Читать книгу The Red Window - Hume Fergus - Страница 6

"Hurseton, in Essex, lies about ten miles from the coast, and is elevated on a wide plateau whence can be obtained a fine and picturesque view of the famous marshes. It is a quaint, old-world village, gathered round an ancient Saxon Cross, which occupies the centre of the village green. The church – eleventh century – is dedicated to St. Peter, and is, for the most part, sunken in the ground owing to its antiquity. The tower and spire are of wood. Many of the gentry have country seats in this popular vicinity. The rising watering-place of Market-on-Sea, five miles distant, is much frequented by Londoners during the holiday season. Hurseton can be reached from town by rail a little over the hour."

So far the guide-book; but the above-mentioned gentry referred to therein were not at all pleased by the advertisement, as many of the cheap trippers came to visit the place from Market-on-Sea, and by no means improved the countryside with their rowdy manners. Miss Berengaria Plantagenet was especially wrathful at the yearly plague of sightseers, and would have put them all in jail had she been able. She was a dignified old lady, small in stature, with a withered rosy face, white hair, and eyes as keen as those of a robin, if not so shallow. Her mansion – so she called it – stood at the end of the village, a little way back from the long, straight road which ran towards the coast and the marshes. But the term mansion was rather a misnomer. The place had originally been a small farmhouse, and Miss Berengaria – as she was usually called – had added to it considerably, so that it formed an irregular pile of buildings, all angles and gables, sloping roofs and stacks of twisted chimneys. Some of it was thatched, a portion was covered with mellow red tiles, and a kind of round turret, quite out of keeping with the rest of the building, was slated. Every species of architecture was represented in "The Bower," and the name did not fit it in the least. But Miss Berengaria had dwelt in it for forty years – ever since she had been disappointed in love – and, being a lady of singularly independent character, she gave the house its odd appellation. The low pile of buildings – for the most part of these did not exceed one story in height – looked quaint and queer, but then Miss Berengaria was queer herself.

Every morning she could be seen in her garden snipping and picking and clipping and scolding. The gardens were divided from the highroad by a low hedge of holly and hawthorn, carefully trimmed, and presented a pleasant spectacle of lawn and flower-beds. In summer the place was gay with cottage flowers, for Miss Berengaria, being old-fashioned herself, would have no new-fangled importations. The flowers she loved were snapdragon, sweet-william, heart's-ease, and all those homely blossoms such as John Bunyan loved. The house was covered with Virginia creeper, wistaria and ivy, and through the thick growth peeped the latticed windows under heavy eyebrows of gray thatch. It might have been a cottage out of a fairy tale for quaintness; and its mistress might have been a fairy herself in stature and oddity. The villagers liked her, though she was rather dreaded.

"A sharp old lady," said the host of the Conniston Arms, "and quite the lady, bless you! though she do keep fowls and ducks and though she do sell her fruit. She looks like a gipsy by way of dress in the day, but when she claps her diamonds on at night, bless you! she's as grand as the queen herself."

This report was perfectly true. Miss Berengaria always dressed – as she put it – anyhow during the day; but at night she appeared in silver gray silk covered with costly lace, and wearing jewels of great value. She had a weakness for jewels, and had many, which she wore every evening. People hinted that she would be robbed, as the cottage was situated in rather a solitary position, and a quarter of a mile from the village. But Miss Berengaria was a stout-hearted old lady and laughed such ideas to scorn.

