The Solitary Farm

by Fergus Hume

Durgo nodded. "I fear your police too much," said he, with an ironical grin, and strode out of the house, looking more burly and defiant than ever. Bella had regretted her employment of his services, but what else could she do when so much was at stake? Bella wished to marry Cyril, and, to do so, desired to be certain that she was not Captain Huxham's daughter. The papers—if her wild surmise was correct—would prove if what Pence said was true. Then, since Cyril's father had not murdered her father—she put it in this confused way—she would be able to marry her lover with a clear conscience. That he might be the son of an assassin troubled her very little. To get her way after the manner of a woman deeply in love, she would have set the world on fire, or would have wrecked the solar system. And in placing the safety of Pence in the hands of a semi-civilised negro, she undoubtedly was risking his life. But she did not care, so long as she attained to the knowledge which she was confident he possessed.

It will be seen that Bella Huxham was no Sunday-school angel, or even the amiable heroine of a Family Herald novelette, who never by any chance does wrong. She was simply an average girl, with good instincts, brought up so far as school-training was concerned in a conventional way. At home no one had taught her to discern right from wrong, and, like the ordinary healthy young animal of the human race, she had not passed through sufficient sorrow to make her inquire into the truths of religion. Bella needed trouble to train her into a good, brave woman, and she was certainly getting the training now. But she made mistakes, as was natural, considering her inexperience.

That same evening, Mr. Silas Pence was seated in his shabby sitting-room, making notes for his next Sunday sermon. He occupied lodgings in a lonely cottage on the verge of the common, and did so because his landlady was a member of the Little Bethel congregation, who boarded and lodged him cheaply in order to have the glory of entertaining the minister. The landlady was a heavy-footed, heavy-faced woman, with two great hulking sons, and occupied the back part of the premises. Silas inhabited the best sitting-room and the most comfortable bedroom. There was no fence round the front of the cottage, although there was a garden of vegetables at the back, so the sitting-room window looked straight out on to the purple heather and golden gorse of the waste land. An artist would have delighted in the view, but Silas had no eye for anything beautiful in nature, and paid very little attention to the changing glories of the year. The lodging was cheap, and the situation healthy, so he was perfectly satisfied.

On this especial evening, the young preacher sat at the red-repp covered table, reading his Bible and making his notes. It was after ten o'clock, and his landlady was asleep, as were her two sons, both agricultural labourers worn out with the heavy toils of the day. The sitting-room window was wide open, and the blind was up, so that the cool night breeze was wafted faintly into the somewhat stuffy room, which was crowded with unnecessary furniture. Silas made a few notes, then threw down his pencil and sighed, resting his weary head on his hand.

Pence was by no means a bad man, but he was weak and excitable. The pursuit of Bella aroused the worst part of his nature, and made him think, say, and do much which he condemned. The better part of him objected to a great deal which he did, but the tide of his passion hurried him away and could not be checked by the dykes of common-sense. At times—and this was one of them—he bitterly blamed himself for giving way to the desire for Hepzibah, as he called Bella Huxham, in his own weak mind. But, sane in all other ways, he was insane on this one point, and felt that he would jeopardise his chance of salvation to call her wife. Nevertheless he was sane enough to know his insanity, and would have given much to root out the fierce love which was destroying his life.

But the insane passion which he cherished for a woman who would have nothing to do with him led him deeper and deeper into the mire of sin, and in spite of his prayers and cries for help, the Unseen would do nothing to extricate him from the morass of difficulties into which he had plunged himself. At times Silas even doubted if God existed, so futile were his attempts to gain comfort and guidance. Much as he loved Bella, he desired to win clear of the unwilling influence which she exercised on his nature, and vainly prayed for light whereby to know the necessary means to get rid of the tormenting demon. But no answer came, and he relapsed into despair, wondering what his congregation would say if any member knew the unmastered temptations of his inner life. The struggle made him weak and ill and thin and nervous, and but that deep in his heart he knew vaguely that God was watching over him, and would aid at the proper time, he would have taken his own miserable life.

With his head buried in his hands, Silas thought thus, with many groans and with many bitter tears, the shedding of which made his eyes burn. Occupied with his misery, he did not see a dark, massive form glide towards the open window, nor did he hear a sound, for Durgo stepped as light-footed as a cat. The sill of the window was no great distance from the ground, and the big negro flung his leg over the sill and into the room. But in getting hastily through, he was so large and the window so small, that he made a sliding noise as the window slipped still further up. Silas started to his feet, but only to see Durgo completely in the room, facing him with a grim smile.

"I have come to speak with you, sir," said the negro.

Silas turned white, being haunted by a fear known only to himself. But he read in the eyes of this black burglar—or, rather, he guessed by some wonderful intuition, that his fear and the cause of his fear were known to this man. Durgo saw the look in the preacher's eyes, and read his thoughts in his turn. The negro was not boasting when he hinted that he possessed certain psychic power. "Yes," he said, keeping his burning gaze directly on the miserable white man; "you stole papers from Captain Huxham's room, and I——"

"I did not," interrupted Pence wildly, and making a clutch at his breast coat-pocket. "How dare you—"