“I hope no scandal has gathered round his name,” said Lady Beltham quickly.
“You need have no fear of that,” the clergyman replied in the same low tone. “The rumour that got about when the crime was first discovered, that Lord Beltham had been surprised in an intrigue and killed in revenge, has not won acceptance. Local opinion agrees that he was decoyed into a trap and killed by the man Gurn, who meant to rob him, but who was either surprised or thought he was going to be, and fled before he had time to take the money or the jewels from the body of his victim. They know that the murderer has never been caught, but they also know that there is a price on his head, and they all hope the police—Oh, forgive me for recalling all these painful memories!”
While he had been speaking, Lady Beltham’s face had expressed almost every shade of emotion and distress; it seemed to be drawn with pain at his concluding words. But she made an effort to control herself, and spoke resignedly.
“It cannot be helped, dear Mr. Hope. Go on.”
But the clergyman changed the topic.
“Oh, I was quite forgetting,” he said more brightly. “The under-steward has turned out the two Tillys, quite on his own authority: you must remember them, two brothers, blacksmiths, who drank a great deal and paid very little, and created so much scandal in the place.”
“I object to the under-steward doing any such thing without referring to me first,” Lady Beltham exclaimed warmly. “Man’s duty is to persuade and forgive, not to judge and punish. Kindness breeds kindness, and it is pity that wins amendment. Why should a subordinate, my under-steward, presume to do what I would not permit myself to do?”
She had sprung to her feet and was pacing excitedly about the room; she had wholly dropped the impassive mask she habitually wore, concealing her real personality.
The three girls watched her in silence.
The door opened anew, and Silbertown came in, the majordomo of Lady Beltham’s establishment at Neuilly. He brought the evening letters, and the girls speedily took all the envelopes and newspapers from the tray and began to sort and open them, while the majordomo entered into conversation with his mistress, and the Rev. William Hope seized the opportunity to say good night, and take his leave.
Many of the letters were merely appeals to help in money or in kind, but one long letter Lisbeth handed to Lady Beltham. She glanced at the signature.
“Ah, here is news of M. Etienne Rambert,” she exclaimed, and as Thérèse instinctively drew near, knowing that she, too, might hear something of what her old friend had written, Lady Beltham put the letter into her hand. “You read it, my dear, and then you can tell me presently what he has to say.”
Thérèse read the letter eagerly. M. Etienne Rambert had left Paris a week before, upon a long and important journey. The energetic old fellow was to make a trip in Germany first, and then go from Hamburg to England, where he had some business to attend to on behalf of Lady Beltham, with whom he was on more confidential terms than ever. Then he meant to sail from Southampton and spend the winter in Colombia, where he had important interests of his own to look after.
While Thérèse was reading, Lady Beltham continued her conversation with her majordomo.
“I am glad you had the park gate seen to this afternoon,” she said. “You know how nervous I am. My childhood in Scotland was very lonely, and ever since then I have had a vague terror of solitude and darkness.”
The majordomo reassured her: he had no lack of self-confidence.
“There is nothing for your ladyship to be afraid of; the house is perfectly safe, and carefully guarded. Walter, the porter, is a first-rate watchdog and always sleeps with one eye open. And I, too—”
“Yes, I know, Silbertown,” the young widow replied; “and when I give myself time to think I am not nervous. Thank you; you can leave me now.”
She turned to the three girls.
“I am tired, dears; we won’t stay up any later.”
Lisbeth and Susannah kissed her affectionately and went away. Thérèse lingered a moment, to bring a book, a Bible, and place it on a table close to Lady Beltham’s chair. Lady Beltham laid a hand upon her head as if in blessing, and said gently:
“Good night; God bless you, dear child!”
XXI
Lord Beltham’s Murderer
It was on the point of midnight, and absolute stillness reigned throughout the house.
But Lady Beltham had not gone to bed. Although she had remained in the great hall where she did her work, she had been unable to settle down to any occupation. She had read a little, and begun a letter, got up and sat down; and finally, beginning to feel chilly, she had drawn an easy chair up to the hearth, where a log was just burning out, and stretching out her slippers to the warmth had fallen into a waking dream.
A sound caught her ear and she sat upright. At first she thought it was some trick of the imagination, but in another minute the noise grew louder; there was the hurrying of feet and voices, muffled at first but rapidly becoming louder, and at last a regular uproar, doors banging, glass breaking, and shouts from all parts of the house. Lady Beltham jumped up, nervous and trembling; she was just going to the window when she heard a shot and stopped dead where she stood. Then she rushed out into the vestibule.
“Help!” she screamed. “What on earth is the matter?” and remembering the girls for whom she had assumed responsibility, she called out anxiously for them. “Lisbeth! Thérèse! Susannah! Come to me!”
Doors upstairs were flung open, and with their hair streaming over their nightdresses Thérèse and Susannah rushed downstairs and crouched
