On the way home from the common, Cyril and Bella agreed that it would be wise to say nothing about her true parentage. In the first place, it would benefit no one to be thus candid, and in the second, such a statement would lead to questions being asked which might get Durgo into trouble. After all, the lovers argued, since Pence, as the chief party, did not move in the matter, it was useless for them to fight his battles. The more particularly when Durgo had acted so generously in surrendering the jewels. The black man had behaved in a way for which Cyril would not have given him credit. Few members of the boasting white race would have done as much.

According to the arrangement which the lovers came to, Bella was to remain Miss Huxham to the world until such time as Edwin Lister could be found, and the truth of Huxham's death became known. Of course, with jewels valued at forty thousand pounds, the girl was quite an heiress, and she proceeded to build castles in the air for the advancement of Cyril, when he became her husband. The young man did not say much, as he did not wish to damp her ardour, but he privately thought that if his father were in possession of the jewels he would not surrender them easily. If Durgo was generous, Edwin Lister, as his son knew, was not, and since he had risked his neck to get the treasure he would certainly not hand it over to a girl whom he did not know, for a mere sentimental whim. That the girl was to be his son's wife, and that the son would benefit by the sale of the jewels, would make no difference.

On the way back to the cottage, Bella recovered her self-control and her spirits. It was a wonderful relief to her to learn that she was not the daughter of the gruff old mariner, whom she had never liked. Looking back on her life at Bleacres, Bella no longer wondered that her supposed father had never shown her any affection, and she shuddered when she recalled the terrible fact that his hands were red with blood. On consideration, however, she gave Huxham full credit for the way in which he had acted towards her. He had come to England a thief and a murderer, it is true, but he could easily have left her in the care of the people who looked after her in a little Croydon house. Bella could scarcely remember that house or the woman who stood to her in the place of a mother, her own being dead.

Almost her earliest recollection was being taken from Croydon by Captain Huxham and placed with some friends of his at Shepherd's Bush until she was nine years old. Then she lived with Huxham for a few years, and ultimately was sent to the Hampstead boarding-school, whence she returned to Bleacres at the age of twenty. Thus the captain had educated her and had looked after her, and in his own coarse way had proved himself to be generous to a certain extent. Badly as he had acted in robbing her of her heritage, he might have behaved infinitely worse. And by her heritage Bella meant the jewels. With the property and the income left to Mrs. Coppersley, now Mrs. Vand, she had nothing to do, and she no longer grudged the woman what she had schemed to get. But it was probable that had Mrs. Vand not so schemed, Huxham, for very shame, might have given his adopted daughter his nefarious earnings.

"I must not be hard on Captain Huxham," said Bella, when Cyril brought her to the gate, "for, in his own strange way, he acted kindly. But I am glad that he did not leave me anything, as I am certain he earned his money in some shady manner."

"A kind of Captain Kidd," assented Lister gravely. "I agree with you. But the old ruffian had a soft spot in his heart for you, my dear."

"No," said Bella, shaking her head, "I would not say that exactly. He suffered from remorse and therefore looked me out when he came to England. I did not find him an affectionate father by any means. But he was just, in a grim way, and even generous. He grudged me nothing save ready money. I wonder if Mrs. Vand knows the truth."

"You said yourself that she did not," replied Lister quietly, "and I am inclined to think so too. A tyrant like Mrs. Vand would have been only too glad to tell you the unpleasant truth."

"Unpleasant? Why, it is a delightful truth!"

"Unpleasant from Mrs. Vand's point of view, since, had she known that you were not her brother's daughter, in no way could you claim the money."

Bella shrugged her shoulders. "I am very, very glad that she has got the money, and much good may it do her. But I am thankful that Captain Huxham did not reveal the truth about me to her. Now she need never know."

"It matters very little whether she knows or not," retorted Cyril. "She cannot gain possession of the jewels. Those are clearly yours."

"How are we going to gain possession of them?" asked Bella lingering.

Cyril looked hopelessly up to the blue sky. "Heaven only knows! The first thing to be done is to find my father and see if they are in his possession. And now that we are parting, Bella, and you feel better, I don't mind telling you that I don't think my father will give them up – if indeed he has them."

"But to me, his son's future wife – "

"My father is quite unbiassed by sentimental considerations," said Cyril very dryly. "What he holds, he keeps. However, there is plenty of time to talk of this matter when we meet my father. Meanwhile, what will you do?"

