beatrice stared. at vivian's grey drawn face, bereft of youth, and at durban's savage green countenance, she looked spell-bound. a pause ensued. beatrice did not know what to make of the men: paslow's averted looks, and worn paleness; durban's curse for lady watson. would the fact that she did not inherit the money account for such emotions? she thought not, and so requested information.

"what is it?" she asked, looking from one to the other; but she looked longest at vivian.

"you have heard, missy," said durban, recovering himself somewhat. "we have lost the money."

"i can bear that, if i lose nothing else," said beatrice, her eyes still on paslow's grey face.

"but that she should get it!" cried durban, shaking impotent fists in the air, "after all she has done. and i can do nothing to force her to be fair. who would have thought the foul old thief would have squandered his gold on her silly face? i could----" here he caught sight of the frightened looks of beatrice, and let his hands fall. as he walked past vivian towards the kitchen, he breathed a sentence in the young man's ear. "she may know much," said durban imperatively, "but not all."

"great heaven! could i tell her all, do you think?" groaned the man.

beatrice caught the drift, if not the exact words of these whispers, and came towards vivian. durban was already within the kitchen, and had shut the door. the two were alone--she eager to know the worst; he silent, and tortured with much that he could not explain. "vivian, vivian," she continued, and laid her hand on his arm. he shook it off with a shudder. "my dear!" said beatrice, shrinking back; "oh! my dear," and she stared with fast-locked hands.

"not that," whispered the man, with dry lips. "you might have called me so when we stood under the witches' oak, but now"--he made a despairing gesture--"that is all at an end."

"do you take back your proposal of marriage?" asked the girl, colouring.

"i do, because i must." vivian looked at her hungrily, as though he would have given his life to take her in his arms--as was, indeed, the case. "if i did not love you so much," he said hoarsely, "i would lie; but loving you as i do, i must speak the truth."

"the whole of it?" she asked bitterly.

"so much as i may tell miss hedge."

"miss hedge?"

"i have no right to call you otherwise now," said paslow sadly. "i told you of a bar which prevented my asking you to be my wife?"

"yes; and you said that it had been removed."

"i was wrong. it is not removed. i had no right to speak."

"what is this bar?"

"i cannot tell you, beatrice." he caught suddenly at her hands. "if i could lie down and die at your dear feet, i would, for my heart is sick within me. i have sinned, and bitterly i am paying for my sin. when i spoke to you under the oak, i was then able to be your true lover, and hoped to be your loving husband. but now"--he flung away her hands--"that barrier which i thought removed, is still between us. i am not a free agent. i dare not ask you to be my wife."

"but you have asked me, and i have consented," she panted, red with shame and anger. "why are you playing with me like this?"

"why are the gods playing with both of us, you mean," he said, with a mirthless laugh. "were you and i on the other side of the world, we might be happy--and yet, even then it would be impossible. i love you, but you have every right to hate me."

"i don't understand one word you are talking about," said beatrice sharply, and tried to resolve some sense out of his wild words. "is it that you committed this crime?"

"i!" he started back amazed. "beatrice, i may be bad, but i am not so evil as that. i hated alpenny, and had every reason to hate him, but i never laid a finger on the poor wretch. i did not kill him myself, nor can i tell you who killed him. ah," he went on, half to himself, "durban said something of this--about the key of the small gate--but he explained."

"is what he said true?"

"perfectly true. i am innocent. it is not the murder that is a bar to divide us. i could face that out; but there are other things which prevent my being a free agent."

"have you a master, then?"

"i have those about me who know too much," said vivian fiercely, "and if anything would make me stain my hands with blood, it would be the knowledge that i am the sport of thieves and vagabonds. how it will all end i do not know--for me, that is. but for you, my best and dearest"--he made a step forward, but she evaded him.--"for you, i know the end. you must come to convent grange and----"

"go to the grange, after what you have said?" she flamed out.

"i shall not trouble you. i shall go to town. you can stay with dinah and with mrs. lilly for a time. then durban and i will see if we cannot get you some money from mrs.--that is, from lady watson."

"why should she give it to me?" asked beatrice, shrugging.

