On that same evening, when Cyril was interviewing the strange negro, there was a concert in the Marshely school-house in aid of the prize fund. Dora had arranged the programme, and had asked Bella to be present. The girl would much rather have remained absent owing to the recent death of her father; besides, she did not feel able to enjoy music and frivolity and laughter. But to please her friend, who had been so kind to her, she came dressed in black and deeply veiled to the festival. For obvious reasons she took a seat at the lower end of the room, and near the door, so that she could easily slip out when the end came.

But Mrs. Vand was less retiring. In spite of her brother's tragic death she appeared dressed in all the colours of the rainbow, posing more as a bride than as a mourner. In fact, she displayed very little grief for the death of Jabez, and those who knew the late Captain Huxham were not surprised, as he had never been a man to inspire affection. Moreover, the secret marriage of Mrs. Coppersley to Henry Vand had created quite a sensation, and bride and bridegroom were much talked about and pointed at. Vand himself was one of the performers, as he played two violin solos. Some folk thought that both he and his wife would have displayed better taste by remaining away, but Mrs. Vand laughed at this opinion and flaunted her newly-found happiness in the face of all her acquaintances.

Luckily few people noticed Bella in her obscure corner, so she was not troubled with questions. Those who guessed who she was, felt that she had been very badly treated since the money had been left to Mrs. Vand, and indeed the sympathies of the entire neighbourhood were with the disinherited girl. Mrs. Vand, as everyone said, should have been ashamed of herself; but in spite of the indecent way in which she thrust her good fortune on everyone's notice, no one was bold enough to tell her what was the general opinion of her conduct. As for Bella, she sat in her corner feeling ill and miserable. She had every right to be so considering the position in which she and her lover were placed. It was to ween her thoughts from this dismal state of affairs that the kind-hearted school-mistress had induced her to come to the concert. Hitherto the cure had not worked.

The programme was the usual village one. There were several sentimental ballads of the purely English drawing-room type; two or three recitations, the violin solos of Henry Vand, who really played with rare skill, and a reading by Silas Pence, who was the chairman. Pence looked leaner and more delicate than ever, and read the "Dream of Eugene Aram" as a cheerful contribution to the evening's entertainment. His sepulchral tones and dismal appearance cast quite a gloom over the close of the evening, which was only dispelled by the singing of a glee by the Marshely Choral Society. But some time before this point was reached Bella had slipped out of the room and had taken her way back to the cottage. She went early, as her aunt had noticed her, and it was just possible that Mrs. Vand, who dearly loved to make trouble, might start a quarrel if it came to a conversation between the two. Mrs. Vand had not forgiven her enforced payment of one hundred pounds.

Bella did not enter the cottage, as it was very hot within, and the night was simply glorious. She took off her hat and veil and seated herself in the tiny garden to enjoy the soft breeze. There was not a cloud in the darkly-blue sky, and a serene moon moved majestically across the starry heavens. The cottage, with the lamp light shining behind the pink blinds, looked pretty and picturesque, so Bella resolved to wait for Dora's return in the open air. She had ample to think about, for the concert had failed to inspire her with cheerful thoughts. How could it when the clouds which environed her were so densely black? Poor Bella was not religious, and had small faith in the goodness of God. This was natural as God's name had rarely been mentioned by Captain Huxham and his sister, who were perfect heathens of the animal sort. So Bella, having no hope to cling to and seeing no ray of light piercing the darkness around her, began to conceive a cheerless future in which the figure of Cyril did not appear. The fact that his father had murdered hers ended the chance of marriage once and for all. He would doubtless go abroad and try to forget her, while she, bereft of love, home, money, and father, would seek some humble situation as a nursery governess: and it must be confessed that, as things were, Bella Huxham had good reason to despair. Any chance of happiness seemed to be as far removed from her as was the moon in the heaven above her.

The seat upon which she was resting stood close to the white palings of the garden, and under a leafy chestnut, now in the full glory of its summer foliage. Occasionally a person would pass, or a child singing would run home, but for the most part the road was deserted. Nearly all the village people were at the concert, and it would not end for at least another half hour. Only then would the roadway be full, but in the meantime, save for occasional interruptions, Bella had solitude and peace. She was therefore extremely ill-pleased when a dark figure halted at the palings and, leaning over, removed its hat to reveal the delicate features of Silas Pence.

"I give you good-evening, Miss Huxham," said the preacher, in his refined but somewhat shrill voice.

"Good evening," said Bella coldly. "Had you not better return to the concert, Mr. Pence? As the chairman you cannot leave the platform."

"I have presided most of the evening and have recited my piece," said Pence eagerly. "Now, on the plea of feeling faint I have left that hot room, and I am here to commune with you in the glory of the night. Is it not beautiful, Miss Huxham?" and he recited the well-known lines of Addison:—

"Did you come here to recite, Mr. Pence?" said Bella disagreeably. "If so I must go indoors. I have been entertained enough this evening."

