Meanwhile Jenny was proceeding homeward in a rather unhappy state of mind. The conversation had left an unpleasant impression, and she was by no means sure what it would lead to. A hundred times did she wish that she had not meddled with the matter; but it was now too late for regrets, and she recognized that she must bear the burden of her wrong-doing. Though, indeed, she could see no reason to characterize her action by so harsh a name.

"A bundle of old papers in a garret," she thought, walking quickly through the lane; "where was the harm in reading them? And, as they contained an interesting story, I fail to see where I acted wrongly in telling it to Frank. The Larcher affair can have nothing to do with papa, even though Kerry was so angry. I'll speak to Kerry, and ask him if I have done wrong."

According to her promise she was determined to say nothing to her father for at least twenty-four hours, for she was curious to see if Mr. Hilliston would call to speak of the matter. If he did so, then would be the time to exculpate herself; but, pending such visit, she saw no reason why she should not consult with Kerry. He had expressed anger at her possession of the papers, so he, if anyone, would be able to explain if she had been rash. On Kerry's answer would depend the explanation due to her father.

Thus thinking, she speedily arrived in a deep lane, at the end of which she turned into a white gate set in a rugged stone wall. Nut trees bent over this wall, dropping their fruit into the ruts of the road, and on the opposite side rose a steep green bank topped by blackberry bushes. This byway was little frequented, and here quiet constantly reigned, unbroken save by the voices of birds. It was a great place for nightingales, and many a summer evening did Jenny stand under the bending boughs listening to the warblings of those night singers. So bird-haunted was the spot that here, if anywhere, Keats might have composed his famous ode. Indeed, the road was known as Nightingale Lane, for obvious reasons.

Passing through the gate, Jenny saw before her the little garden, odorous with homely cottage flowers – sweet-williams, delicate pea blossom, ruddy marigolds, and somber bushes of rosemary. A hawthorn hedge on the right divided the flowers from the kitchen garden; while to the left grew gnarled apple and pear trees, now white with bloom. A sprawling peach tree clung to the guarding wall of the lane, and beds of thyme and mignonette perfumed the still air. In the center of this sweetness was built the humble cottage of Ferdinand Paynton, a broad, low-roofed building, with whitewashed walls and quaint windows, diamond-paned and snowy curtained. Pots of flowers were set within, and under the eaves of the thatched roof twittered the darting swallows. One often sees such peaceful homesteads in the heart of England, breathing quiet and tranquillity. Rose Cottage, as it was called, from the prevailing flower in the garden, was worthy to be enshrined in a fairy tale.

Here lived Ferdinand Paynton, with his only daughter, and two servants, male and female. The one was Kerry, a crabbed old Irishman, stanch as steel, and devoted to his master; the other a withered crone who was never seen without her bonnet, yet who bore the reputation of being an excellent cook, and an economical housekeeper. As Mr. Paynton was poor, and spent more than he could afford on books, Maria was very necessary to him, as she scraped and screwed with miserly care, yet withal gave him good meals, and kept the tiny house like a new pin. Kerry attended principally to the garden and the books; looked after Jenny, whom he was always scolding, and passed his leisure time in fishing in the Lax.

Hot or cold, wet or fine, summer or winter, nothing varied in the routine of Rose Cottage. Mr. Paynton rose at nine, took his breakfast, and read his paper till ten, then walked for an hour or so in the garden with Jenny. Till luncheon he wrote; after luncheon he slept, and then wrote again till dinner time. The evening in summer was spent in the garden, in winter within doors, before a roaring fire in the bookroom. For more than twenty years life had gone on in this peaceful fashion, and during that time Jenny could not remember the occurrence of a single episode worth recording. Rose Cottage might have been the palace of the Sleeping Beauty during the hundred years' spell.

The inhabitant of this hermitage was a puzzle to the gossips of Thorston, for, after the industrious inquiries of twenty years, they were as wise as ever touching his antecedents. Then he had arrived with Kerry, and his daughter, a child of five, and, staying at the Inn of St. Elfrida, had looked about for a small place in the neighborhood. Rose Cottage, then empty and much neglected, appeared to be the most secluded spot procurable, so Mr. Paynton set it in order, patched the roof, cultivated the garden, and took up his abode therein. Here he had lived ever since, rarely leaving it, seeing few people, and accepting no invitations. The man was a recluse, and disliked his fellow-creatures, so when Thorston became aware of his peculiarities he was left alone to live as he chose. It may be guessed that his peculiar habits made him unpopular.