Bella shook the bundle of papers which she carried. "I am going to my bedroom to read these," she said seriously. "I wish to learn everything that concerns my true parentage. I may have relatives, you know."

"If you have," said Lister emphatically, "I only trust that you will leave them severely alone. I don't care for relatives; they ask everything and give nothing."

"Well," said Bella smiling, for she had quite recovered her spirits, "so long as I have you, I need no sisters or cousins or aunts. Good-bye, dear. No, don't kiss me; someone may be looking on."

"What of that? Everyone knows that we are engaged."

"It doesn't do to emphasise the engagement in public," said the girl seriously, and ran into the cottage. At the door she turned. "I shall tell you all that I read in these papers," she called out, and vanished, while Cyril returned home to think over the strange turn which events had taken. And things were strange, for in striving to solve one mystery they had solved another. In seeking for Huxham's assassin they had found the true father of Bella.

Dora had not yet returned, so Bella, in the seclusion of her bedroom, felt relieved. She did not wish, as yet, to share her secret even with the little school-mistress, good friend as that amiable woman had proved to be. Locking her door she sat down and unrolled the bundle. It consisted of many sheets of foolscap, and appeared to be a kind of rough diary kept by Jabez Huxham, when he was in Africa. The script was in his crooked painful writing, but was legible enough, and after some practice Bella managed to read it fairly easily. Seated on her bed, she perused what was set down, and found the reading extremely interesting.

The sheets seemed to have been torn from a manuscript book, for the diary both commenced and ended abruptly and dealt entirely with Maxwell Faith and his doings. The old pirate had evidently ripped the pages from the diary which he kept and had placed them in the carved chest, which Mrs. Tunks had found in the attic. There also, according to Durgo's story, the jewels had been stored, so apparently Huxham had used the chest – which had belonged to Faith – as a repository for all that concerned the dead trader. But Edwin Lister could scarcely have gone to the garret to seek the chest and get the jewels, since he did not know his way about the old mansion. It was, therefore, evident that Huxham had kept the jewels in his study safe, and had removed the chest containing the torn-out leaves to the attic. Afterwards he had apparently placed the papers in the safe also, where Pence had probably found them. But Bella did not pause to think out these matters. She was to much interested in the story which was set down.

Huxham stated abruptly that he met Maxwell Faith at Calabar, and had been engaged by him to transport certain goods up the Cross River, Nigeria, as far as Ogrude, when they were to be taken in canoes up to Yahe on the stream of that name. The goods were for Kawal, Durgo's father, with whom Faith appeared to have had many dealings. Faith and Huxham – so the writer said – got on very well, and the former told the latter much about himself and his past. The trader declared that he was the son of a wealthy Huntingdon Quaker, but had been disowned by his family and by the Society of Friends, because he had married a lady who was a Roman Catholic. There was one daughter, who had been born in London and had cost the mother her life. Faith said that he had placed his daughter Isabella with some friends of his at Croydon, and had come to Nigeria to make money for her. From what Bella could gather, her father appeared to have been desperately fond of her.

Afterwards Huxham and Faith parted, but met again in the Hinterland at the chief town of Kawal and again became friendly. Then the trader told Huxham that because he had supplied the chief with guns and ammunition, and had proved his friendship in many ways, he had received ancient jewels to the amount of forty thousand pounds. He was going home to his daughter with the money. At this part of the diary a portion of the manuscript was torn away, apparently that which dealt with the murder of Faith by Huxham.

The story commenced abruptly again with the statement that the writer was going to England with his earnings and with the jewels; and intending to seek out Faith's little daughter and adopt her. Huxham gave no reason for doing so in his diary; but Bella, reading between the lines, guessed that the man was overcome with remorse – a strange thing for so hardened a sinner as Huxham undoubtedly was. Then came hasty notes of Huxham's fears lest he should be robbed for the sake of the jewels, and reference to an unknown man who was dogging his steps. Ogrude, Afikpa, Obubra and Calabar were towns mentioned as having been the scene of adventures with this man, whose name was not given. Afterwards the hasty notes detailed the finding of Faith's little daughter at Croydon, her adoption by the writer and her removal to Shepherd's Bush. A few remarks were made relative to the fears of Huxham, and of his determination to find some place in the country where he would be safe from pursuit. The final page was torn off in the middle, and Bella could read no more.