"You should not have been at the concert at all," said the preacher rebukingly, "seeing that your dear father is scarcely cold in his grave."

"That is my business, Mr. Pence," said Bella in icy tones. "If you rebuke any one it should be my aunt, who is flaunting the property of which she robbed me in the face of everyone."

"I shall rebuke Sister Vand at a proper time," said Silas authoritatively. "In the meantime——"

"You rebuke me," said Bella, who had risen to her feet, weary of the conversation. "I decline to permit your interference."

"I don't want to rebuke you," cried Pence eagerly. "I wish to make you smile on me. Become my spouse, or fair lily of the valley, and you will have me always at your feet."

"I have told you before, Mr. Pence, that I cannot marry you."

"Then you still intend to wed that son of Belial, overflowing with insolence and wine?" questioned the preacher bitterly; "your father's murderer."

"Mr. Lister is perfectly innocent, as I happen to know."

"Can you prove his innocence?"

"Can you prove his guilt?" retorted the girl spiritedly.

"I saw him enter the Manor on that night."

"You saw a man who resembled him. Mr. Lister was in London and can prove that he was there. It is useless your using threats, Mr. Pence, for had you been able to carry them out you would long since have seen the police."

Pence frowned. "Who is this other man?" he asked.

"You can find out!" said Bella impatiently, "and I am going indoors."

"There is no other man," cried Pence angrily. "Why, I saw Mr. Lister quite clearly. I could not mistake him."

"You did, however."

"The police shall decide that."

"Go to the police. You threatened to do so before. Why don't you do what you say instead of trying to frighten me with stage thunder?"

Silas stamped and raged. "You will find the thunder real enough before I have done with you. This Lister man is guilty, and shall hang. You shall become my wife, my——"

"Never! never! never!" and Bella stamped in her turn.

"You will. As you have no name of your own you should be glad to take that of an honest man."

The girl started and stared. "My name is Huxham," she said angrily.

"It is nothing of the sort. When I wished to marry you, Captain Huxham, your supposed father, told me that you were a nameless waif whom he had adopted out of charity."

"It is wholly false."

"It is true! it is true!" Pence leaped the fence before she knew what was his intention, and caught her in his arms, "and you must become my wife."

"You beast! you villain!" cried the girl, struggling. "How dare——"

She got no further. Even while the words were on her lips a pair of very strong hands caught Pence by the shoulders, and wrenching him from the girl flung him over the fence. The next moment Cyril held Bella in his arms.

"Oh, my dear! my dear!" she sobbed, utterly broken down, "how glad I am that you arrived to punish him."

"I shall punish him more!" cried Cyril, striding towards the gate.

"No, no!" said Bella, stopping him. "Think of my good name. It is useless making a scandal. But ask him if what he says is true."

"What does he say?" questioned Cyril, with a note of savagery in his voice.

"Oh hush! hush!" implored Bella, clinging to him. "Speak lower. I don't wish everyone to hear what Mr. Pence declares."

"But what is it? what is it?"

"Ask him. After all, he may be wrong, and—"

Still holding the girl, Lister, mindful of her wish, spoke in a loud whisper to the dusty figure on the other side of the fence. Pence had just risen, sorely bruised, but, unable to leave his rival with the girl he loved, yet lingered in the roadway.

"Here, you," said Lister sharply, "what have you been saying to Miss Huxham? Speak out, you dog, or I'll thrash you thoroughly. Let me go, Bella; let me go, I say."

"No, no! We must avoid all scandal. Think of what might be—be—" she gasped, and without ending her sentence fell half fainting into Cyril's arms.

Then came Pence's chance to discharge the vials of his wrath, for he saw that Lister, hampered by the fainting girl, could not touch him. Stepping up to the palings with his face distorted with anger, he spoke in low tones of hate. "I say now to you what I shall soon say to all. Captain Huxham adopted the girl, whom you falsely say that you love. She has no position and no name and no money, so if you marry her——"

"Stop," said Cyril imperiously. "Can you swear to the truth of this wild statement? Miss Huxham always passed as the captain's daughter."

"She is not Miss Huxham," said Silas, insistently. "She is Miss—I don't know what. I can prove what I say, if necessary. And I shall, unless——"

"Unless what?"

"Unless you renounce her so that she can become my wife."

Bella heard the words and stood unexpectedly erect with fresh energy, wrathful at Pence's persistency. "Nothing will ever induce me to become your wife. And if what you say is true my aunt would have told me."

"Mrs. Vand is not your aunt and Captain Huxham was not your father," said the preacher sullenly. "If needs be I can prove it."

"Then do so," cried Cyril quickly, "for by doing so you will remove the sole barrier to our marriage."

"What do you mean?" asked Silas, recoiling in sheer surprise.

"Let me speak," said Bella, guessing what her lover meant. "We mean that had you held your tongue Cyril and I might have been forced to part. Now that I know I am not Captain Huxham's daughter I can marry him."