The vicar was friendly to the misanthrope, for in Paynton he found a kindred soul in the matter of books; and many a pleasant evening did they spend in discussing literary subjects. The bookroom was the pleasantest apartment in the house, cosy and warm, and lined throughout with volumes. In the deep window stood the desk, and here Ferdinand Paynton sat and wrote all day, save when he took his usual stroll in the garden. Jenny had also grown up in the bookroom, and, as her education had been conducted by her father, she was remarkably intelligent for a country maiden, and could talk excellently on literature, old and new. For the softer graces of womanhood she was indebted to the care of Mrs. Linton, who from the first had taken a great interest in the motherless girl.

Into this room came Jenny, with her mind full of the recent conversation with Tait. She threw down her music-book on the table and went to kiss her father. He was seated in his armchair, instead of at his desk as usual, and looked rather sternly at her as she bent over him. Tall and white-haired, with a sad face and a slim figure, the old man looked singularly interesting, his appearance being enhanced by his peculiar garb, a dressing gown and a black skullcap. Indeed, he was more like a mediæval magician than an aged gentleman of the nineteenth century. He looked like a man with a history, which was doubtless the reason Thorston gossips were so anxious concerning his past. In country towns curiosity is quite a disease.

In the hurry of her entrance Jenny had not noticed that a stranger was present, but on greeting her father with a fond kiss, she turned to see an elderly gentleman looking at her intently. Mr. Paynton explained the presence of the stranger with less than his usual suavity, but from the tone of his voice Jenny guessed that he was angry with her. As it afterward appeared he had good reason to be.

"Jenny, this is my friend, Mr. Hilliston."

Hilliston! Jenny could not suppress a start of surprise, even of alarm. The prophecy of Tait had been fulfilled sooner than she had expected. There was something uncanny in the speedy accomplishment of a prognostication in which, at the time, she had hardly believed.

"Hilliston! Mr. Hilliston!" she repeated, with a gasp of surprise, "already!"

This time it was Hilliston's turn to be surprised, and his face darkened with suspicion.

"What am I to understand by 'already,' Miss Paynton?" he said quickly.

"Why! That is – Mr. Tait – " began Jenny, in excuse, when her father cut her short. He rose from his chair, and exclaimed in a voice of alarm:

"Tait! Then you have seen him already?"

"Yes, father," said the girl, in some bewilderment at his tone.

"Where?"

"In the church, half an hour ago."

"Did he question you?"

"He did."

"And you replied?"

"I answered his questions," said Jenny quietly, "if you refer to the Larcher affair."

"I do refer to it," groaned her father, sinking back into his chair. "Unhappy girl! you know not what trouble you have caused."

Hilliston said nothing, but stood moodily considering what was best to be done. He saw that Tait had been too clever for him, and had anticipated his arrival. Yet he had come as speedily as possible; not a moment had he lost since his arrival in Eastbourne to seek out Jenny and ask her to be silent. But it was too late; he had missed his opportunity by a few minutes, and it only remained for him to learn how much the girl had told his enemy. No wonder he hated Tait; the fellow was too dangerous a foeman to be despised.

"We may yet mend matters," he said judiciously, "if Miss Jenny will repeat so much of the conversation as she remembers."

"Why should I repeat it?" said Jenny, objecting to this interference, as Tait guessed she would. "There was nothing wrong in the conversation with Mr. Tait that I know of."

"There was nothing wrong in your telling Linton the story you found in The Canterbury Observer," replied Hilliston dryly; "yet it would have been as well had you not done so."

"Father," cried Jenny, turning toward the old man with an appealing gesture, "have I done wrong?"

"Yes, child," he answered, with a sigh, "very wrong, but you sinned in ignorance. Kerry told me you had found the bundle and read about the trial, but I passed that over. Now it is different. You repeated it to young Linton, and Mr. Hilliston tells me that all London knows the story through his book."

"I am very sorry," said Jenny, after a pause, "but I really did not know that it was wrong of me to act as I have done. A bundle of old newspapers in a garret! Surely I was justified in reading them – in telling Frank what I conceived would be a good plot for a story."

"I don't blame you, Miss Paynton," said Hilliston kindly; "but it so happens that your father did not want that affair again brought before the public. After all, you have had less to do with it than Fate."

"Than Fate," interrupted Paynton, with a groan. "Good Heavens, am I to be – "

"Paynton!" said Hilliston, in a warning voice.

"I forgot," muttered the old man, with a shiver. "No more – no more. Jenny, tell us what you said to Mr. Tait."

