The Black Patch

"Of course he's a wretch, dear; but oh!"--with an ecstatic expression--"what a nice wretch!"

"I see; you marry the adjective."

"The man, Beatrice, the man. Give me a real man and I ask for nothing better. But the genuine male is so difficult to find nowadays."

"Really! Then you have been more successful than the majority."

"How sarcastic, how unfriendly! I did look for sympathy."

Beatrice embraced her companion affectionately. "You have it, Dinah. I give all sympathy and all good wishes to yourself and Jerry. May you be very happy as Mr. and Mrs. Snow!"

"Oh, we shall, we shall! Jerry would make an undertaker happy!"

"Undertakers generally are--when business is good."

"Oh! you are quite too up-to-date in your talk, Beatrice Hedge."

"That is strange, seeing how I live in a dull country garden like a snail, or a cabbage."

"Like a wild rose, dear. At least Vivian would say so."

"Mr. Paslow says more than he means," responded Beatrice, blushing redder than the flower mentioned, "and I dare say Jerry does also."

"No, dear. Jerry hasn't sufficient imagination."

"He ought to have, being a journalist."

"Those are the very people who never imagine anything. They find their facts on every hedge."

"Is that an unworthy pun on my name?"

"Certainly not, Miss Hedge," said the other with dignity; "Jerry shan't find anything on you, or in you, save a friend, else I shall be horribly jealous. As to Vivian, he would murder his future brother-in-law if he caught him admiring you; and I don't want to begin my married life with a corpse."

"Naturally. You wisely prefer the marriage service to the burial ditto, my clever Dinah."

"I'm not clever, and I really don't know how to answer your sharp speeches, seeing that I am a plain country girl."

"Not plain--oh! not plain. Jerry doesn't think so, I'm sure."

"It's very sweet and flattering of Jerry, but he's mercifully colour-blind and short-sighted. I am plain, with a pug nose, drab hair, freckles, and teeny-weeny eyes. You are the reverse, Beatrice, being all that is lovely--quite a gem."

"Don't tell my father that I am any sort of jewel," remarked Beatrice dryly, "else he will want to sell me at an impossible price."

Dinah laughed, but did not reply. Her somewhat flighty brain could not concentrate itself sufficiently to grasp the subtle conversation of Miss Hedge, so she threw herself back on the mossy stone seat and stared between half-closed eyelids at the garden. This was necessary, for the July sunshine blazed down on a mass of colour such as is rarely seen in sober-hued England. The garden might have been that of Eden, as delineated by Martin or Doré, from the tropical exuberance of flower and leaf. But the buildings scattered about this pleasance were scarcely of the primitive type which Adam and his spouse would have inhabited: rather were they expressions of a late and luxurious civilisation.

And again, they could scarcely be called buildings in the accepted sense of the word, as they had been constructed to run on iron rails, at the tail of a locomotive. To be plain, seven railway carriages, with their wheels removed, did duty for dwellings, and very odd they looked amidst surroundings alien to their original purpose. A Brixton villa would scarcely have seemed more out of place in the Desert of Sahara.

Placed in an irregular circle, like Druidical stones, the white-painted woodwork of these derelicts was streaked fantastically with creepers, which, spreading even over the arched roofs, seemed to bind them to the soil. Titania and her fastidious elves might have danced on the smooth central sward, in the middle of which appeared a chipped sundial, upheld by three stone ladies, unclothed, battered, and unashamed. At the back of these ingeniously contrived huts bloomed flowers in profusion: tall and gaudy hollyhocks, vividly scarlet geraniums, lilies of holy whiteness, and thousands--as it truly seemed--of many-hued poppies. The wide beds, whence these blossoms sprang, stretched back to a girdle of lofty trees, and were aglow with the brilliant flowers of the nasturtium. The trees which shut in this sylvan paradise from the crooked lane rose from a tangled jungle of coarse grasses, nettles, darnels, and oozy weedy plants, whose succulence betrayed the presence of a small pond gorgeous with water-lilies. Paths led through the miniature forest, winding in and out and round about, so as to make the most of the small space; and the whole was bounded by a high brick wall, mellow and crumbling, but secure for all that, seeing it was topped with iron spikes and bits of broken bottles. One heavy wooden gate, at present bolted and barred, admitted the outside world from the lane into this Garden of Alcinous.

