CHAPTER XV
THE PAST OF ALICE
The lovers stared at Durham when he made this startling announcement,for startling it was, considering how necessary Mrs. Gilroy's evidencewas to procure the freedom of Gore. He sat down wiping his face--for hehad ridden over post-haste--and looked excessively chagrined.
"When did she go?" asked Bernard, who was the first to find his voice.
"Goodness knows," replied the lawyer in vexed tones. "She left earlythis morning without saying she was going. Miss Randolph heard the newsat breakfast. One of the grooms stated that he had seen Mrs. Gilroydriving in a farmer's trap to the station at Postleigh, about seveno'clock."
"Perhaps she will come back."
"No! She has taken her box with her. She had only one, I believe. Idaresay she has taken fright over what she let out to me the other dayabout that precious son of hers"--here Durham remembered that, so far ashe knew, Alice was ignorant of Michael Gore's existence. She interpretedthe look.
"You can speak freely, Mr. Durham," she said. "Bernard has just told meall about the matter."
"Good," said the solicitor, evidently relieved, as it did notnecessitate his entering into a long explanation, of which he was ratherimpatient. "Then you know that Bernard and I suspect Michael Gore----"
"He has no right to that name," said Bernard, peremptorily.
"Well, then, Michael Gilroy, though for all we know his mother may nothave a right to that name either. But to come to the point. Thisdisappearance of the woman makes me more certain than ever that shealone can tell the story of that night."
"And she won't tell it if it incriminates her son," said Alice.
"No, that's certain. I made inquiries----"
"You must have been quick about it," observed Gore, glancing at hiswatch. "It is barely three o'clock."
"I went at once to make inquiries," said Durham. "Mrs. Gilroy orderedthe trap overnight and had her box removed, though how she managed itwithout the servants at the Hall knowing, I am not prepared to say. Butshe did, and went to the Postleigh station. There she took a ticket toLondon. She is lost there now"--here Durham made a gesture ofdespair--"and goodness knows when we will set eyes on her again."
"I can tell you that," put in Alice, briskly, and both men lookedinquiringly at her. "She will reappear when she is able to establish thefact that Michael is the heir."
"Which means that she must prove her own marriage, if there wasany--begging your pardon, Miss Malleson--to have taken place prior tothat of Walter Gore with Signora Tolomeo."
"My uncle will be able to prove that."
"I'll see him about it, as there is some difficulty in knowing whereyour parents were married, Bernard. Your father kept the marriage asecret from you grandfather. Afterwards, Sir Simon received your motherat the Hall, and was fairly friendly with her. I don't think he everbecame quite reconciled to your father."
"Well! well!" said Bernard, hastily, "let us leave that point alone forthe present. What are we to do now?"
"We must have a counsel of war. By the way, Conniston is stopping at theHall till this evening, Bernard. He will be back at dinner."
Alice smiled. "I think Lord Conniston is enjoying himself."
"You mean with Miss Randolph," said Durham. "I devoutly wish he may takea fancy to that lady----"
"I think he has," put in Bernard, smiling also.
"All the better. If he makes her Lady Conniston, it will be a good day'swork. Only marriage will tame Conniston. I have had no end of troublewith him. He _is_ a trial."
"Oh, Lucy is a clever girl, and can guide him if she becomes his wife,Mr. Durham. And now that her engagement is broken with Mr. Beryl, Idaresay it will come off--the marriage I mean. She seems to be attractedby Lord Conniston."
"And small wonder," said Miss Berengaria, entering at this moment. "Ireally think Conniston is a nice fellow--much better than Bernard,here."
"I won't hear that, aunt," said Alice, indignantly.
"My dear, I always speak my mind. How are you, Durham?" added the oldlady, turning on the dapper solicitor. "You look worried."
"Mrs. Gilroy has bolted."
Miss Berengaria rubbed her nose. "The deuce take the woman! Why has shedone that? I always thought she was a bad lot."
"Do you know anything about her, aunt?"
"Yes, I do, and much more than she likes. She's a gipsy."
"I thought she was," said Durham, remembering the Romany dialect used bythe housekeeper, "but she doesn't look like a gipsy."
