IN spite of all her philosophy, of all her fortitude, Olivia Denison could not deny, even to herself, that the one terrible word “murderer,” applied to the man who had proved himself such a kind friend, gave a shock such as no newly formed friendship could stand unshaken. If he had only denied the charge by so much as a look! But, on the contrary, his downcast head and hurrying step when Lucy’s indiscreet remark fell on his ears seemed like a tacit admission of the justice of it. The little maid’s characteristic comments on the matter jarred upon her greatly.
“You might have knocked me down with a feather, Miss Olivia, when they first told me it was him as made away with the young woman whose rooms we were rummaging in to-day! ‘Lor,’ I says, ‘never! A nice-spoken gentleman like that!’ Indeed, Miss——”
“Who was it told you, Lucy?” interrupted her mistress, quietly.
“It was when I was going up the road, ma’am, looking for you. For I got that frightened at last, sitting here all myself, and nobody to speak to, and such cracklings and noises as you never heard along the walls! So I went out a little way, thinking perhaps you had missed the road and lost yourself. And I came across two women and a man standing at the gate of a farmyard. And I spoke to them and they guessed where I came from; for it seems it was the farm belonging to that rude man, though I didn’t know it at the time. And they asked me in, saying as they wouldn’t keep me not a minute. And I was so glad not to be alone that I went just inside the kitchen door with them—just for a minute. But then they told me such things that I felt I couldn’t come back to this house all by myself after hearing of them. They said how that clergyman, for all his nice-seeming ways, used to be a wild sort of young man, and how he once courted her that’s now the vicar’s lady, but she wouldn’t have nothing to say to him. And so when she married his brother he got wilder and wilder, and he took to courting the farmer’s daughter that lived here on the sly like, and not fair and open. She was a masterful sort of girl, and her brother and his wife, that she lived with, let her have her own way too much, and have ideas above her station. And people think she believed he’d marry her, for her own people and every one was beginning to talk; and then one night—it was the 7th of July, Miss, ten years and a half ago—she went out to meet him, down by his own church, as people knew she’d done before, and she never came back. And nobody’s never seen nothing of her from that day to this; only there were screams heard that night down by St. Cuthbert’s—that’s his church, ma’am.”
Lucy ended in a mysterious whisper, and both she and her mistress remained silent for a little while. Then Miss Denison spoke in a warm and decided tone—
“There must have been investigations made. If there had been anything like just ground for supposing that Mr. Brander had made away with the girl, he would at least have been hunted out of the parish, even if there had not been proof enough to have him arrested.”
“He was arrested, Miss Olivia. But his mother was Lord Stannington’s sister, so he had friends at court; and as for his brother, he moved heaven and earth to have him got off. And so those as knew most didn’t dare to come forward, and nothing wasn’t found; and as everybody knew the poor girl hadn’t had the best of characters, and had always been a bit gay, like, they said there wasn’t evidence enough, and Mr. Brander was never brought up.”
“But he remained in his parish! That would have been too much of a scandal if the suspicion had been strong. I think you have only been listening to a lot of tattle, Lucy;” said Miss Denison, trying to disguise the deep interest she could not help feeling in this gossip.
“Well, Miss Olivia, I only tell you what was told me,” said the girl, rather offended at the slur cast upon her information.
And she crossed over to the fireplace and began to break the lumps of coal into a blaze, to intimate that, in deference to her mistress’s wish, she had done with idle gossip. But, as she slyly guessed, the subject was far too interesting to be shelved like that.
Miss Denison took it up again abruptly, no longer attempting to hide the warmth of her feeling in the matter.
“How was it he stayed, then?” she asked.
“It was his brother’s doing, that, ma’am, I believe,” said Lucy, delighted to have her tongue loosed again. “He backed him up, and advised him to face it out, so everybody says. And his being so strong for his brother, and him thought so highly of himself, made people afraid to interfere, like. And so Mr. Vernon stayed. He had only a poor parish, full of colliers and such-like; and the poor folks liked him, because, for all his wild ways, he was good-humored and pleasant. So nobody objected much, and he quieted down all of a sudden, and grew quite changed, and worked very hard, so that now they think the world of him in his own parish, and wouldn’t change even to have Mr. Meredith himself for their clergyman. Only the story sticks to him, especially close round here, where the girl lived; and, no matter what he does, some of them can’t forget he’s a murderer.”