Almost the entire population of the Weald knew of this Eden--that is, by hearsay--for no one entered the jealous gate, unless he or she came to do business with the eccentric character who had created the domain. Jarvis Alpenny was a miser, hence the presence of disused rail carriages, which saved him the trouble and cost of building a house. In The Camp--so the place was called--he had dwelt for fifty years, and he was as much a recluse as a man well could be, who made his income by usury. It seemed odd, and was odd, that a money-lender should not only dwell in, but carry on his peculiarly urban profession in, so rural a locality as the Weald of Sussex. Nevertheless, Alpenny did as large a business as though he had occupied some grimy office in the heart of London. Indeed, he really made more money, as the very seclusion of the place attracted many needy people who wished to borrow money secretly. As the local railway station was but three miles distant, these secretive clients came very easily to this rustic Temple of Mammon. Any one could stay in Brighton without arousing the curiosity of friends; and it was surely natural to make excursions into the bowels of the land! Jarvis Alpenny showed a considerable knowledge of human nature in thus isolating his habitation; for the more difficult people find it to obtain what they want, the more do they value that which they obtain.

Alpenny called Beatrice his daughter. He would have spoken more correctly had he called her his stepdaughter, for that she was. And apart from the difference in the name, no one would have believed that the wizen, yellow-faced, sharp-featured miser was the father of so beautiful a girl. She dwelt in The Camp like an imprisoned princess, and no dragon could have guarded her more fiercely than did Durban, the sole servant and factotum of the settlement, as it might truly be called. Alpenny himself might have passed for the wicked magician who held the aforesaid princess spell-bound in his enchanted domain. But as the Fairy Prince always discovers Beauty, however closely confined, so had Beatrice Hedge been discovered by Vivian Paslow. He was a poor country gentleman who dwelt in a two-miles distant grange; and his only sister, confessing to the biblical name of Dinah, was the decidedly plain girl who had just whispered to Beatrice how she had become engaged, on the previous day, to Gerald Snow. That Gerald was the son of a somewhat needy vicar, and possessed an objectionable mother, made no difference to Dinah, who was very much in love and very voluble on the subject.

"Of course," resumed Miss Paslow, after a pause in the conversation, "I and Jerry will be horribly poor. Vivian has no money and I have less. Mr. Snow the vicar has only a fifth-rate living, and Mrs. Snow is a screw like your father."

"Dinah!" Beatrice winced and coloured at these plain words.

"Well, Mr. Alpenny is a screw, and only your stepfather after all. As to Mrs. Snow--oh, my gracious"--with expressive pantomime--"I'm glad Jerry and I won't have to depend upon her for food. Whenever the poor famished darling comes to Convent Grange, I simply rush to make him a glass of egg and milk in case he tumbles off his chair."

"That may be emotion, caused by the sight of you Dinah."

"How nasty, how untrue! No! I did the tumbling when he proposed yesterday. He proposed so beautifully that I think he must have been reading up. I was in the parlour and Jerry came in. He looked at me like that, and I looked at him in this way, and afterwards----" Here Dinah, who was at the silly boring stage of love, told the wonderful story for the fifth time, ending with the original remark that for quite three hours after Jerry left her, Jerry's kisses were warm on her maiden lips.

"Why didn't you bring Mr. Snow in, Dinah?" asked Beatrice, who had listened most patiently to these rhapsodies.

"Oh, my dear!" fanning a red and freckled face with a flimsy handkerchief, "he's much better in the lane, minding the horses. You see he will make me blush with his looks and smiles and hand-squeezings, when he thinks that no one is looking--which they usually are," finished Miss Paslow ungrammatically.

"And you came over to tell me. That is sweet of you."

"Well, I did and I didn't, dear, to be perfectly candid. You see, Jerry and I were going for a ride this morning, just to see if we entirely understood how serious marriage is; but Vivian is such a prig----"

"He isn't!" contradicted Beatrice indignantly.

"Oh yes, he is," insisted Dinah obstinately; "he doesn't think it quite the thing that I and Jerry should be too much alone--as though we could make love in company! He wouldn't like it himself, though he did insist on my coming here with him, and rode in the middle, so as to part Jerry and me. So poor, dear, darling Jerry is holding the horses in the lane, while Vivian is doing business with your father in there," and Miss Paslow pointed a gloved finger at a distant railway carriage, which was so bolted and barred and locked and clamped that it looked like a small dungeon.

A grave expression appeared on the face of Beatrice. "Do you know what kind of business Mr. Paslow is seeing my father about?"

