The Black Patch

by Fergus Hume

Had he any suspicions of her intention? Beatrice thought not. The question was put in a snarling way, and simply--as she judged--to show his authority.

"I intend to read," she answered simply, "and perhaps I shall take a walk"--in the grounds, she ostensibly meant.

"Better not," warned the usurer, looking up. "Clouds are gathering. I am sure there will be a storm."

"Very well," was her indifferent reply, although she wondered if he had missed the key of the smaller gate. "Will I come and say good-night to you as usual at ten?"

Alpenny nodded in an absent way, and walked into his counting-house with his hands behind him, and his form more bent than usual. Beatrice watched him cross the smooth sward, and then went to sit down in the parlour and meditate. In some way, which she could scarcely define, she scented a mystery. The episode of the telegram, the hasty departure of Durban, the proposal of marriage, all these things hinted--as she thought--at schemes against her peace of mind. And then, again, the words of Vivian Paslow. Those were indeed mysterious, and she was anxious to know what they meant. Finally, the hint that Alpenny had given as to Vivian having committed crimes, alarmed the girl. She felt that Alpenny was trying to inveigle Paslow into some trap, and from his words it was plain that he would stop at nothing to prevent the young man declaring the passion he felt for the girl. Also, from another hint, it would seem that the miser held--as, indeed, he had plainly stated--"Vivian in the hollow of his hand."

These thoughts made Beatrice very uncomfortable, the more so as never before had any mystery come into her life. Hitherto it had been serene and uneventful, one day being exactly the same as another. But with the visit of Vivian on that afternoon everything had changed, for since he had heard those mysterious words, Alpenny had not been himself. In some queer way he had forwarded a telegram, and in a hurry he had sent Durban to London, which he had not done for months past. Undoubtedly something sinister was in the wind, and Beatrice shivered with a vague apprehension of dread.

It certainly might have been the weather which made her feel so ill at ease, for the hot day had ended in an even hotter evening. The air was close, the sky was clouded, and there was not a breath of wind to stir the leaves of the surrounding trees. Ever and again a flicker of lightning would leap across the sky--summer lightning which portended storm and rain. Beatrice, trying to breathe freely in the suffocating air, wished that the storm would come to clear the atmosphere. There was electricity in the dry air, and she felt as uncomfortable as a cat which has its hair smoothed the wrong way. On some such night as this must Lady Macbeth have received Duncan, and Nature hinted at a repetition of the storm which took place when the guileless king was done to death in the shambles.

Beatrice could not rest within doors. She put on a hat, and draped a long black cloak over her white dress. Attired thus, she walked up and down on the dry grass, trying to compose herself. Around gloomed the girdle of trees, without even a leaf stirring. The colours of the flowers were vague in the hot twilight, and the white forms of the seven railway carriages stood here and there like tombs in a cemetery. As she lingered near the sundial, she cast a look upward at the Downs, which rose vast and shadowy to be defined clearly against a clear sky. The foot of them was but a stone-throw away from The Camp, and almost it was in her mind to climb their heights in order to get a breath of fresh air. Here in the hollow, embosomed in woods, she felt stifling; but up there surely a sweet, fresh wind must be blowing, full of moisture from the Channel. Then the thought of a possible walk recalled her to a remembrance of her appointment: she intended to keep it, even though Durban had gone away. The key was in her pocket, and she could slip out of the small gate for an hour, and get back again without Alpenny being any the wiser. Already a light gleamed from the solitary window of the dungeon, as it had gleamed ever since she could remember when the darkness came on. Behind the discoloured blind the miser laboured at his books, and counted his gains. So far as she knew all his money was banked and invested, and he kept no gold in the dungeon. Perhaps he feared robbery; and it really was remarkable that, seeing he was supposed to be a millionaire, The Camp had never been marked by the fraternity of London thieves. A visit there would surely have proved successful, if all the tales of Alpenny were to be believed. But perhaps the thieves had heard, as the miser had vaguely hinted, of his cleverness in keeping no specie in his retirement. But be this as it may, Alpenny, all these years, had never hinted at a possible burglary.

After a glance at the Downs and at Alpenny's lighted window, behind which he would sit until midnight, Beatrice entered one of the winding paths in the little wood and took her way to the gate. The large gates were locked, and Alpenny alone possessed the key; but she could open the smaller gate, and now proceeded to do so.

The lock was freshly oiled, and the postern swung open noiselessly. Standing on the threshold within The Camp, Beatrice paused for a moment. Some feeling seemed to hold her back. Into her mind flashed the sudden thought that if she went out, she would leave behind her not only The Camp, but the old serene life. It was like crossing the Rubicon; but with an impatient ejaculation at her own weakness, she shook herself and passed out, leaving the gate locked behind her. Then she stole through the glimmering wood, fully committed to the adventure. As she did so, a distant growl of thunder seemed to her agitated mind like the voice of the angel thrusting her out of Paradise. Truly, she had never before felt in this strange mood.