The Silent House

As for Lucian and his charming hostess, they found that they had so many tastes in common, and enjoyed each other's society so much, that they were hardly ever apart. Diana saw with the keen eyes of a woman that Lucian was in love with her, and let it be seen in a marvellously short space of time, and without much difficulty, that she was in love with him.

But even after Lucian had been at the manor a fortnight, and daily in the society of Diana, he spoke no word of love. Seeing how beautiful she was, and how dowered with lands and rents and horses, he began to ask himself whether it was not rather a presumption on his part to ask her to share his life. He had only three hundred a year – six pounds a week – and a profession in which, as yet, he had not succeeded; so he could offer her very little in exchange for her beauty, wealth, and position.

The poor lover became quite pale with fruitless longing, and his spirits fell so low that good Miss Priscilla one day drew him aside to ask about his health.

"For," said she, "if you are ill in body, Mr. Denzil, I know of some remedies – old woman's medicines you will call them, no doubt – which, with the blessing of God, may do you good."

"Thank you, Miss Barbar, but I am not ill in body – worse luck!" and Lucian sighed.

"Why worse luck, Mr. Denzil?" said the old lady severely. "That is an ungrateful speech to Providence."

"I would rather be ill in body than ill in mind," explained Denzil, blushing, for in some ways he was younger than his years.

"And are you ill in mind?" asked Miss Priscilla, with a twinkle in her eyes.

"Alas! yes. Can you cure me?"

"No. For that cure I shall hand you over to Diana."

"Miss Priscilla!" And Lucian coloured again, this time with vexation.

"Oh, Mr. Denzil," laughed the governess, "because I am old you must not imagine that I am blind. I see that you love Diana."

"Better than my life!" cried the devoted lover with much fervour.

"Of course! That is the usual romantic answer to make. Well, why do you not tell Diana so, with any pretty additions your fancy suggests?"

"She might not listen to me," said this doubting lover dolefully.

"Very true," replied his consoler. "On the other hand, she might. Besides, Mr. Denzil, however much the world may have altered since my youth, I have yet to learn that it is the lady's part to propose to the gentleman."

"But, Miss Barbar, I am poor!"

"What of that? Diana is rich."

"Don't I know it? For that very reason I hesitate to ask her."

"Because you are afraid of being called a fortune-hunter, I suppose," said the old lady drily. "That shows a lack of moral courage which is not worthy of you, Mr. Denzil. Take an old woman's advice, young man, and put your fortunes to the test. Remember Montrose's advice in the song."

"You approve of my marrying Diana – I mean Miss Vrain?"

"From what I have seen of you, and from what Diana has told me about you, I could wish her no better husband. Poor girl! After the tragical death of her father, and her wretched life with that American woman, she deserves a happy future."

"And do you think – do you really think that she – that she – would be happy with – with me?" stammered Lucian, hardly daring to believe Miss Priscilla, whose acquaintance with him seemed too recent to warrant such trust.

The wise old woman laughed and nodded.

"Ask her yourself, my dear," she said, patting his hand. "She will be able to answer that question better than I. Besides, girls like to say 'yea' or 'nay,' themselves."

This seemed to be good advice, and certainly none could have been more grateful to the timid lover. That very night he made up his mind to risk his fortunes by speaking to Diana. It was no easy matter for the young man to bring himself to do so, for cool, bold, and fluent as he was on ordinary occasions, the fever of love rendered him shy and nervous. The looks of Diana acted on his spirits as the weather does on a barometer. A smile made him jocund and hilarious, a frown abashed him almost to gloom. And in the April weather of her presence he was as variable as a weather-cock. It is, therefore, little to be wondered at that one ordinarily daring should tremble to ask a question which might be answered in the negative. True, Miss Barbar's partisanship heartened him a trifle, but he still feared for the result. Cupid, as well as conscience, makes cowards of us all – and Lucian was a doubting lover.

Towards the end of his stay Miss Priscilla – as usual – fell asleep one evening after dinner, and Diana, feeling the house too warm, stepped out into the garden, followed by Lucian. The sun had just set behind the undulating hills, and the clear sky, to the zenith, was of a pale rose colour, striped towards the western horizon with lines of golden cloud. In the east a cold blue prevailed, and here and there a star sparkled in the arch of the sky.