"because"--he began, then ended abruptly--"i cannot tell you."

"vivian"--beatrice moved swiftly forward and laid a firm hand on his shoulder--"i do not understand all this. mr. alpenny, poor wretch, hinted at crimes on your part."

"do you believe him?" asked vivian, turning his haggard young face towards her.

"no," she said firmly. "i love you too well for that."

"god bless you!" a tear dropped on the hand, which he kissed.

she drew it away. "but you are not open with me; you are not honest with me. if you have troubles, i have a right to share them. tell me of this barrier."

"no," said vivian firmly. "i cannot. i dare not. all i can say is that the barrier may be removed in time. only trust me."

"has the barrier to do with this crime?"

"in some ways."

"and with the death of colonel hall?"

"what do you know of that?" asked paslow, amazed.

"very little; but mrs. snow hinted----"

"that woman! she'll make mischief if she can. don't trust her. she hates you, beatrice."

"why should she? i hardly know her."

"but she knows you--that is, she knows of you. to explain what it all means would be to tell you much that i would rather you did not know--that you must never know."

"i am not a child----"

"you are the woman i love, and therefore i shall not allow your mind to be tainted with--with--with what i could tell you," he ended rather weakly.

beatrice reflected for a few minutes. apparently vivian was in some trouble connected with other people; possibly--as she guessed--with those scoundrels who surrounded alpenny, and of whom durban had talked. for some reason, which she could not guess, he was trying to keep from her things which were vile and evil. she could not think how a young country squire could be involved in alpenny's rogueries--which it seemed he was. and then his--but she gave up trying to solve the problem on such evidence as was before her. it only remained that she should use her own eyes, her own intelligence, and maybe, sooner or later, she would arrive at an understanding of things. then, perhaps, she would be enabled to remove this barrier which stood between them. strange though paslow's conduct was, and open to dire suspicion, she still loved him, and knew in her heart of hearts that she would love him until he died. this being the case, she made up her mind with the swiftness of a woman who is fighting for what she loves best, and looked at him searchingly. he was watching her with anxious eyes, but shifted his gaze to the ground when she looked at him.

"will you answer me a few questions?" she asked quietly.

"if i can," he replied, hesitating.

her lip curled in spite of herself. "you need not be afraid. i shall respect your secret, whatever it is--for the present, that is. meanwhile, perhaps you will tell me if you know who killed mr. alpenny?"

"no. i told you before that i did not know."

"have you any suspicion?"

"not even a suspicion," he answered frankly, and he looked at her as he spoke, so serenely, that she believed him.

"will you tell me about colonel hall's murder?"

"i know very little about it. i was a child at the time. mrs. lilly can tell you anything you wish to know. why do you ask?"

"because, from what mrs. snow said, i believe that the first murder of colonel hall is connected with the second murder of mr. alpenny."

"i don't believe that," muttered vivian, uneasily.

"i do. the murders--both of them--were committed by the man with the black patch. what do you know of that?"

"nothing, save that i used the words to frighten alpenny, and found them on the paper laid on my desk."

"do you know who laid that paper there?"

"i have not the least idea. the desk is near the window, and that was open. any one could have passed the paper through the window. i asked dinah and mrs. lilly, but neither one of them knew how the paper came to be there."

"if you remember," continued beatrice slowly, "mr. alpenny muttered something about it being the third time. well, then, i truly believe that the words you used unconsciously were a warning. twice he was warned, and on the third warning he expected to be killed. that was why, i believe, he arranged to go up to town, when he was struck down. you were used by someone as the unconscious instrument to give him the warning."

"i might have been, but----"

"that is," she added, coming so close to him that he felt her breath on his cheek, "if you really and truly are ignorant of the meaning of the words."

"i swear that i am," stammered vivian, turning red. "then your secret has nothing to do with the black patch?"

"no. i am as puzzled as you are over that. well?"

"well," said beatrice, looking over her shoulder--she had moved towards the door of her bedroom as he spoke--"i intend to go to the grange, and i do not care whether you stop there or not. the worst is over now. i know that you love me----"

"god knows that i do," he said hurriedly.

