Vivian, with a swift glance at Beatrice, silenced the man again. "If I lose my property, I lose it," said he sternly; "but the other thing I refuse to lose. And, remember, your life is in danger."
Alpenny spluttered. "My life, you--you scoundrel!"
"Father! Father!" pleaded Beatrice, approaching anxiously.
Paslow took no notice, but still looked at the angry old man with a firm and significant expression. "Remember the Black Patch," said he in a clear, loud voice. The effect was instantaneous. Alpenny, from purple, turned perfectly white; from swearing volubility, he was reduced to a frightened silence.
Beatrice looked at him in amazement, and so--strange to say--did Vivian, who had spoken the mysterious words. For a moment he stared at the shaking, pale-faced miser, who was casting terrified looks over his shoulder, and then went out of the gate. Alpenny stood as though turned into stone until he heard the clatter of the retreating horses. Then he raised his head and looked wildly round.
"The third time!" he muttered; and Beatrice was sufficiently near to notice his abject fear. "The third time!"
[CHAPTER II]
THE HINTS OF DURBAN
Beatrice meditated in the parlour-carriage on the scene which had taken place at noon between her stepfather and Paslow. Without vouchsafing the least explanation, Alpenny had crept back to his den and was there still, with the door locked as usual. Twice and thrice did Durban call him to the midday meal, but he declined to come out. Beatrice had therefore eaten alone, and was now enjoying a cup of fragrant coffee which Durban had lately brought in. At the moment, he was washing up dishes in the kitchen, to the agreeable accompaniment of a negro song, which he was whistling vigorously. The girl, as she wished to be, was entirely alone. Durban could not explain the reason for the quarrel, and Alpenny would not; so Beatrice was forced to search her own thoughts for a possible explanation. So far she had been unsuccessful.
The tiny parlour was entirely white in its decorations, and looked extremely cool on this hot, close day. The walls were hung with snowy linen, the furniture was upholstered with the same, and the carpet, the curtains, the ornaments, even the cushions were all pearly white. Everything, when examined, was cheap in quality and price, but the spotlessly clean look of the room--if it could be called so--made up for the marked want of luxury. Beatrice herself wore a white muslin, with cream-hued ribbons, therefore no discordant colour broke the Arctic tone of the parlour. Only through the open door could be seen the brilliant tints of the flowers, blazing against a background of emerald foliage. The Snow Parlour was the name of this fantastic retreat, and the vicar's wife took the appellation as a personal insult. Rather should she have regarded it a compliment of the highest, as this maiden's bower was infinitely prettier than she was or ever could be.