The garden was filled with floating shadows, which seemed to glide into it from the dark recesses of the near woods, and in a copse some distance away a nightingale was singing to his mate, and filling the silence with melody. The notes fluted sweetly through the still air, mingling with the sigh of the rising wind and the musical splashing of the fountain. This shot up a pillar of silvery water to a great height, and in descending sprinkled the near flower beds with its cold spray. All was inexpressibly beautiful to the eye and soothing to the ear – a scene and an hour for love. It might have been the garden of the Capulets, and those who moved in it – the immortal lovers, as yet uncursed by Fate.

"Only three more days," sighed Lucian as he walked slowly down the path beside Diana, "and then that noisy London again."

"Perhaps it is as well," said Diana, in her practical way. "You would rust here. But is there any need for you to go back so soon?"

"I must – for my own peace of mind."

Diana started and blushed at the meaning of his tone and words.

Then she recovered her serenity and sat down on an old stone seat, near which stood a weather-beaten statue of Venus. Seeing that she kept silent in spite of his broad hint, Lucian – to bring matters to a crisis – resolved to approach the subject in a mythological way through the image of the goddess.

"I am sorry I am not a Greek, Miss Vrain," he said abruptly.

"Why?" asked Diana, secretly astonished by the irrelevancy of the remark.

Lucian plucked a red rose from the bush which grew near the statue and placed it on the pedestal.

"Because I would lay my offering at the feet of the goddess, and touch her knees to demand a boon."

"What boon would you ask?" said Diana in a low voice.

"I would beseech that in return for my rose of flowers she would give me the rose of womanhood."

"A modest request. Do you think it would be granted?"

"Do you?" asked Lucian, picking up the rose again.

"How can I reply to your parables, or read your dark sayings?" said Diana, half in earnest, half in mirth.

"I can speak plainer if you permit it."

"If – if you like!"

The young man laid the rose on Diana's lap. "Then in return for my rose give me – yourself!"

"Mr. Denzil!" cried Diana, starting up, whereby the flower fell to the ground. "You – you surprise me!"

"Indeed, I surprise myself," said Lucian sadly. "That I should dare to raise my eyes to you is no doubt surprising."

"I don't see that at all," exclaimed Diana coldly. "I like to be woo'd like a woman, not honoured like a goddess."

"You are both woman and goddess! But – you are not angry?"

"Why should I be angry?"

"Because I – I love you!"

"I cannot be angry with – with – shall we say a compliment."

"Oh, Diana!"

"Wait! wait!" cried Miss Vrain, waving back this too eager lover. "You cannot love me! You have known me only a month or two."

"Love can be born in an hour," cried Lucian eagerly. "I loved you on the first day I saw you! I love you now – I shall love you ever!"

"Will you truly love me ever, Lucian?"

"Oh, my darling! Can you doubt it? And you?" He looked at her hopefully.

"And I?" she repeated in a pretty mocking tone, "and I?" With a laugh, she bent and picked up the flower. "I take the rose and I give you – "

"Yourself!" cried the enraptured lover, and the next moment he was clasping her to his breast. "Oh, Diana, dearest! Will you really be my wife?"

"Yes," she said softly, and kissed him.

For a few moments the emotions of both overcame them too much to permit further speech; then Diana sat down and made Lucian sit beside her.

"Lucian," she said in a firm voice, "I love you, and I shall be your wife – when you find out who killed my poor father!"

"It is impossible!" he cried in dismay.

"No. We must prosecute the search. I have no right to be happy while the wretch who killed him is still at large. We have failed hitherto, but we may succeed yet! and when we succeed I shall marry you."

"My darling!" cried Lucian in ecstasy; and then in a more subdued tone: "I'll do all I can to find out the truth. But, after all, from what point can I begin afresh?"

"From the point of Mrs. Vrain," said Diana unexpectedly.

"Mrs. Vrain!" cried the startled Lucian. "Do you still suspect her?"

"Yes, I do!"

"But she has cleared herself on the most undeniable evidence."

"Not in my eyes," said Diana obstinately. "If Mrs. Vrain is innocent, how did she find out that the unknown man murdered in Geneva Square was my father?"

"By his assumption of the name of Berwin, which was mentioned in the advertisement; also from the description of the body, and particularly by the mention of the cicatrice on the right cheek, and of the loss of the little finger of the left hand."