"and he knows that i love you," she went on steadily. "i don't care what crimes you have committed, or what stops you from again asking me to be your wife. i love you, and i intend to marry you----"

"beatrice!"

she threw up her hand to keep him at his distance. "wait! i intend to solve the mystery of these murders myself. the two are connected; and when i find out who killed these two men, i shall be able to marry you. is that not so?"

"possibly--that is----"

"you need say no more. tell dinah that i shall come to the grange this evening. for the present, good-day." and she went in and shut the door.

paslow stood where he was for a moment, then flung himself forward to kiss the wood of the door. "oh! my love--my love--my heart!" he murmured; "what a dreary, weary way you have marked out for yourself. but i shall follow you along the path of shadows, and perhaps we two will emerge at length into the sunshine."

he turned away, and, passing the kitchen carriage, knocked at the door sharply. durban appeared. "i heard everything," said the servant, who was now more composed.

"and what do you say, knowing what you do know?"

"i say, let missy go on. it may be that god intends her to learn the truth, and right matters."

"but lady watson has the money," vivian reminded him.

"she has everything," said durban bitterly; "she always did have everything." then, with an afterthought, "but what she really wanted, she never got, mr. paslow."

"and what was that?"

"never mind. least said, soonest mended. i will tell missy nothing, and you must hold your tongue also. only let us guard her from danger."

"i don't think there is danger for her, durban."

"ah--hum--one never knows. there are those--but no matter. let her go her ways. it may be that she may learn the truth, and put things straight."

"she can never put them straight for me," said vivian bitterly.

"i can do that," said durban. "let missy go to the grange. i go to london. you will have news from me."

paslow caught his arm as he turned to go. "you will not----"

"i am too fond of my neck for that," said durban, and went into his kitchen, while vivian, full of sore thoughts and yet with a certain glimmer of hope, now that beatrice was to take a hand in the game, went home to dinah.

beatrice packed her boxes and got ready to go. by five o'clock she was hatted and cloaked, and a trap was waiting at the gates to take her to convent grange along with her luggage. alpenny was to be buried on the morrow, but it was just as well that miss hedge should leave the camp to-night. but she was not to go yet for an hour, for scarcely had she reached the open gates, when a small lady, fashionably dressed, entered, and came straight towards her. when durban saw her, he frowned. "lady watson!" he breathed in the ear of his young mistress.

"she seems anxious to take possession of her property," said the girl bitterly, and looked carefully at the woman who had supplanted her in the race for alpenny's wealth.

lady watson looked--in the distance--like a child, so small and delicate and slender did she appear. but when she came close, which she did, with an engaging smile, beatrice saw that her face was covered with innumerable fine wrinkles, and that she was painted and powdered, and made up--as the saying is--to within an inch of her life. her hair was dyed a golden colour; she wore a veil to hide the too obvious make-up of her face; and the only young thing about her were a pair of sparkling eyes, of a bright brown. at one time she had been--without the aid of art--an extremely pretty woman: even now--with the aid of art--she looked attractive and youthful, providing she was looked at from a safe distance, like an oil-painting. her dress was ultra-fashionable, and she wore it with the air of a woman accustomed to spend no end of money in drapers' shops. her teeth were good, but probably were false, as was her smile. beatrice, a straightforward person herself, took an instinctive dislike to this gushing little mass of affectation, which came mincing towards her. she had no wish to cultivate the acquaintance. but lady watson gave her no time to express her dislike, either by looks or in words.

"my dear child--my sweet beatrice," she cried, in a rather shrill voice, and sailing forward with eager, outstretched hands, "how glad i am to see you at last! that dreadful mr. alpenny--he never would allow me to come and see you, although i was your mother's dearest--very dearest and closest friend. but then the poor creature is dead; and he really wasn't a nice person, when all is said and done."

"mrs. snow told me that you were my mother's friend," replied beatrice gravely, and surrendering her hands to the eager grasp. "i am glad to see you, as i wish to talk about my mother."

"oh!" lady watson started, and cast a suspicious look on the grave young face. "then you are not glad to see me on my own account?"

"i scarcely know you, lady watson."