"Oh, my dear, as though your father--which he isn't--ever did any sort of business save lend money to people who haven't got any, as I'm sure we Paslows haven't. We've got birth and blood and a genuine Grange with a ghost, and Vivian has good looks even if I haven't, in spite of Jerry's nonsense; but there isn't a sixpence between us. How Mrs. Lilly manages to feed us, I really don't know, unless she steals the food. Our ancestors had the Paslow money and spent it, the mean pigs!--just as though our days weren't more expensive than their days, with their feathers and lace and port wine."

"Then Mr. Paslow is borrowing money?" remarked Beatrice, when she could get in a word, which was not easy.

"Mr. Paslow!--how cold you are, Beatrice, when you know Vivian worships the ground you tread on, though he doesn't say much. Borrowing money, do you say? I expect he is, although he never tells me his business. So different to Jerry, who lets me know every time he has a rise in his salary on the Morning Planet, which isn't often. I think the editor must be a kind of Mrs. Snow, and she--well----" Dinah again expressed herself in pantomime.

It was quite useless speaking to Miss Paslow, who was only nineteen and a feather-head. Besides, she was too deeply in love to bother about commonplace things. Beatrice felt nervous to hear that Vivian contemplated borrowing money, as she knew how dangerous it was for anyone to become entangled in the nets of her stepfather. She would have liked to question Dinah still further, but thinking she would get little information from so lovelorn a damsel, it occurred to her that Jerry Snow should be brought on the scene. Then the lovers could chatter nonsense, and Beatrice could think her own thoughts, which were greatly concerned with Mr. Alpenny's client. The means of obliging Dinah and gaining time for reflection suggested themselves, when a bulky man showed himself at the door of the carriage which served as a kitchen. He wore, as he invariably did, summer and winter, a suit of white linen, and on this occasion an apron, to keep the steaming saucepan he held from soiling his clothes.

"There's Durban," said Beatrice, rising and crossing over; "he can hold the horses and Mr. Snow can come in."

Dinah gave a faint squeal of delight, and shook the dust from her shabby riding-habit while Beatrice explained what she wanted.

Durban was of no great height, and so extremely stout that he looked even less than he really was. His lips were somewhat thick, his nose was a trifle flat, and his hair had that frizzy kink which betrays black blood. Even a casual observer could have told that Durban had a considerable touch of the tar-brush--was a mulatto, or perhaps one remove from a mulatto. Apparently he possessed the inherent good-humour of the negro, for while listening to his young mistress he smiled expansively, and displayed a set of very strong white teeth. Nor was he young, for his hair was touched at the temples with grey, and his body was stout with that stoutness which comes late in life from a good digestion and an easy conscience. He aped youth, however, for he carried himself very erect, and walked--as he now did to the gate--in an alert and springy manner surprising in one who could not be less than fifty years of age. It seemed remarkable that so kindly a creature as the half-caste should serve a sour-faced old usurer; but, in truth, Beatrice was his goddess, and her presence alone reconciled him to an ill-paid post where he was overworked, and received more kicks than halfpence. He would have died willingly for the girl, and showed his devotion even in trifles.

Before returning to Dinah, whose eyes were fixed in an hypnotic way on the gate through which her beloved would shortly pass, Beatrice cast an anxious glance at the dungeon which did duty as Mr. Alpenny's counting-house. The girl had never been within, as Jarvis was not agreeable that she should enter his Bluebeard chamber. For the rest he allowed her considerable freedom, and she could indulge in any fancy so long as the fancy was cheap. But she was forbidden to set foot in Mammon's shrine, and whether the priest was without, or within, the door was kept locked. It was locked now, and Vivian Paslow was closeted with the usurer, doubtless handing over to Alpenny the few acres that remained to him for a sum of money at exorbitant interest. That the man she loved should be a fly in the parlour of the money-lending spider annoyed Beatrice not a little. Her attention was distracted by another squeal from Dinah, whose emotions were apt to be noisy.

"Jerry! oh Jerry!" sighed the damsel, clasping her hands, and in came Mr. Snow, walking swiftly across the grass, apparently as frantic for Dinah as Dinah was for him. At the moment neither lunatic took notice of the amused hostess.

"My Dinah! my own!" gasped Jerry, devouring his Dulcinea with two ardent eyes, the light of which was hidden by pince-nez.