Considerably astonished, the girl repeated the conversation as closely as she could remember. Both Hilliston and her father listened with the keenest interest, and seemed relieved when she finished.

"It is not so bad as I expected," said the former, with a nod. "All you have to do, Paynton, is to warn Kerry against gratifying the curiosity of these young men. They will be certain to ask him questions."

"Kerry will baffle them; have no fear of that," said Paynton harshly, "and, Jenny, you are not to refer to this subject again with Mr. Tait."

"Am I not to speak to him?"

Her father interrogated Hilliston with a look, received a nod, and answered accordingly.

"You can speak to Mr. Tait, if you choose, and no doubt you will be introduced by the vicar to Mr. Larcher. I place no prohibition on your speaking to them, but only warn you to avoid the subject of the Larcher affair. Promise!"

"I promise. I am sorry I ever had anything to do with it."

"Say no more about it, my dear," said Hilliston, patting her shoulder. "How could you be expected to know? But now you have been warned, do not speak more of it. We do not wish the unjustifiable curiosity of these idle young men to be gratified."

"If you assist them to learn that which had better be hidden, you will ruin me," cried Paynton, with a passionate gesture.

"Father! Ruin you?"

"Yes! It means ruin, disgrace – perhaps death! Ah!"

He broke down with a cry, and Hilliston, taking Jenny by the hand, led her to the door.

"Go away, my dear. Your father is ill," he said, in a whisper, and pushing her outside the door, locked it forthwith. Jenny stood in the passage, in an agony of fear and surprise. Ruin! Disgrace! Death! What was the meaning of those terrible words?

CHAPTER XXVI
AN OLD SERVANT

Leaving the two men to talk over their dark secrets together, Jenny went into the garden. Her brow burned as with fever, and her understanding was confused by the thoughts which filled her mind. What was the meaning of her father's words? Why had Mr. Hilliston come over from Eastbourne to request her silence? And what was the connection between him and her sole surviving parent? She paced up and down the gravel walk vainly asking herself these questions, and racking her brain as to possible answers. Hitherto the sky of her young life had been pure and serene; but now, by her own act – as though she had unconsciously wrought a malignant spell – a sudden storm had arisen, which threatened to overturn the foundations of her small world. In the very unexpectedness of these events lay their terror.

As Tait shrewdly surmised, Jenny was by no means satisfied with the evidence of Hilliston at the trial of Mrs. Larcher. So far as she could judge from the unsatisfactory report in The Canterbury Observer, he had given his version of the affair glibly enough; yet there seemed to be something behind which he was anxious to suppress. Definitely enough he stated that he had not been at The Laurels on the fatal night; that he had not seen Captain Larcher since he left for London; that he had not noted whether Mrs. Larcher wore that all-important dagger when she left the ballroom. But, pressed by an evidently suspicious counsel, he accounted so minutely for every moment of his time, his evidence had about it such an air of frank falseness, that even unsophisticated Jenny saw that the man was acting a part. She did not believe him guilty of the crime, but she was certain in her own mind that he knew who had struck the fatal blow; nay more, Jenny thought it not impossible that he had been at The Laurels after three that morning, in spite of his denial, and had seen the tragedy take place. Tait's hints, confirming her own doubts, led her to gravely doubt the purity of Mr. Hilliston's motives then and now.

But what most perplexed the girl was the reason why the lawyer called to see her father on the subject and requested her silence. She knew nothing of the tragedy save through the papers – those old, faded papers, dated 1866, which she had found in the garret. She was not born when the murder took place, so Hilliston could not possibly wish to close her mouth for her own sake. It was on her father's account that Jenny feared. What could he know of an obscure crime perpetrated in a country town so many years ago; she could recall no mention of his name in the report of the trial; yet his words led her to suspect that he was more closely connected with that tragic past than he chose to admit. Could it be that her father was a relative of Jeringham, and, knowing that Jeringham was still alive, wished to stop all inquiries made as to his whereabouts, lest he should be punished for his early sin? This was the only feasible suggestion she could make, and yet it failed to satisfy her too exacting mind.