"Well," said Miss Berengaria, rubbing her nose again and taking a seat,"she's not a real gipsy, but I believe some tribe in the New Forest--theLovels, I understand--picked her up, and looked after her. All I know ofher dates from the time she came to Hurseton, with the gipsies. She wasthen a comely young woman, and I believe Walter Gore admired her."
"My father," said Bernard, coloring.
"I beg your pardon, my dear," said the old lady. "I can't say good ofyour father, and I won't say bad, so let me hold my tongue."
"No," said Durham, rather to the surprise of the others. "Now you havesaid so much, Miss Plantagenet, you must say all."
"All what?" demanded the old lady, aggressively.
"Well, you see, Mrs. Gilroy claims to have married Walter Gore."
"Then she's a liar," said Miss Berengaria, emphatically and vulgarly."Why, Walter was married to your mother, Bernard, at that time."
"Are you sure?" he asked eagerly.
"Of course I am. I don't make any statements unless I am sure. Itwas after the marriage; for Sir Simon--I was friends with himthen--consulted me about your father having married the Italianwoman--begging your pardon again, Bernard. I then learned the date ofthe marriage and it was quite three years afterwards that Walter sawMrs. Gilroy. I don't know what she called herself then. But shedisappeared, and I understand from Sir Simon she married Walter underthe impression he was a single man--drat the profligate!" added MissBerengaria.
"Then the son----"
"Son!" echoed the old lady, turning to Durham, who had spoken. "Youdon't mean to say there is a son?"
"Yes." And Durham, thinking it best to be explicit, gave a detailedaccount of Mrs. Gilroy's interview. Miss Berengaria listened with greatattention, and gave her verdict promptly.
"It's as plain as the nose on my face," she said. "Mrs. Gilroy wasreally married as she thought, but when she came to see Sir Simon--andthat was after the death of both of your parents, my dear," sheinterpolated, turning to Gore, "she must have learned the truth. I thinkthe old rascal--no, I won't speak evil of the dead--but the good oldman"--her hearers smiled at this--"the good old saint was sorry for her.He made her the housekeeper and promised to provide for her after hisdeath."
"Five hundred a year, she says," put in Durham.
"Ah! I can't conceive Simon Gore parting with money to that extent,"said Miss Berengaria, dryly, "especially to one who had no claim uponhim whatsoever."
"You don't think she had."
"Deuce take the man! Don't I say so? Of course she hadn't. Walter Goredeceived her--begging your pardon for the third time, Bernard--but SirSimon acted very well by her. I will say that. As to there being a son,I never heard. But if this--what do you call him?"
"Michael Gilroy."
"Well, if Michael Gilroy is the image of Bernard, who is the image ofhis father in looks, though I hope not in conduct, there is no doubtthat he was the man admitted by Mrs. Gilroy, who killed Sir Simon. Ofcourse, she will fight tooth and nail for her son. I daresay--I amconvinced that it is fear of what she said to you, Mr. Durham, that hasmade her go away. And a good riddance of bad rubbish, say I," concludedthe old spinster, vigorously, "and for goodness' sake, where's theluncheon? I'm starving."
This speech provoked a laugh, and as everyone's nerves were rather wornby the position of affairs, it was decided to banish all furtherdiscussion until the meal was over. Miss Berengaria without being toldtook the head of th
e table. "I represent the family in the absence ofthat silly young donkey," she said.
"Oh, Miss Berengaria," said Bernard, smiling, "if you call Connistonthat, what do you call me?"
"A foolish boy, who lost his head when he should have kept it."
"I lost my heart, at all events!"
Alice laughed, and they had a very pleasant meal. Miss Berengaria wasreally fond of Gore and of Conniston also, but she liked to--as she putit--take them down a peg or two. But whenever there was trouble, MissBerengaria, in spite of her sharp tongue, was always to be relied upon.Her bark was five times as bad as her bite, therefore those present madeall allowance for her somewhat free speech.
"We start back at half-past four," announced the old lady, when theluncheon was ended, "as I don't like driving in the dark. It is nowfour, so you have just time to talk over what is to be done."
"What do you advise, Miss Berengaria?" asked Durham.
"I advise Bernard to give himself up, and face the matter out."
"Oh, aunt!" cried Alice, taking her lover's hand.
"My dear, this hole-and-corner business is no good. And the discovery ofthe likeness between Michael and Bernard brings a new element into play.If Bernard lets himself be arrested, the whole business can be threshedout in daylight. Besides, as we stand now, that Beryl creature--drathim!--will make mischief."