Putting away the bundle in her box, she reflected on what she had read. It was easy for her to find her Quaker relatives, as the name and address of the family were given. Evidently these same relatives were rich, but very stiff-necked in Quaker traditions. Bella, however, thought very little of this at the moment. Her brain was employed in wondering if Huxham had met with his death at the hands of the unknown man who had dogged his footsteps in Nigeria. Without doubt this man knew of the existence of the jewels, and that Huxham had murdered Faith to get them. It might be that he determined to get the jewels, and, having traced Huxham to England after long years, had killed him and so gained his end. And this man – Bella asked herself the question earnestly – was this man Edwin Lister? She resolved to tell Cyril and to give him the papers to read. He could decide better than she, and probably Durgo could throw much light on the subject.

But there was no doubt that Huxham had bought the Solitary Farm, and had planted the corn thickly, and had mounted the search-light on the roof of Bleacres, so that he might defend himself from robbery and possibly from death. But all his precautions had been in vain, and he had been struck down at last in his very fortress. And by Edwin Lister! Bella felt certain that, as Edwin Lister had been many years in Nigeria and had been a close friend of Kawal's, he must be the unknown man to whom Huxham had so often referred. Lister was the assassin; there could be no doubt on that point.

Very thoughtfully the girl locked up the papers, and descended to the drawing-room to wait for the return of Dora. She greatly wished to speak to her friend about what she had discovered, but such a confidence was not to be thought of, as many things had to be done first. Until Edwin Lister was discovered, Bella felt that she would have to be silent. But her thoughts on this subject were brought to an abrupt conclusion when she opened the drawing-room door, for she unexpectedly beheld Silas Pence.

"I came to see you, Miss Faith," he said, using her true name, "and I told the servant not to announce me. I waited here till you came."

Speaking in this jerky, nervous manner, the young man did not attempt to rise, as he appeared to be ill and exhausted. His face was haggard and his head was bound up in a white cloth. Anything more weird than his looks Bella had never seen, and she recoiled on the threshold of the room, only anxious to escape from his unwelcome presence.

"Have you come to persecute me again?" she asked.

"No! no! no!" said Pence weakly, and yet with great relief in his tone. "I have come to ask your pardon for the way in which I have behaved. I was mad to trouble you as I did, but now I have recovered my reason."

"What do you mean exactly?"

Pence smiled in a ghastly manner. "Can you not guess," said he, touching the linen rag round his head. "The blow I received when I fell on the fender has changed my feelings towards you."

"But how can a blow do that?" asked Bella, relieved but puzzled.

"I cannot say," faltered Pence, resting his aching head on one thin hand. "I really cannot say; my brain won't think just now."

"Then don't think and don't talk," said Bella, kindly placing a plump cushion at his back. "Rest quietly and I'll make you a cup of tea."

"You give me good for evil," said the preacher, flushing painfully.

"No, no!" replied the girl hastily, and remembering her share in his trouble. "You did me great honour in asking me to be your wife, though you were a trifle difficult in some ways. But now – "

"It is all gone; it is all gone. I assure you it is all gone!"

"What is all gone?"

"All my love for you; all my desire; all my mad infatuation. I like you as a friend, Miss Faith – I shall always like you as a friend – but I can never, never worship you again in the way I did."

"Thank heaven for that!" said Bella fervently. She knew no more than did Silas how the change had come about. But it was evident that the blow on his head had suddenly rearranged his ideas.

"Up to ten o'clock last night I loved you madly, despairingly, and would have risked my soul to gain your hand. But since I fell" – he passed his hand across his forehead in a bewildered manner – "everything has changed."

"And for the better," Bella assured him. "Come, don't think anything more about the matter. I have rung the bell for tea."

"I rung the bell also last night. It brought in Mrs. Queen, very fortunately, or I might have bled to death, Miss Faith."

"Why do you call me Miss Faith?" asked Bella abruptly.

"Because you are Miss Faith," said the preacher, lifting his haggard face to her own in some surprise. "Did not the black man tell you?"

"How do you know that I have anything to do with the black man?"

"I have seen Mr. Lister with him. I saw you all three talking on the common. Oh, Miss Faith, you don't know how I have followed and spied on you!" and the man flushed with shame and dismay.