Diana started. "I never heard that about the little finger," she said hurriedly. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. I saw myself when I knew your father as Berwin, that he had lost that little finger."

"Then, Lucian, you did not see my father!"

"What!" cried Denzil, hardly able to credit her words.

"My father never lost a finger!" cried Diana, starting to her feet. "Ah, Lucian, I now begin to see light. That man who called himself Berwin, who was murdered, was not my father. No, I believe – on my soul, I believe that my father, Mark Vrain, is alive!"

CHAPTER XXIII

A STARTLING THEORY

When Diana declared that her father yet lived, Lucian drew back from her in amazement, for of all impossible things said of this impossible case this saying of hers was the strangest and most incredible. Hitherto, not a suspicion had entered his mind but that the man so mysteriously slain in Geneva Square was Mark Vrain, and, for the moment, he thought that Diana was distraught to deny so positive a fact.

"It is impossible," said he, shaking his head, "quite impossible. Mrs. Vrain identified the corpse, and so did other people who knew your father well."

"As to Mrs. Vrain," said Diana contemptuously, "I quite believe she would lie to gain her own ends. And it may be that the man who was murdered was like my father in the face, but – "

"He had the mark on his cheek," interrupted Lucian, impatient of this obstinate belief in the criminality of Lydia.

"I know that mark well," replied Miss Vrain. "My father received it in a duel he fought in his youth, when he was a student in a German university; but the missing finger." She shook her head.

"He might have lost the finger while you were in Australia," suggested the barrister.

"He might," rejoined Diana doubtfully, "but it is unlikely. As to other people identifying the body, they no doubt did so by looking at the face and its scar. Still, I do not believe the murdered man was my father."

"If not, why should Mrs. Vrain identify the body as that of her husband?"

"Why? Because she wanted to get the assurance money."

"She may have been misled by the resemblance of the dead man to your father."

"And who provided that resemblance? My dear Lucian, I would not be at all surprised to learn that there was conspiracy as well as murder in this matter. My father left his home, and Lydia could not find him. I quite believe that. As she cannot prove his death, she finds it impossible to obtain the assurance money; so what does she do?"

"I cannot guess," said Lucian, anxious to hear Diana's theory.

"Why, she finds a man who resembles my father, and sets him to play the part of the recluse in Geneva Square. She selects a man in ill health and given to drink, that he may die the sooner; and, by being buried as Mark Vrain, give her the money she wants. When you told me of this man Berwin's coughing and drinking, I thought it strange, as my father had no consumptive disease when I left him, and never, during his life, was he given to over-indulgence in drink. Now I see the truth. This dead man was Lydia's puppet."

"Even granting that this is so, which I doubt, Diana, why should the man be murdered?"

"Why?" cried Diana fiercely. "Because he was not dying quickly enough for that woman's purpose. She did not kill him herself, if her alibi is to be credited, but she employed Ferruci to murder him."

"You forget Signor Ferruci also proved an alibi."

"A very doubtful one," said Miss Vrain scornfully. "You did not ask that Dr. Jorce the questions you should have done. Go up to London now, Lucian, see him at Hampstead, and find out if Ferruci was at his house at eight o'clock on Christmas Eve. Then I shall believe him guiltless; till then, I hold him but the creature and tool of Lydia."

"Jorce declares that Ferruci was with him at the house when the murder was committed?"

"Can you believe that? Ferruci may have made it worth the while of this doctor to lie. And even granting that much, the presence of Ferruci at the Jersey Street house shows that he knew what was going to take place on that night, and perhaps arranged with another man to do the deed. Either way you look at it, he and Lydia are implicated."

"I tell you it is impossible, Diana," said Lucian, finding it vain to combat this persistent belief. "All this plotting of crime is such as is found in novels, not in real life – "

"In real life," cried Diana, taking the words out of his mouth, "more incredible things take place than can be conceived by the most fantastic imagination of an author. Look at this talk of ours – it began with words of love and marriage speeches, and it ends with a discussion of murder. But this I say, Lucian, that if you love me, and would have me marry you, you must find out the truth of these matters. Learn if this dead man is my father – for from what you have told me of the lost finger I do not believe that he is. Hunt down the assassin, and discover if he is whom I believe him to be – Ferruci himself; and learn, if you can, what Lydia has to do with all these evil matters. Do this, and I am yours. Refuse, and I shall not marry you!"