Jerry assuredly was no beauty, save that his proportions were good, and he dressed very smartly. He possessed a brown skin which matched well with brown hair and moustache, and had about him the freshness of twenty-two years, which is so charming and lasts so short a time. Dinah with her freckles, her drab hair, and nose "tip-tilted like the petal of a flower"--to mercifully quote Tennyson--suited him very well in looks. And then love made both of them look quite interesting, although not even the all-transforming passion could render them anything but homely. Beside the engaged damsel, Beatrice, tall, slender, dark-locked and dark-eyed, looked like a goddess, but Jerry the devoted had no eye for her while Dinah was present. Had he been Paris, Miss Paslow decidedly would have been awarded the apple. Not having one, he stared at Dinah and she at him as though they were meeting for the first time. Beatrice, impatient of this oblivion to her presence, brought them from Heaven to earth.

"I have to congratulate you, Mr. Snow," she remarked.

"Mr. Snow!" echoed Dinah, jumping up as though a wasp had stung her; "you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Beatrice! Haven't you known Jerry for--oh! for ever so long?

"For quite three years, dear; but, you see, I don't visit at the Vicarage," and Beatrice spoke with some bitterness, as Jerry's mother had always been unkind to the lonely girl, for reasons connected with what Mrs. Snow regarded as her anomalous position.

Jerry coloured and blinked behind his glasses. "I know what you mean, Miss Hedge," he said regretfully, "but don't worry. Call me Jerry as usual; what does it matter what mother thinks?"

"Ah," said Dinah, quivering with alarm, "what does she think of us?"

"Well, she"--Jerry hesitated, and finally answered the question with a solemn warning--"I don't think I'd call at the Vicarage for a few days, Dinah sweetest. She--she--well, you know mother."

"Why does Mrs. Snow object?" asked Beatrice very directly.

"I know oh, none better!" almost shouted Dinah; "no money!"

Jerry nodded, with an admiring glance at her cleverness. "No money."

"I thought so; and Mrs. Snow wants you to marry a millionairess?"

Jerry nodded again. "As though a millionairess would look at the likes of me!" said he, with the chuckle of a nestling.

"I wouldn't give even the plainest of them a chance!" cried Dinah jealously; "you could marry anyone with the way you have, Jerry dear."

Miss Hedge laughed gaily. "Show me the way you have, Jerry dear!" she mimicked, whereat the young lover blushed redder than the poppies.

"Oh, what rot! See here, girls both, we're all pals."

"Dinah is something more than a pal since yesterday," observed Beatrice pointedly.

"Oh, you know what I mean. Well, then father is pleased and would marry us himself, to save fees; but mother--oh, Lord!"

"Will she part us, Jerry?" demanded Dinah in a small voice.

Bashful as he was, Mr. Snow rose to the occasion, and taking her in his strong arms kissed her twice.

"That's what I think!" said he, with the air of Ajax defying the lightning. "We'll be cut off with a shilling by mother; but we shall marry all the same, and live on the bread and cheese and kisses provided by the Morning Planet."

"Thank you," said Miss Paslow tartly, "I provide my own kisses."

"No, darling heart!" gurgled the ardent Jerry, "I do that!" and was about to repeat his conduct when the ceremony was interrupted.

From the dungeon came the sound of a shrill voice indulging in abusive language. A few moments later and the narrow door was flung violently open. Vivian Paslow came out quietly enough, and was followed by a bent, dried-up ape of a man who was purple with fury. The contrast between the money-lender and his client was most marked. Alpenny was the missing link itself, and Vivian appeared beside him like one of a higher and more human race. Without taking any notice of the furious old creature, he walked towards the startled Beatrice and shook her by the hand.

"Good-bye, Miss Hedge," he said loudly; then suddenly sank his voice to a hurried whisper. "Meet me to-night at seven, under the Witches' Oak."

"Leave my place!" cried Alpenny, hobbling up, to interrupt this leave-taking; "you shall not speak to her."

Paslow took his amazed sister on his arm and crossed to the gate, while Jerry, blinking and puzzled, followed after. Beatrice, as startled by Paslow's request as she was by the scene, remained where she was, and her stepfather chased his three visitors into the lane with opprobrious names. But before he could close the gate, Vivian turned suddenly on the abusive old wretch.

"I came to do you a service," said he, "but you would not listen."

"You came to levy blackmail. You asked----"

"Silence!" cried Paslow, with a gesture which reduced Alpenny to a stuttering, incoherent condition. "I never threatened you."

"You did--you do! You want your property back, and----"

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!"