"Did you listen?" asked Bella abruptly.

"No; I did not fall so low as that, but I followed and watched."

"Why?"

"Because I loved you. That is all over now; I shall never follow or watch you again. I am glad that the black man threw me down last night. When I found this morning that my prayers had been answered and that I no longer suffered from this mad passion, I resolved to say nothing about what had taken place."

"And so invented the story of the epileptic fit?"

"Yes; but the truth is – "

"I know the truth: Durgo told everything to me and to Mr. Lister this morning, or rather this afternoon; also Durgo gave me the papers. I have read them, and know that I am not Captain Huxham's daughter. By the way" – Bella looked sharply at the preacher – "are we friends?"

"Yes, if you will have me for a friend," said Pence meekly.

"By all means, now that you love me no longer. Be my friend," – she held out her hand, which Pence grasped feebly – "and tell me how you got those papers."

"From your father's – I mean from Captain Huxham's safe."

"Then you were in the room on that night?"

"Yes. I saw the body."

"And you said nothing."

"No. Had I done so, I should have incriminated myself. When I entered the study Captain Huxham was lying dead under the desk."

"Did you see anyone about?"

"I saw no one, not even Mr. Lister, whom I had followed into the house."

"Just explain precisely what you did see," said Bella, anxiously.

Pence thought for a few moments. "I was watching the house as usual on that night because I loved you," he said, in a slow, feeble way, for he was still weak from loss of blood. "I beheld Mr. Lister coming towards me. He brushed past me, and entered the Manor by the front door. I watched for his return, intending to speak to him. But he never came out."

Bella sat up alertly. "He never came out?"

"No. I don't know how long I watched; but finally I grew tired, and stole up to the house. The front door was ajar. I saw that the study door was also open, so I went in. Then I saw Captain Huxham lying dead and bleeding, with the safe open and the papers in disorder. In the safe, or, rather, tumbled on the floor before the safe was a bundle of bank-notes. The Accuser of the Brethren tempted me," said Silas, with the perspiration beading his high forehead, "and I snatched up the notes, for I thought that if I had money I could marry you. I then saw that bundle which the black man took from me, and thinking there might be more notes in the bundle, I snatched that up also and fled."

"Why did you fly?" asked Bella, following this story with great interest.

"I thought I heard a noise, and feared lest I should be accused of killing Captain Huxham. I ran out of the study, and out of the house, and down the path between the standing corn, as though the devil was after me. But he was not after me," wailed Pence, standing up, "he was in my heart. Here is the money for which I sold my precious soul," and he threw a packet of bank-notes on the table with feverish eagerness. "It was all for your sake!"

Bella took up the notes. "The man you mistook for Mr. Lister was his father," she said quietly; "did you not see him in the room?"

"I saw no one. Did Lister's father kill Captain Huxham?"

"Can't you tell?" asked the girl, looking at him straightly.

"I have told everything," said Pence, with an air of fatigue; "now I die," and before she could help him he fell full length on the floor quite insensible. The interview had proved too much for him in his weak state.

CHAPTER XVIII
THE GHOST

The corn on Bleacres was rapidly ripening under the beams of the powerful sun. The Manor-house was islanded amidst a golden sea of grain, the waves of which rolled up even to its ancient walls. The winding path to the boundary channel was still the sole means of approach, but few people came up this to the house, as the Vands were not popular. Henry certainly was approved of, on account of his manners, his affliction, and his violin-playing; but the neighbours, ignorant of the truth, could not forgive his wife for robbing Bella of her inheritance. Now that she was rich and re-married, it was Mrs. Vand's intention to become the great lady of the district, but hitherto she had not met with much success in her bid for popularity.

But, in spite of cold looks and significant speeches, Mrs. Vand went from house to house, talking of a Harvest Home fete, which she proposed to give as soon as the grain was reaped. Her husband would not accompany her on these social visits, as he was shrewd enough to see that only time would ameliorate the bad impression which Mrs. Vand's callous conduct had created. In vain he tried to show his wife that it would be wise to retire for a short period. Mrs. Vand scorned such Fabian tactics, and did her best to take by storm the position she felt that her wealth and personality deserved. The more she was snubbed, the more she persisted, and there was no doubt but what, in the end, she would gain what she wanted, by wearing down those who resented her conduct.

