hilliston."

  "Nonsense!" said Claude sharply; "why should he deal in underhand waysof this sort. If he wanted me to go away, he could have called and urgedme to do so. But this--I don't believe Hilliston would condescend tosuch trickery."

  "When a man is in a fix he will descend to anything to get himself outof it," replied Tait, placing the paper in his pocketbook. "I'll keepthis, and, perhaps, before many days are over I'll have an opportunityof proving to you that I speak truly. Who else wants you to go awaybesides Hilliston."

  "Kerry--Denis Bantry might!"

  "I doubt whether Kerry knows that you are here. You must give matterstime to develop themselves, as the inmates of Rose Cottage can't knowall about us within twenty-four hours."

  "What between your confessions to Jenny, and Hilliston's own knowledge,I think they'll know a good deal in one way or another."

  "They can know as much as they like," said Tait quietly, "but we knowmore, and if it comes to a tug of war I think you and I can win againstHilliston and Co. But come outside and let us examine the top of thewall."

  "Do you think the stone was thrown from there?" asked Claude, as theywent out into the garden.

  "I fancy so from your description. Light this candle."

  The night was so still that the flame of the candle hardly wavered. Taitgave it to Claude to hold, and easily climbed up the wall by thrustingthe toes of his boots in among the loose stones. He examined the topcarefully, and then getting the light tied it to a piece of string andlowered it on the other side. In a few minutes he came down again with asatisfied look.

  "As I thought," he said, blowing out the candle. "Someone has been onthat wall and thrown the stone from there. I saw the marks of feet onthe other side. The man who delivered the letter jumped the ditch andmade off across the fields."

  "You don't think it is Hilliston?" said Claude doubtfully.

  "No; but I think it is an emissary of Hilliston. Perhaps Denis Bantry."

  "Tait!" said Larcher, after a pause, "from Hilliston's visit to Paynton,from the way in which Paynton persistently secludes himself from theworld; and from the knowledge we possess that the information forLinton's book came out of that cottage, I have come to a conclusion."

  "What is that?"

  "I believe that Ferdinand Paynton is none other than Mark Jeringham, whokilled my father."