Olivia shuddered. It was quite true; such an incident in a man’s life was not one that you could forget. She let the subject drop without further comment, but it haunted her for the rest of the evening as she sat brooding over the fire. Lucy, who was of an industrious frame of mind, got out her darning and mended away busily. But she had a healthy appetite, and she had had nothing more satisfying than biscuits and a sandwich throughout the day. Gradually her longing glances fell more and more frequently on the despised supper basket which Mr. Brander had given her. At last she could hold out no longer.
“Are you hungry, Miss Olivia?” she asked, with plaintive meaning.
“Not very,” answered Miss Denison, waking with a start out of a troubled reverie. “But I daresay you are, Lucy. I forgot that I had wine and cake at—Mr. Brander’s.”
Lucy made two hesitating steps in the direction of the basket, and stopped.
“Do you think—we’d better not—touch it, Miss Olivia?” she asked, doubtfully.
Miss Denison got up, with a grave and troubled face.
“Don’t you think it’s a little too late to try to avoid an obligation, Lucy, when every one of the comforts round us—fire, chairs, table, the very beds we are going to sleep on, we owe to Mr. Brander?”
Lucy snatched at this view of the matter readily, and trotted off with eager steps to inspect the contents of the basket. These proved most satisfactory.
“Bread, Miss Olivia; butter, cake, oh! And a cold fowl! And a silver tea-pot!” she announced gleefully as she made one discovery after another, and skipped with her prizes to the table.
Olivia, healthy girl as she was, could not eat much that evening. Her responsibilities in the new home were beginning to look very heavy; and the strange story she had just learnt oppressed her. Lucy, on the other hand, found that a good supper led her to take a more cheerful view of current affairs.
“Oh, Miss Olivia!” she exclaimed, when the meal was ended and they were preparing to retire for the night, “how much nicer this is, with ghosts and murderers and all, than it’ll be when Mrs. Denison comes and the children! Like this, with just you, it’s jolly, and I could work for you all day. And I suppose when you’ve committed a murder it makes you feel that you must be nicer, like, to make up for it, for certainly Mr. Brander is a nice-spoken gentleman and a kind one, and no two ways about it.”
“Now, Lucy,” said her mistress, gravely, “you must put that story right out of your head, as I am going to do. We’ll hope there’s no truth in it all; but even if every word were true, we have no right to bring it up against a man whose life sets an example to the whole parish, and who has shown us kindness that we ought never to forget. I hope you will have the good sense and good feeling not to tattle about it to cook and to Esther when they come.”
“No, ma’am,” said Lucy, demurely.
Miss Denison felt, however, that she was trying to put on human nature burdens too great for it to bear, and she wasted no more words in pressing the point. Tired as she was when she lay down that night on the little bed so strangely provided, for some hours she could not sleep; excited fancies concerning the girl who had disappeared and the man to whom her disappearance was attributed filled her head with a waking nightmare. Gratitude remained uppermost, however.
“He shall see that whatever I have heard makes not the least difference,” was her last clear thought before sleeping.
But Olivia’s kind intentions were more difficult to carry out than she imagined. Next day she saw nothing of Mr. Brander, although she received another proof of his thoughtfulness. A vanful of the much-expected furniture arrived in the course of the morning; and scarcely was it emptied before the two maids from the Vicarage appeared again upon the scene; “by Mr. Vernon’s order,” to give what assistance they could towards getting the house ready for occupation. Then began for Olivia three of the happiest days she had ever passed. There was work—real, useful, genuine work—for head and hand and muscular arm in the arrangement of every room to the best advantage. The maids from the Vicarage and her own trusty Lucy seconded her with a right goodwill, being all ready to worship this handsome, bright-voiced, sparkling-eyed girl, to whom the lifting of the heaviest weights seemed to be child’s play, and who worked harder than any of them. On the second day the very last consignment of the household goods duly arrived, and Olivia was able to send back the Vicarage furniture with a grateful little note of thanks. In the evening, when she was resting in an armchair, tired out with her labors, and enjoying a glow of satisfaction in their success, there was a rap of knuckles on the knockerless outer door, and Olivia started up, with her heart beating violently. The persistent self-effacement on the part of Mr. Brander made the girl nervously anxious to show him that her gratitude was proof against any evil rumors; and the hope that it was he brought a deep flush to her face as Lucy, now installed in her own kitchen, and busy still with polishing of pots and pans, went to open the door. But she only brought in a note, which Olivia took with some disappointment. It was an answer from Mr. Brander to her own, but was so very formal that Olivia felt her cheeks tingle with shame at the impulsive warmth of her letter.