Mrs. Vand paid a visit even to Dora Ankers, choosing a Saturday afternoon, when she knew that Bella was walking on the common with her lover. The little school-mistress received her coldly, as she had never liked the woman from the first day she had set eyes on her. But Mrs. Vand, in the most flamboyant of costumes, was all smiles and small talk, refusing to see for one moment the chilly reception she was receiving.

"You really must come to our Harvest Home, Miss Ankers," she babbled; "what with Henry's taste and my money, it will be wonderfully gay and bright and artistic. Everyone will help to reap the corn, and in the evening we will have a ball, at which Henry will play old English tunes, to which we shall dance. You must come. I shall take no refusal."

"How can I?" asked Dora tartly, "seeing that your niece whom you have treated so badly, is stopping with me."

Mrs. Vand drew up her stout figure with great dignity. "That Bella Huxham left her home and my guardianship is purely her own fault," she replied. "I promised to look after her, at poor Jabez's request. But she chose to behave in a way of which I did not approve, and to engage herself to a man, who is not the husband I should have picked for her."

"Bella has every right to choose a husband for herself," retorted Miss Ankers.

"Girls are not clever enough to choose the right man. And Mr. Lister – "

"You know nothing about him, Mrs. Vand."

"That is exactly what I complain of," said the other woman triumphantly, "he may be a rogue and a scamp."

"He may be, but he is not. Mr. Lister is a gentleman."

"That doesn't prevent his being a bad character."

"Well," said Dora, rising to terminate the visit, "I don't care about discussing my friends."

Mrs. Vand rose also. "Let us shelve the subject," she said grandly, "and you can tell Bella that I am willing to forgive and forget. If she likes to come to our Harvest Home, she can do so. I am not the one to bear malice. It is the last Harvest Home we shall have," prattled Mrs. Vand, as her hostess skilfully edged her towards the door. "Henry does not intend to sow wheat again, and the grounds of Bleacres will be thrown open to the public."

"People are not fond of wandering in marshes," said Dora dryly. "If you want to please us, throw open the Manor-house. That is interesting, if you like."

"And haunted," said the visitor in a thrilling whisper; "do you know of any sad legend connected with the Manor-house, Miss Ankers?"

"No!" snapped Dora, tartly; then her curiosity got the better of her dislike for Mrs. Vand. "Is it really haunted?"

"There are footsteps, and whisperings, and rappings in the twilight. I told Henry that if this sort of thing continued, I should leave the place."

Privately, Dora wished that she would, and thus rid the neighbourhood of a most undesirable presence, but aloud she merely remarked that the noises might be due to rats, a suggestion which Mrs. Vand scouted.

"It's a ghost, a ghost!" she insisted – "all old families have a ghost. But do not let us talk of it," she continued, looking round with a shudder; "already the thing has got on my nerves. To go to a more pleasant subject: let me invite you for a row on the water."

"A row on the water?" echoed Dora, who knew of no lake in the neighbourhood.

"On the channel at the end of my grounds," explained Mrs. Vand. "Henry has bought a rowing-boat, and takes me far into the country. You can almost reach the railway line before you get to the swamps. Do come."

"I'll think about it," said Miss Ankers, only anxious to get her visitor out of the house before Bella came back.

"Do, dear, and come to our Harvest Home. It will be quite artistic: you have no idea of Henry's perfect taste, and if Bella comes I shall be glad to see her, in spite of her nasty behaviour, and – and – " Mrs. Vand could think of nothing more to say, so took herself off, with a gracious smile, quite sure that she had played the part of a great lady to perfection.

"Ugh!" said Dora, looking after the stout, gaudily-clothed figure, "you're a spiteful cat, if ever there was one. I shouldn't be surprised to hear that you had killed your brother yourself, in order to get the money."

Unaware of this amiable speech, Mrs. Vand sailed grandly through the village, dispensing smiles and patronage. Fortunately for herself, she was not a thought-reader, or her self-satisfaction might have received a severe reproof. She was considered to be considerably worse than Jezebel, and in her stoutness was compared to the late Mrs. Manning, a notable murderess. To her face many were agreeable, but usually she was not received with the best grace. Finally, towards the evening, she returned to the Manor-house to report on her triumphs.

