In silent amazement Beatrice followed the stout man out of the kitchen. He led the way across the lawn to the counting-house, and opened the door with a key which he took from the pocket of his white suit. She beheld the counting-house in exactly the same state as she had seen it when Alpenny had insisted on the marriage with Major Ruck. But much water had flowed under Westminster Bridge since that time, which now seemed so far away.
"Missy," said Durban, pointing to the seat in front of the mahogany desk, "sit down and let us talk. I have much to tell you, for the time has come when you must know what I know."
"Why have you kept information from me all this time?" said Beatrice, sitting down, while Durban stood at the door, his bulky form blocking up all exit.
"Why? Missy, I ask you, would it have been right for me, who love you, to overshadow your young life by telling you of the murder of your father, of the rascality of Alpenny, and of the terrible position in which Mr. Paslow was placed?" Durban spoke vehemently, and with the very greatest earnestness.
"I am not a child," said Beatrice. "I should have been told."
"You were a child for a long time, and I loved you," said Durban with exquisite sadness. "I wished to keep you in ignorance of the evil that surrounded you. I wished you to marry Mr. Paslow, and go away, never to learn what the evil was. But, I knew--for I learned it from Major Ruck, who wished to marry you and get the Obi necklace--that Mr. Paslow had married Maud Orchard (or Maud Carr, as she calls herself in town). When she died--or pretended to die--I thought that all would be well, and so kept silence. But you were determined to search out these matters for yourself. I placed no bar in the way of your doing so, as I thought that perhaps you were the chosen instrument to put all right. Since, unaided, you have found out so much, I think you are that instrument, so I am now going to make much plain, which has hitherto puzzled you."
Beatrice crossed her feet and hands. "I shall be glad to hear what you have to say," she said coldly.
"Ah, missy, do not be angry," said Durban caressingly; "it was love that made me keep you in the dark."
He was so genuinely moved that a large tear rolled down his dark face, and a profound emotion stirred him to the depths of his being. Beatrice was annoyed at the way in which she had been treated, but she was just enough to recognise that the man had kept silence out of pure affection. Impulsively stretching out her hand, she caught his, which hung listlessly by his side, and shook it heartily. "I believe you love me, Durban, and that you acted for the best."
"Oh! missy--missy!"