The clergyman’s note was as follows:—
“DEAR MADAM”—(And she had put “Dear Mr. Brander.” Olivia could have torn her pretty hair.)—“I beg to assure you there is nothing in what I have done to put you under any sense of obligation. In doing what little I could to make you as comfortable as the unfortunate circumstances of your arrival would permit, I only acted in my capacity of representative to my brother, who is hospitality itself to all strangers.
“I am, dear madam, yours faithfully,
“VERNON BRANDER.”
Olivia read the note twice, while Lucy stood still at the door.
“The young farmer’s son brought it, ma’am, and he’s waiting,” said she.
Olivia went to the door, and held out her hand to Mat Oldshaw, who took it very sheepishly in his own great paw, and, having given it a convulsive squeeze, dropped it hastily, as if overwhelmed with horror at his presumption in touching it at all.
“Come in,” said she, smiling, and leading the way into the big farm living room; she had decided that this was to be the dining-room of the establishment, and had furnished it accordingly.
Mat followed her shyly, and remained near the door until, by easy stages, she had coaxed him into a chair at the further end. He was beautifully washed and combed, and clad in his best clothes, and beautifully awkward and bashful withal.
“It’s very kind of you to bring me this,” she said; “and I’m very glad to have an opportunity of thanking you for the help you gave us the other day. You ran away so fast that I had no chance of speaking to you.”
“’Twere nowt, that,” said Mat, in a voice husky from bashfulness. “Ah’d ha’ coom and given ye better help than that yesterday when Ah saw t’ goods coom, but Ah didn’t like.”
“Would you? Well, we should have found plenty for you to do. But your father wouldn’t have liked it, of course.”
“Feyther! Ah bean’t afreeaid o’ feyther!” cried Mat, in a burst of energetic defiance. “Neea, it wasna’ for him that Ah didn’t coom. But Ah thowt maybe ye’d ha’ been so angry with him for’s rudeness that ye wouldn’t care to ha’ seen me ageean.”
“Oh, I knew you had nothing to do with that.”
“That’s true enoof; and Ah coom to-neeght to say”—and Mat looked down on the floor and grew scarlet to the tips of his ears—“that ye mustn’t be surprised if things doan’t work straight here at first. Feyther’s a nasty coostomer when he’s crossed, and there’s no denying he’s wild at a stranger takkin’ this pleeace. An’ if he can do ye and yer feyther an ill turn he’s not t’ man to stick at it. An’ if yer feyther don’t knaw mooch aboot farmin’, ye may tell him not to tak’ any advice from moine. But if ye should be in a difficulty aboot matters o’ t’ farm, ye can just send for me on t’ quiet, and Ah’ll help ye all Ah can. Ah beean’t ower bright maybe, as ye can see for yerself, Miss, but Ah understand t’ farm, and what Ah can do for ye Ah will.”
Mat had strung himself up to this speech by a great effort, and he reeled it off without any sort of pause, as if it had been an article of faith that he had got by rote. Then he got up and gave a hopeless look towards the door, as if that was his goal, and he was utterly without an idea how to reach it.
Olivia rose too, and turned towards the fire. Her impulsive nature was so deeply moved by this rough but genuine friendliness that she had no words ready to express her feelings.
There was a pause, during which she heard the shuffling of Mat’s feet upon floor as he prepared himself, with many throes, for another rhetorical effort. As she at last turned towards him and again held out her hand, he found his courage, and began—
“An’ wan moor thing Ah’d loike to say, Miss: doan’t you be afreeaid o’ parson Brander, for all they may say. Of coorse, ye’ve heard t’ story; t’ ill aboot a mon always cooms oot first. Maybe t’ story’s true; Ah knaw nowt about that. But Ah do knaw that there’s ne’er a heart loike his in t’ coontry side. An’ he’s done all t’ harm he’ll ever do to anybody. An’—an’ he give me this note for ye, Miss, and Ah’ve given it, and noo Ah’m going. Good-night, Miss.”
With which abrupt farewell he made a countryman’s obeisance to her, and sheered off with great promptitude.
“Good-night. I shan’t forget what you’ve said,” Olivia called after him, smiling.
She sat down again to muse by the fire, holding the open letter still in her hand; and after a few minutes, being utterly tired out with the day’s work, she fell asleep. When she woke up she could not resist an exclamation of horror, for she saw confronting her, in the dim firelight, an ugly, grinning face, the owner of which broke into a peal of hoarse laughter in enjoyment of the shock his presence caused her. Starting to her feet, Olivia woke up to the full consciousness that the ill-favored intruder was no other than her persecutor of two nights before. While she was gathering up her forces for a withering speech, Mr. Williams gave her a smile and a nod of friendly greeting.