As it was now winter, Miss Berengaria was attired in a wincey dress with a tartan shawl, and wore rubber boots on her feet and large gardener's gloves on her hands. Having finished clipping and pruning – she kept no gardener, saying she knew more than a trained professional – she tripped round to the back of the house, where a colony of fowls, pigeons, ducks, turkeys and geese welcomed her coming with much noise. Her hobby – amongst others – was fowl-farming, and she gave up a large portion of her time to rearing and fattening birds for the market. As her income was five thousand a year there was no need for her to work so hard, but she was out at all times and in all weathers attending to her feathered pets. A particularly ugly bull-dog, called Sloppy Jane, accompanied her. Miss Berengaria did not approve of the name, but the dog would answer to no other, so it had to be adopted. Sloppy Jane was devoted to her mistress and to Alice. While Miss Berengaria was feeding the fowls and wondering when the gong would sound for breakfast, Alice came out with a paper in her hand. She was a tall, slim girl with a fair face and brown eyes and hair. Not particularly pretty, perhaps, but with such a sweet expression and such a charming disposition that young men fell in love with her on the spot. Nor after a closer acquaintance did any see fit to change their opinions. Had Sir Simon seen her he might have approved of Bernard's choice, but there being a standing quarrel between the old baronet and Miss Berengaria, on the rights of a footpath, the old man had never come near "The Bower" for years. The old gentlewoman, in spite of a rather sharp manner, was fond of Alice, and Miss Malleson was devoted to her. The morning was sharp and cold, but there was a blue sky and occasional glints of sunshine. "And I shouldn't wonder if we had snow," said Miss Berengaria, looking up. "Perhaps a snowy Christmas. Ah, we had them when I was a girl. But there! the weather's deteriorated like everything else."

"Aunt," said Alice, in a faint voice – Miss Berengaria always liked to hear the name, although she was no relative – "Aunt!"

At the sound of the faint voice the old dame wheeled round – she was active in spite of being eighty years of age – and uttered an exclamation on seeing the white face of the girl. Alice was deathly pale and, clinging with one hand to some wire netting, held a newspaper in the other. "What's the matter, child? Anything wrong?"

"Bernard?" gasped Alice. "Oh, Bernard! Bernard!"

"This must be looked into," said Miss Berengaria, using her favorite expression. "Something is wrong with that silly boy. What's he been doing, child? It must be something bad if it's in the paper."

"I don't believe he did it," said Alice, trembling. "He is innocent."

Miss Berengaria trembled also and sat down. "Don't hint at horrors, Alice," she said, with an effort at self-command. "I'm not fit for such things. I don't suppose the boy's killed anyone – though, to be sure, as he's a soldier now, it's his trade."

"Murder!"

"Eh! What's that? Murder, Alice!" The old lady's ruddy cheeks grew white, and she stretched out her hand for the paper. "Show me!" she said resolutely.

Alice did not hand her the paper. She seemed almost incapable of understanding what was said.

"Bernard is dead!" she moaned.

"Dead! Great Heavens!"

"He is drowned. It's all in the paper. It's all – Oh – oh!"

Breaking off suddenly she dropped the paper, and fled towards the house like a creature suddenly aroused to life. Miss Berengaria did not lose a moment. With an activity wonderful in a woman of her years she sprang to her feet, and hurried up the path round to the front of the house, following in the wake of the weeping girl. She saw Alice disappear into the porch and enter the breakfast-room, where the meal was already waiting. There, on the hearth-rug, Alice fell prone. Miss Berengaria knelt down and took her hand. She had not fainted, but, cold and shivering, was sobbing as though her heart would break. And perhaps it would, under this unexpected and terrible calamity. Bernard was her idol, and now he was dead, and his memory fouled with the accusation of an awful crime.

Finding that Alice still had her senses Miss Berengaria nodded and sat down. "The best thing for you, my dear," she said in a soft voice. "Weep your heart out, while I read the paper."

These words sound rather heartless, but the old lady did not intend them to be so. She realized that tears would relieve the strain on the almost stunned girl, and welcomed them gladly. Alice knew that her friend spoke for the best, but she gave no sign as, lying prone on the rug, she concealed her agonized face, while Miss Berengaria adjusting her spectacles, glanced through the paper. Already the gong had sounded, the meal smoked on the table, and there was no fear of interruptions by the servants. But neither Miss Berengaria nor Alice was able to eat in the face of this bolt from the blue.

"Where is it, my dear? – oh, here! Murder and Suicide. A nice heading, upon my word. Rubbish! I don't believe a word of it."

"Read! Read!" moaned the girl at her feet.

"Alice," said Miss Berengaria, severely, "before reading a word I tell you that I don't believe a word of it. Bernard, though a silly boy, would not kill a fly, nor would he kill himself. Murder and Suicide! Oh, rubbish – rubbish!"

"But you know, and I know, he quarrelled with his grandfather."

Miss Berengaria looked at the girl's white face as she half crouched, half sat on the rug, with her eyes wild and her brown hair in disorder.

"I don't see what Sir Simon has to do with it," said she, tartly.