"ah, but you will soon. i am a very easy person to get on with, as durban knows. dear old durban"--she turned a smiling glance at the half-caste, who looked gloomily at the ground--"he is as young as ever.--it is long since we met, durban?"

"very long, madam," said durban coldly, his eyes still on the ground, and beatrice saw his hands opening and shutting as though he could scarcely keep them from lady watson's throat.

"well, well, we won't talk of the past just yet--it is unpleasant, my dear durban," and she gave a pretty little shudder. durban made no reply in words, but, raising his eyes, looked at her meaningly. she shuddered again, this time with genuine terror, and turned pale under her rouge. beatrice wondered what secret there could be between the two--the fashionable lady and the poor servant.

"still the same gloomy thing," tittered lady watson, passing her flimsy handkerchief across a pair of dry lips; "you always were, you know, durban. the colonel--but there"--as durban looked at her again--"we'll not talk of the past, but of the future.--of course, dear miss hedge, you know that poor mr. alpenny left me his money?"

"i understand so," said beatrice coldly.

"and, naturally, you are annoyed?"

"no. before his death mr. alpenny gave me to understand that he would not leave me any money. you perhaps had a greater claim on him than i, lady watson."

the other tittered, and avoided durban's eyes. "oh dear me, no. the poor creature--mr. alpenny, you know--was in love with me ages and ages ago, long before i married sir reginald. but reginald is dead, and so is mr. alpenny--everyone seems to die--so dreadful, you know, miss hedge--or rather i should say beatrice. i shall call you beatrice, since we are to be friends, and live together."

"live together?"

"oh! haven't i told you? i am such a feather-head. yes. whenever i found that poor mr. alpenny--queer creature, wasn't he?--had left me his money, i said i would come down and ask you to be my companion--my child, in fact, if i may put it so. you shall have everything you want. i must have someone to look after the house, as the servants are so tiresome, and i am a lonely woman without a chick or child."

"miss hedge is going to convent grange," said durban thickly.

lady watson started and again turned pale. "that horrid place!" she said faintly.

"why do you call it that?" asked beatrice quickly.

"there was a horrid murder committed there ages ago. i was in the house at the time, and----"

"madam," interposed durban sharply; "please do not tell miss hedge anything more. she has had enough horrors for the time being."

lady watson looked straight at durban, and he looked straight at her. the situation was adjusted between them without words, and although beatrice protested that she wished to hear about the earlier crime, the frivolous little woman declined to say another word.

"how can one talk of such things in the midst of such lovely scenery as you have here?" she cried, and put up a tortoise-shell lorgnette to survey the camp. "quite delicious. i shall make this a kind of country-house. so odd, you know, with all these railway carriages. dear mr. alpenny! he was so very queer in his tastes. but i'll come here with you, dearest beatrice, and we'll garden and live like milkmaids--like marie antoinette, you know. rural life--delicious."

"i am going to live at the grange, lady watson."

"but i want you to be my companion. i insist." lady watson spoke with some sharpness, as apparently she was a lady not accustomed to be thwarted in her wishes.

"i have arranged to live at the grange," said beatrice, and durban nodded his approval; "for a time, that is. afterwards, i intend to go out as a governess."

"what! with that face and figure? you foolish girl, i won't allow it. you must enter society on my money--or rather on that poor creature's, alpenny's, money--and marry and----"

"i don't think you have any right to tell me what to do, lady watson," said beatrice, annoyed by this imperious air.

"as your mother's dearest friend?"

"i don't recognise that as an authority. but if you will give, me your address in town, i'll come and see you and talk about my dear mother. i want to know everything about her."

"i can tell you nothing," said lady watson tartly; "that is, i won't, unless you come as my companion."

"lady watson, i thank you very much for your offer; but i go to the grange, and as i am already overdue, i must leave you now. good-day."

she held out her hand, which lady watson waved aside. "you provoking girl, i won't say good-day. i am stopping with mrs. snow, and will come and see you at the grange. give me a kiss"; and before beatrice could stop her, lady watson kissed her warmly. when the little woman drew back, beatrice saw to her surprise that the bright brown eyes were filled with tears.