“You didn’t expect to see me, did you?” he began, in a perfectly amicable tone.
“I certainly did not. Nor can I say that I wished for that—honor,” answered Olivia, with what ought to have been withering sarcasm.
But Mr. Williams grinned on, entirely unmoved.
“No; you thought you’d shut me up—choked me off for good, didn’t you? Why, I’ve got brambles and splinters in every finger still. But I liked you for it. Oh, I do like a girl of spirit! Why, there isn’t a girl about the place I haven’t tried to annoy, and not one of them has had the pluck to round on me as you did. But, then, look at your muscle, you know,” he added, admiringly.
“I’m exceeding grateful for your admiration, and I will try to deserve it,” answered Olivia, briefly.
She walked rapidly to the door, which she threw wide open with a gesture of invitation to him to go out. Mr. Williams instantly got behind an armchair.
“No, no, I know you can throw me out if you want to, but just let me stay and explain. Look what a shrimp I am compared with you. You can’t mind me,” pleaded he.
The sight of the little sandy man clinging to the back of the armchair, and “dodging” any movement of hers which he imagined to be threatening, caused Olivia’s just indignation to merge into a strong inclination to laugh. She remained standing by the door, drawn up to her full height, and said, very drily—
“I suppose it is of no use to talk to you about the feelings of a gentleman. But perhaps you can understand this: I consider you an odious person, and I wish you to go.”
“That’s just the impression I wish to stay and remove,” said Mr. Williams, blandly.
“You won’t remove it by staying,” said Miss Denison.
“As for the feelings of a gentleman,” pursued he, ignoring her interpolation, “of course you are quite right. I haven’t got them; I don’t know what they’re like, and I don’t want to. I’m a hopeless little cad, if you like, though nobody but you and the parson would dare to call me so, because I’m coming in to a hundred and eighty thousand pounds. Doesn’t it make your mouth water—£180,000? It does make a difference, don’t it, say what you like, in the way you look at a fellow?”
“It does,” said Miss Denison. “It makes one shudder to think of so much money being in the hands of a person who is not competent to make a right use of half a crown.”
“Why, I never thought of it in that light,” said the gentleman, leaning over the back of the armchair, and caressing his chin musingly. “But, look here, I may marry, and she will think she knows how to make a right use of it, I’ll warrant.”
This speech he accompanied by a look which was meant to be full of arch meaning. Miss Denison took no notice either of speech or look.
“Now, are you going—of your own accord?” she asked firmly, and rather menacingly.
“I don’t know how you ever expect to get married if you cut a fellow so short when he’s getting near the brink of a proposal.”
“Now, are you going?”
“Yes, yes,” said he, hastily, as she made one step towards him; “I’m going. Though I don’t see why I should be the only man turned out, when I’ll bet I’m the only one with matrimonial intentions.”
“You don’t consider that you are the only one with the audacity to spy upon me and to enter this house like a burglar.”
“Now how did you guess that? Why, you must have been only shamming sleep then, when I hung on to the window-sill outside, and saw you looking so invitingly like Cinderella that I was obliged to come in to get a nearer view.”
Miss Denison was breathless with indignation. He continued—
“As for spying, I’m not the only one. I’ve caught the parson prowling about here these two evenings. And, look here, of course I saw from the first you liked him better than me, and now you have heard the story about him, no doubt you think him more interesting than ever. But I don’t intend to be snubbed for a murderer. And so I tell you this, Miss Denison: if you are any more civil to him than you are to me, I’ll just spread abroad something I know and that nobody else knows, and that is: how he disposed of the body of the first poor girl who was unlucky enough to have anything to do with him. And perhaps that will stop you from being the second.”
With these words Mr. Williams came out from his place of refuge behind the armchair, and keeping at a respectful distance from the fair but stalwart arm which he had already learnt to fear, sidled out of the room with a swaggering bow. He looked back, however, when he was safely outside the door.
“Don’t lose heart,” he said. “I shall make you another offer some day; perhaps half a dozen. They’ll come to be your one amusement in this hole.”
With this delightful promise, Mr. Frederick Williams opened the front door and let himself out, leaving his involuntary hostess unable to distinguish which feeling was strongest in her breast—amusement or disgust at an impudence which she might well consider unparalleled.
And that vague, insolent threat of his, what did it mean? Could he really know anything about the mystery concerning the girl Ellen Mitchell?