Crossing the boundary-channel, she saw the boat which her husband had lately bought. It was a narrow but comfortable craft of a light build, and the water-way was quite broad enough to permit of its being rowed very comfortably, even though the oars occasionally touched the banks. Mrs. Vand looked at this boat with a singular expression, and then, stepping across the planks, walked up to her lordly abode. She found that her husband was absent, and had left word with the servant that he would not be back to dinner. Mrs. Vand was annoyed, as she did not like eating alone; but in her heart of hearts she was afraid of her quiet husband, even though he was considerably her junior, and made no comment. However, the servant who brought in the seven o'clock tea had much to say, and Mrs. Vand permitted her to talk, for, as usual, the sinister influence of the Manor was getting on her healthy nerves.

"Master's gone to the village, to see his ma," said the servant, who was small and elfish and somewhat brazen. "Then he's going to see Tunks."

"What's the matter with Tunks?" asked Mrs. Vand, pouring out the tea.

"He's ill. He's been drinking hard for weeks, ever since that horrid murder, mum, and now the doctor says he's got delirious trimmings."

Mrs. Vand looked up sharply, and frowned. "He is raving?"

"Raving hard, mum. But master will see that he is looked after."

"Your master is very good," said Mrs. Vand, taking a piece of bread. "You can go, Sarah."

The servant departed somewhat unwillingly, as she did not like the big, bare kitchen, and felt the influence of the unseen as did her mistress. But as yet, ghostly doings had not been sufficiently scaring to make her throw up a good situation. Nevertheless, she shivered in the kitchen, and wished that Tunks was present to keep her company, as he often did, at the evening meal. But Tunks was raving at the present moment in the hut on the marshes, and there was no chance of anyone else coming to Bleacres.

Mrs. Vand sat and shivered in the dining-room also. She lighted three lamps, and although the evening was warm, she set fire to the coals and wood in the large, old-fashioned grate. It seemed to her that she could not have enough light or warmth to ward off the cold, malicious influence, which seemed to spread a sinister atmosphere throughout the vast room. Shivering at the head of the table, Mrs. Vand kept casting furtive looks here and there, as though she expected to see the blood-stained figure of her murdered brother appear like Banquo's spectre. Outside the twilight gradually deepened to luminous darkness, and although she had finished her tea, she did not feel inclined to move about the gloomy passages. Again and again, she wished that Henry would return.

At nine o'clock her nerves were still shaky, and she felt that she could not stand the dining-room any longer. Ringing the bell, she took a lamp in each hand, and told Sarah – who entered speedily – to take the other. The two women proceeded to the drawing-room, and Mrs. Vand, having pulled down the blinds, ordered Sarah to bring her work and sit beside her. The servant was only too pleased to obey, and for the next half-hour the two sat in pleasant gossiping confabulation, Mrs. Vand knitting a silk tie for her husband, and Sarah trimming a wonderful hat with aggressively brilliant flowers. There was no noise, as the wind had dropped, and everything was intensely still. Mrs. Vand and Sarah chattered incessantly to keep up their courage in the ghostly atmosphere. Suddenly —

"Listen!" said Mrs. Vand, raising her hand. "Do you hear?"

Sarah turned white through her dingy skin, and held her breath. There came distinctly the sound of three knocks from somewhere near the fire-place; then a long, dreary sigh. The servant shrieked, and sprang for the door. But Mrs. Vand was after her in one moment, and seized her. "Hold your tongue, you fool! It's only rats."

As if to give the lie to her statement, there came the swish, swish of silken skirts, and then the sigh again. This was too much for Mrs. Vand. She scuttled panic-stricken into the hall, followed by the shrieking Sarah. At the same moment, as though it had been prearranged, the front door opened and Vand appeared.

"Oh, Henry! Henry!" gasped his wife, and clung to him.

The young man shook her off. "What is the matter?" he asked in calm tones. But Mrs. Vand being too terrified to answer, Sarah did so for her. "The ghost! the ghost! the ghost!"

"What rubbish!" said Vand, easily; "there is no ghost, you silly girl, and if there is, here is one who can lay it."

He stepped aside, and Granny Tunks, lean and weird-looking, appeared at the door. She had a white cloak over her fantastic dress, and looked more witch-like than ever. Mrs. Vand stared at the woman in surprise. "Why have you left your grandson?" she asked, and glancing at Henry.