Again, there was Kerry. Kerry certainly had a personal interest in the case; else he could scarcely have related the episode of the scarfpin. Moreover, he had been very angry when he found her with the papers in her possession; and putting these two things together it would seem as if he knew more than he chose to tell. Jenny thought, for the gratification of her own curiosity, she would ask Kerry to explain these matters; and so went to the kitchen in search of him. Maria was there, cross and deaf as usual, and intimated that Kerry had been out some two hours on a message. This sounded extraordinary to Jenny, who knew that the old servant rarely left the house; but it argued that her father was anxious to have him out of the way during the visit of Hilliston. What did it all mean? A horrible fear seized the girl, lest she should have set some machinery in motion which would end in crushing her unhappy father. Unhappy he had always been, and given to seclusion. There must be some reason for this, and Jenny felt a vague alarm, which she could neither express nor display. Dearly enough had she paid for meddling with that old bundle of papers.

Again she returned to the garden, and went outside into the lane in order to see if Kerry was in sight. In a few minutes he came shuffling round the corner, and his withered face relaxed into a grin when he saw her standing by the gate. She was the apple of his eye, and though he scolded her often himself, yet he never let anyone say a word against her. To look askance at Jenny was to lose Kerry's favor and win his enmity forever.

"Ah! there ye are, me darling Miss Jenny," he said, with the familiarity of an old servant, "watching and waiting for poor old Kerry. Sure it is a sunbeam you are in this dark lane."

"Kerry! I want to speak to you."

The change in her tone struck him at once, and he peered sharply into her fresh face with his bleared eyes. A look of wonder stole into them at the sight of her white cheeks, and he crossed himself before replying so as to avert any evil that might befall. Kerry always lived in a state of suspense, waiting for a bolt from the blue. Jenny's scared face almost assured him that it had fallen.

"What is it, alannah?" he asked, pausing at the gate. "Is anything wrong?"

"Oh, no! nothing is wrong, Kerry! What could be wrong?" said Jenny nervously; "only papa has a visitor."

"Augh! His riverence?"

"No; not the vicar. A stranger – or at least almost a stranger," she said, half to herself. "It is many years since Mr. Hilliston came here."

"Mr. Hilliston!" cried Kerry, with an ashen face. "The black curse on him and his! What is he doing with the master?"

"I don't know, Kerry," replied Jenny, rather astonished at the old man's vehemence; "he has been with father over two hours."

"And I was sent away," muttered Kerry, under his breath. "Sorrow befall you, black attorney that you are. Never did you cross a threshold without bringing grief to all hearts. It was an evil day we saw you, and an evil day when we see you again."

He uplifted his hands as though about to invoke a curse on Hilliston, then, unexpectedly letting them fall, he turned sharply on Jenny.

"How did he come, miss?"

"By train from Eastbourne – no doubt he walked from the station."

"I'll drive him back," exclaimed Kerry, in quite an amiable voice. "Sure he'll be weary on his legs. Why not? I'll borrow his riverence's trap and the little mare with the white foreleg, but – "

"Kerry, father might not like it."

"Get along with ye," said Kerry cheerfully; "sure his riverence has offered the trap a hundred times. I'll take it on myself to explain to the master. Keep Mr. Hilliston here till he sees me arriving up this road – a dirty one it is, too, bad cess to it!"

He was hurrying off, when Jenny stopped him. She saw that his borrowing of the vicar's honey trap was a mere excuse to get Hilliston to himself for half an hour, and, rendered more curious than ever by Kerry's artful way of arranging matters, she ran after him and pulled his sleeve.

"Kerry! Kerry! Has Mr. Hilliston come over to see papa about the Larcher affair?"

"How should I know," retorted Kerry, relapsing into his crusty humor; "for shame, Miss Jenny! Is it your business or mine?"

"It is mine," said the girl, with a resolute look on her face. "Mr. Hilliston came over to ask me to be silent about what was contained in those papers you took from me."

"How does he know of that, miss?"

"Because all London now knows the story of the Larcher affair."

"Augh! Get away with ye. Sure it's a fool you're making of old Kerry," said the servant, in an incredulous and angry tone.

"Indeed, I am doing no such thing. I did not know there was any harm in reading those papers, and I did so. But I did more than that, Kerry. I told the story of the tragedy to Frank Linton; and he has written a book on the trial."

"A book! With the real names?"

"No! The names are fictitious, and the scene is laid in a different place. But the whole story is told in the novel."

"Does the master know?" asked Kerry, muttering something between his teeth.

"He does now. Mr. Hilliston saw the book in London, and came over to tell him, and to ask me to say no more about it."

"What's that for, anyhow," demanded Kerry, who seemed to scent new danger.

"Because Mr. Larcher is here!"

Kerry flung up his hands with a cry of astonishment. "Mr. Larcher, miss! Who are you telling about?"

"Oh, Mr. Claude Larcher," said Jenny, rather alarmed, for he had gripped her arm, "the son of the deceased man. He is staying at the Manor House with Mr. Tait."