"He has found out that Bernard is alive," said Alice.
"That's impossible!" cried Durham, waking up and sitting apparently onthorns. "He doesn't know Bernard is at this Castle."
"Alice has put the matter wrongly," said Bernard, taking out the letterof Beryl. "She received this from Julius. He says he saw me in thestreets of London. That means he saw Michael Gilroy."
"Ah! And made the mistake, as everyone else seems to have done."
"I doubt that, Alice," said Miss Plantagenet, "I doubt that very much.It seems to me that Beryl--drat him!--knows a great deal more than wedo. It's my opinion," added the old lady, looking round triumphantly,"that Beryl has used Michael as an instrument."
"I think so also," said Durham, quickly, "and it comes to this, that ifI accidentally met Michael, or if he called at my office representinghimself as Bernard, I should accept him as such."
"What for?" asked Bernard, angrily.
"There you go with your temper," said Miss Berengaria. "Durham is quiteright and shows more sense than I expected from him. The only way to getat the truth--which this Michael with his mother knows--is to give him along enough rope to let him hang himself. I daresay if Durham won hisconfidence, the man might presume on his being accepted as Bernard, andmight give us a clue. What do you say, Alice? Don't sit twiddling yourthumbs, but answer."
Miss Malleson laughed. "I agree with you, aunt."
"Of course you do. Am I ever wrong? Well?" She looked round.
Durham answered her look. "I will go back to London," he said, "and willadvertise for Mrs. Gilroy----"
"She won't be such a fool as to obey."
"I beg your pardon, Miss Plantagenet; she may."
"She won't, I tell you."
"Then Michael may come."
"What! with that murder hanging over his head? Rubbish!"
"You forget Bernard is accused. Michael can clear himself."
Miss Berengaria snorted and rubbed her nose. "Can he? then I should verymuch like to know how he can. Do what you like, young man, but mark mywords: your net will catch no fish."
"It may catch Beryl," said Bernard, thoughtfully. "When he sees Markadvertising he will be on the look-out."
"To have Michael arrested as Bernard," said Miss Berengaria. "Well, hemight. And if so, all the better for you, Gore. Oh dear me"--she rose toput on her bonnet--"what a lot of trouble all this is."
"And it rose from Bernard being true to me," said Alice, tenderly.
"As if you weren't worth the world," said Bernard, assisting her to puton her cloak.
"Eh, what's that?" said the old lady. "Hum! Bernard, your grandfatherwas a silly fool--no, I won't say that--but he was an upsetting peacock.The idea of not thinking Alice good enough for you!"
"She is too good for me."
"I quite agree with you," said the lawyer, laughing; "but you see, MissBerengaria, it was not the personality of Miss Malleson that Sir Simonobjected to, but her----"
"I know--I know," said the old lady tartly. "Bless the man, does he takeme for an idiot." She sat down. "I'm a fool."
Everyone looked at one another when Miss Berengaria made this startlingannouncement. As a rule, she called others fools, but she was chary ofapplying the term to herself. She looked round. "I am a fool," sheannounced again. "Alice, come and sit down. I have something to say thatshould have been said long ago."
"What is it?" asked the girl, seating herself beside the old lady. MissBerengaria, a rare thing for her, began to weep. "The air here is toostrong for me," she said in excuse. "All the same, I must speak out eventhrough my tears, silly woman that I am! Oh, if I hadn't been too proudto explain to that dead peacock"--she meant the late baronet--"all thiswould have been avoided."
"Do you mean my grandfather would have consented to the marriage?"
"I mean nothing of the sort, Bernard, so don't interrupt," said MissBerengaria, sharply, "but I'm a fool. Bernard, I beg your pardon."
"If you would come to the point, Miss Plantagenet, and----"
"I am coming to it, Durham," she said quickly. "Don't worry me. It isthis way: Sir Simon objected to Alice because he knew nothing of herparentage."
"I know nothing myself," said Alice, sadly.
"Well then, I intend to tell you now. You are perfectly well born andyou have every right to the name of Malleson, though why Sir Simonthought you hadn't I can't say. Give me your hand, my love, and I'lltell you who you are as concisely as possible."