"You set me a hard task," said Lucian, with a sigh, "and I hardly know how to set about it."

"Be guided by me," replied Diana. "Go up to London and put an advertisement in the papers offering a reward for the discovery of my father. He is of medium height, with grey hair, and has a clean-shaven face, with a scar on it – "

"You describe the dead man, Diana."

"But he has not lost a finger," continued Diana, as though she had not heard him. "If my father, for fear of Lydia, is in hiding, he will come to you or me in answer to that advertisement."

"But he must have seen the report of his death by violence in the papers, if indeed he is alive," urged Lucian, at his wit's end.

"My father is weak in the head, and perhaps was afraid to come out in the midst of such trouble. But if you put in the advertisement that I – his daughter – am in England, he will come to me, for with me he knows he is safe. Also call on Dr. Jorce, and find out the truth about Signor Ferruci."

"And then?"

"Then when you have done these two things we shall see what will come of them. Promise me to do what I ask you."

"I promise," said Lucian, taking her hand, "but you send me on a wild-goose chase."

"That may be, Lucian, but my heart – my presentiment – my – instinct – whatever you like to call it – tells me otherwise. Now let us go inside."

"Shall we tell Miss Barbar of our engagement?" asked Denzil timidly.

"No; you will tell no one of that until we learn the truth of this conspiracy. When we do, Lucian, you will find that my father is not dead but is alive, and will be at our wedding."

"I doubt it – I doubt it."

"I am sure of it," answered Diana, and slipping her hand within the arm of her lover she walked with him up to the house. It was the strangest of wooings.

Miss Barbar, with a true woman's interest in love affairs, was inclined to congratulate them both when they entered, deeming – as the chance had been so propitious – that Lucian had proposed. But Diana looked so stern, and Lucian so gloomy, that she held her peace.

Later on, when her curiosity got the better of her desire not to offend her pupil, she asked if Denzil had spoken.

"Yes," replied Diana, "he has spoken."

"And you have refused him?" cried the old lady in dismay, for she did not relish the idea that Lucian should have lost by her counsel.

"No; I have not refused him."

"Then you have said 'yes,' my dear!"

"I have said sufficient," replied Diana cautiously. "Please do not question me any further, Miss Barbar. Lucian and I understand one another very well."

"She calls him by his Christian name," thought the wise old dame, "that is well. She will not speak of her happiness, that is ill," and in various crafty ways Miss Barbar tried to learn how matters actually stood between the pair.

But if she was skilful in asking questions, Diana was equally skilful in baffling them, and Miss Barbar learned nothing more than her pupil chose to tell her, and that was little enough. To perplex her still further, Lucian departed for London the next day, with a rather disconsolate look on his handsome face, and gave his adviser no very satisfactory explanation at parting.

So Miss Barbar was forced to remain in ignorance of the success or failure of her counsel, and could by no means discover if the marriage she was so anxious to bring about was likely to take place. And so ended Denzil's visit to Berwin Manor.

In the meantime, Lucian went back to London with a heavy heart, for he did not see how he was to set about the task imposed on him by Diana. At first he thought it would be best to advertise, as she advised, but this he considered would do no good, as if Vrain – supposing him to be alive and in hiding – would not come out at the false report of his murder, he certainly would not appear in answer to an advertisement that might be a snare.

Then Lucian wondered if it would be possible to have the grave opened a second time that Diana might truly see if the corpse was that of her father or of another man. But this also was impossible, and – to speak plainly – useless, for by this time the body would not be recognisable; therefore, it would be of little use to exhume the poor dead man, whomsoever he might be, for the second time. Finally, Lucian judged it would be wisest of all to call on Dr. Jorce, and find out why he was friendly with Ferruci, and how much he knew of the Italian's doings.

While the barrister was making up his mind to this course he was surprised to receive a visit from no less a person than Mr. Jabez Clyne, the father of Lydia.

The little man, usually so bright and merry, now looked worried and ill at ease. Lucian – so much as he had seen of him – had always liked him better than Lydia, and was sorry to see him so downcast. Nor when he learned the reason was he better pleased. Clyne told it to him in a roundabout way.