For a few minutes Kerry stood looking at the ground in silence. Up to the present he had succeeded in preserving his calm, but the last piece of news upset him altogether, and he burst into violent speech.

"Augh! it's sorrow that is coming to this house, and the black curse will be on the threshold. Cold will the hearth be soon, and the old master will be driven out. Ohone! and we and time will have sent him into the cold world. Whirra! whirra!"

Jenny was so dumfounded by the unexpected eloquence of the old man that she could do nothing but stare at him. He caught her eye, and seeing that he had been indiscreet in so betraying himself, he cut short his lamentations, wiped his eyes, and relapsed once more into the crusty, faithful Kerry whom she knew. But he gave her a word of warning before he took his departure. "Say nothing of this, Miss Jenny," he remarked; "sure it's an old fool I am. Keep a silent tongue as the master and lawyer wishes you to do, and then, please the saints, things will go the better."

"But, Kerry, before you go, tell me. What is Mr. Hilliston to my father?"

"He is your father's best friend, miss," said Kerry, with emphasis; "his best and his worst," and with that enigmatic reply he hurried off down the lane in the direction of the vicarage, leaving Jenny in a state of bewilderment.

She could understand nothing, and at that moment sorely needed some friend with whom she could consult. Kerry gave her no satisfaction, and spoke so indefinitely that his conversation mystified in place of enlightening her; it was no use to make a confidant of Frank Linton, as notwithstanding his London reputation, which she had greatly contributed to, Jenny did not consider him sufficiently steady to be told of the commotion raised by his novel in her immediate circle. She could, therefore, discuss the matter with no one, and so annoyed was she by the whole affair that she by no means could bring herself to go back to the house while Hilliston was yet there. He would be gone, she trusted, in another half hour or so, and pending his departure she strolled along the lane in the hope of evading him.

But she only escaped Scylla to fall into Charybdis, for, as she turned the corner, Tait and Claude met her almost face to face. Jenny would have given much to escape this awkward meeting, and intimated her wish for solitude by passing the young men with a curt bow. The sight of Claude, the memory of his father's death, coupled with the suspicions she entertained, wrought her up to a pitch of excitement which she had great difficulty in concealing. She was, therefore, greatly annoyed when Tait took off his hat, and placed himself directly in her path. The little man thought it was too favorable an opportunity for introduction to be overlooked.

"Don't go away, Miss Paynton," he said, smiling. "I wish to introduce you to my friend Mr. Larcher. Claude, this is Miss Paynton, of whom you have heard me speak."

"How do you do, Miss Paynton?" said Claude, with a suave bow. "I hope you will pardon the irregularity of this introduction."

This remark made Jenny laugh, and set her more at ease. She was not particular as to forms and ceremonies herself, and the idea that a young man should apologize for such a trifle struck her as ridiculous. Moreover, a glance assured her that Mr. Larcher was by no means a formidable person. He was decidedly good-looking, and had pleasant blue eyes, with a kindly look, so speech and glance broke the ice at once between them.

"Do you stay here long, Mr. Larcher?" she asked, pointedly ignoring her previous conversation with Tait.

"As long as I may," he replied, smiling. "London does not invite me at this time of the year. I prefer the fragrant country to the dusty town."

"He is a true lover of the fields, Miss Paynton," broke in Tait, admiring her self-possession, "and insisted that I should come out for a walk, so that he might lose no time in steeping himself in the sweetness of nature. Quite idyllic, isn't it?"

"Quite!" said Jenny lightly. "Good-by at present, Mr. Larcher! I am going to the vicarage, and have not a moment to spare. Mr. Tait, can I speak with you a minute?"

Tait obeyed with alacrity, and Claude was left to muse on the fresh charm of Jenny, and the sweetness of her voice. Her trim figure, her exquisite neatness, and springing gait made him admire her greatly, and when she tripped away with a smiling nod, he was so taken up in watching her that he failed to observe the grave face with which Tait joined him.

"As I thought," said the latter, when they resumed their walk.

"What is up now?"

"Oh, nothing more than usual! Hilliston has called on Paynton already. He is there now."

"You don't say so! I did not think he would have been so smart. However, you have stolen a march on him. Do you intend to see him now? To wait his coming out?"

"Why, no," said Tait, after a moment's deliberation. "Rather let us go home again that Hilliston may not see us. I wish to wait and see what excuse he will make for not calling on you. You'll get a letter full of lies to-morrow, Claude."