Alice did as she was told, and Miss Plantagenet began in a hurry, asthough anxious to get over a disagreeable task. Durham and Bernardlistened with all their ears. Miss Berengaria noticed this.
"You needn't look so eager," she said tartly; "the story is dull. Alice,do you remember that I told you I was engaged once to a wicked fool?"
"Yes--you said----"
"There's no need to repeat what I said. I am quite sure it isn'tedifying. I have far too long a tongue, but old age will begarrulous--drat it! Well then, Alice, that man who said he loved me andlied was your grandfather. He married a girl with money, for then I hadonly my looks, and I _was_ handsome," said Miss Berengaria,emphatically; "but George--his name was George and I've hated it eversince--didn't want beauty or brains. He wanted money, and got it, alongwith a weeping idiot whose heart he broke. I swore never to look on aman again, and when my father died I came to live at The Bower. But Iheard that George's wife had died, leaving him one daughter----"
"That was me," said Alice, hastily.
"Nothing of the sort. I said that George--his other name doesn't matterat present, although it can be mentioned if necessary--I said thatGeorge was your grandfather. The daughter grew up and married yourfather, who was a colonel in the Indian army. But both your parents diedwhen you were young. I received you from your dying mother's arms and Isent you to a convent. I couldn't bear the sight of you for months,"said the old lady, energetically. "You have a look of handsome George,and handsome he was. Well then, when you grew up and behaved yourself, Itook you from the convent, and you have been with me ever since."
"You are my second mother," said Alice, embracing her.
"The first--the only mother," said Miss Berengaria, sharply. "You neverknew any mother but me, and as your grandfather defrauded me of myrights to marry, I look upon you as my child."
"But why did you not tell this perfectly plain story to Sir Simon?"
"Why didn't I, Durham?" asked Miss Berengaria tearfully. "You may wellask that. Pride, my dear--pride. Sir Simon and I were in societytogether. He wanted to marry me, and I refused. So I never became yourgrandmother, Bernard, and I certainly should never have had a son likeyour father,
who is----"
"Don't. He is my father after all."
"Was, you mean, seeing he is dead. Well, my dear boy, I'll say nothingabout him. But Sir Simon loved me and I preferred George, who was avillain. I couldn't bear to think that Sir Simon should know I hadforgotten my anger against George to the extent of helping hisgrand-daughter. An unworthy feeling you all think it--of course--ofcourse. But I am a woman, when all is said and done, my dears. Andanother thing--Simon Gore was too dictatorial for me, and I wasn't goingto give any explanation. Besides which, had he known Alice, that youwere George's grand-daughter--and he hated George--he would have beenmore set against the marriage than ever. And now you know what a wickedwoman I have been."
"Not wicked, aunt," said Alice, kissing the withered cheek.
"Yes, wicked," said Miss Berengaria, sobbing, "I should have told thetruth and shamed the--I mean shamed Sir Simon. Perhaps I could havearranged the marriage had I subdued my pride into obeying Sir Simon. ButI couldn't, and he was angry, and all these troubles have arisen out ofmy silly silence."
"Oh, no," said Bernard, sorry for her distress.
"Oh, yes," cried the old lady, rising and drying her tears. "Don't youcontradict me, Bernard. If I had told the truth and let Sir Simon knowthat Alice was well born, he might have consented."
"Not if he knew that Alice was George's grand-daughter."
Miss Berengaria tossed her head. "I don't know," she said, movingtowards the door. "I might have managed him, obstinate as he was. But ifSir Simon had not been angry, he would not have sent you away, Bernard,and then all this rubbish about the Red Window would not have drawn youto that dreadful house, to be accused of a wicked crime. But, oh dearme! what's the use of talking? Here are the horses standing all thistime at the door, and it's getting on to five. Alice, come home," andMiss Berengaria sailed out wrathfully.
The others looked at one another and smiled. Then Durham left the loversalone and went to assist Miss Berengaria into the carriage.
She was already in and caught his hand. "Spare no expense to help thatdear boy," she whispered. "He must be set free. And, for goodness sake,tell Alice to come at once. Why is she drivelling there?"
"Love! Miss Berengaria, love!"
"Stuff!" said the old lady, "and a man of your age talking so. Good-bye.Alice, are you comfortable? James, drive on, and don't upset us."