"Do you know anything against Signor Ferruci?" he asked, when the first greetings were over.

"Very little, and that bad," replied Denzil shortly.

"Do you refer to the horrible death of my son-in-law?"

"Yes, I do, Mr. Clyne. I believe Ferruci had a hand in it, and if you bring him here I'll tell him so."

"Can you prove it?" asked Clyne eagerly.

"No. As yet, Ferruci has proved that he was not in Geneva Square on the night of the crime – or rather," added Lucian, correcting himself, "at the hour when the murder was committed."

Clyne's face fell. "I wish you could discover if he is guilty or not," he said. "I am anxious to know the truth."

"Why?" asked Lucian bluntly.

"Because if he is guilty, I don't want my daughter to marry a murderer."

"What! Is Mrs. Vrain going to marry him?"

"Yes," said the little man disconsolately, "and I wish she wasn't."

"So do I – for her own sake. I thought she did not like him. She said as much to me."

"I can't make her out, Mr. Denzil. She grew tired of him for a time, but now she has taken up with him again, and nothing I can say or do will stop the marriage. I love Lydia beyond words, as she is my only child, and I don't want to see her married to a man of doubtful reputation like Ferruci. So I thought I'd call and see if you could help me."

"I can't," replied Lucian. "As yet I have found out nothing likely to implicate Ferruci in the crime."

"But you may," said Clyne hopefully.

Lucian shrugged his shoulders.

"If I do, you shall know at once," he said.

CHAPTER XXIV

LUCIAN IS SURPRISED

Although Denzil received Mr. Clyne with all courtesy, and promised to aid him, if he could, in breaking off the marriage with Ferruci, by revealing his true character to Mrs. Vrain, he by no means made a confidant of the little man, or entrusted him with the secret of his plans. Clyne, as he well knew, was dominated in every way by his astute daughter, and did he learn Lucian's intentions, he was quite capable – through sheer weakness of character – of revealing the same to Lydia, who, in her turn – since she was bent upon marrying Ferruci – might retail them to the Italian, and so put him on his guard.

Denzil, therefore, rid himself of the American by promising to tell him, on some future occasion, all that he knew about Ferruci. Satisfied with this, Clyne departed in a more cheerful mood, and, apparently, hoped for the best.

After his departure, Lucian again began to consider his idea of calling on Jorce regarding the alibi of Ferruci. On further reflection he judged that, before paying the visit to Hampstead, it might be judicious to see Rhoda again, and refresh his memory in connection with the events of Christmas Eve. With this idea he put on his hat, and shortly after the departure of Clyne walked round to Jersey Street.

On ringing the bell, the door was opened by Rhoda in person, looking sharper and more cunning than ever. She informed him that he could not see Mrs. Bensusan, as that good lady was in bed with a cold.

"I don't want to see your mistress, my girl," said Lucian quickly, to stop Rhoda from shutting the door in his face, which she seemed disposed to do. "I desire to speak with you."

"About that there murder?" asked Rhoda sharply. Then in reply to the nod of Lucian she continued: "I told you all I knew about it when you called before. I don't know nothing more."

"Can you tell me the name of the dark man you saw in the yard?"

"No, I can't. I know nothing about him."

"Did you ever hear Mr. Wrent mention his name?"

"No, sir. He called and he went, and I saw him in the back yard at 8.30. I never spoke to him, and he never spoke to me."

"Could you swear to the man if you saw him?"

"Yes, I could. Have you got him with you?" asked Rhoda eagerly.

"Not at present," answered Lucian, rather surprised by the vindictive expression on the girl's face. "But later on I may call upon you to identify him."

"Do you know who he is?" asked the servant quickly.

"I think so."

"Did he kill that man?"

"Possibly," said Denzil, wondering at these very pointed questions. "Why do you ask?"

"I have my reasons, sir. Where is my cloak?"

"I will return it later on; it will probably be used as evidence."

Rhoda started. "Where?" she demanded, with a frown.

"At the trial."

"Do you think they'll hang the person who killed Mr. Vrain?"

"If the police catch him, and his guilt is proved, I am sure they will hang him."

The girl's eyes flashed with a wicked light, and she clasped and unclasped her hands with a quick, nervous movement. "I hope they will," she said in a low, rapid voice. "I hope they will."