Pence looked from one face to the other in the chill moonlight and drew his own conclusions with swift intuition, sharpened by hate. "Then this Lister man is the murderer of Huxham?"

"You have to prove that," said Cyril cheerfully. "I am not bound to incriminate myself, you know."

Silas raised his hands to the heavens in mute appeal, for he saw that in some way, not entirely clear to him, he had brought about the very thing he had been trying to avert. Enraged at his blunder and despairing of gaining his ends, the man, timid as he usually was, would have sprung over the fence to renew the struggle with his rival, but that many dark figures were seen coming along the road. Apparently the concert was over.

In spite of his anger, Pence retained sufficient sense to decide immediately on a sensible course. He mechanically brushed his clothes, and bent over the palings to speak with Cyril. "To-morrow," he said, in a tense whisper, "you will be arrested, on my evidence, and she"—he pointed a trembling finger at Bella—"will be known as a nameless outcast."

The girl uttered a faint cry at the insult, and Cyril would have struck the man who spoke. But Pence was prepared, and swerved away from the fence with a taunting laugh, to retreat rapidly down the road towards the advancing throng.

"Come inside; come inside," said Bella, plucking at Cyril's sleeve; "you must not be seen here with me at this hour. Mr. Pence will say nothing for his own sake. Come inside until Dora returns."

This was wise counsel, so the pair hastily retreated and closed the door, before they could be seen by the sharp eyes of the village gossips. Bella ran into the dining-room, where supper was laid, and sinking into a chair, mutely pointed to the water jug. Lister, seeing how pale she was, poured out a glass, and held it to her lips. Shortly she was more her old self, as the colour returned to her cheeks and the brightness to her eyes. It was then that she asked a leading question:

"Do you think that what Mr. Pence says is true?"

"I hope so. I fervently hope so," replied Cyril, sitting down to discuss the matter, "for then we can marry, and——" he started and stopped. It occurred to him that Pence's statement might be the cause of Granny Tunks' queer remark, an explanation of which had been prevented by Durgo. Then again, from the negro's action, and from the facts that Mrs. Tunks had seen—so she said—his coming in the crystal, and obeyed him so implicitly, it might be that Durgo knew much that he would only disclose at the proper time. Of one thing Cyril was certain—namely, that Durgo was his friend, and would do his best to put things right, if Lister assisted him to recover traces of his father and the jewels, which Edwin Lister was supposed to possess.

"I shouldn't wonder if Pence's statement was true," said Cyril, musingly, as he reflected on the present position of affairs. "It did seem strange to me that such a rough sea-dog as Huxham undoubtedly was, should have so refined a daughter as you."

"I thought it was my education, and——"

"No," said Cyril, looking at her searchingly in the light of the small lamp. "Your feet and hands are too delicate, and your features too clearly cut, and your whole bearing too well bred, to be the child of such a man. Huxham and his sister are plebeians: you are an aristocrat. I am quite sure."

Bella coloured at his praise of her beauty. "Perhaps what Mr. Pence says may explain why the money was not left to me."

Cyril nodded. "If you are not Huxham's daughter, of course he would not leave you the money. But it was strange that he should tell Pence—why, what is the matter?"

Bella had started to her feet, and was looking at him strangely. "I am unwilling to suspect Mr. Pence, seeing that it seems almost certain your father is guilty, but I don't believe that my father—I mean that Captain Huxham told him."

"Why not?"

"It was not Captain Huxham's way to confide in anyone, and if he had kept silent for so long he certainly would not have told anyone later, especially Silas Pence. If anyone knew the truth it would be my aunt—I mean Mrs. Vand—and she hated me quite sufficiently to tell me that I was no kith or kin of hers. This she did not do."

"Well, and what do you make of the business?"

"This," said Bella, slowly. "I believe that Mr. Pence does know something of the murder, although he may not have struck the blow. Your father may have been disturbed by Mr. Pence, and may have taken the hundred pounds. But I am certain that Mr. Pence found some papers telling that I was not Captain Huxham's daughter, and has them in his possession now."

Cyril shook his head. "You have no proofs of this wild charge."

"No, I have not. All the same, I believe——"

"Belief is one thing, and certainty another," said Lister, decisively, "and, again, I must tell you that my father—if indeed he is guilty—got much more than one hundred pounds"; and he related all that had taken place in Durgo's rooms. Bella listened in silence, and was particularly struck with the use made by the negro of Mrs. Tunks.

"I believe that Granny and this black man are in league," she declared; "you know she foretold his coming by the crystal. And that is all rubbish."

"In this instance she foretold truly," said Cyril drily.

"Because she knew beforehand, and simply made use of the crystal to impress me," retorted the girl. "Do you think Durgo himself is guilty?"

"No, I do not," replied Cyril very decidedly. "He bewailed the fact that my father had not asked him to get Huxham out of the way. No, Bella, in some way, my father managed the matter himself. He might have killed the old sailor during a quarrel, and have secured the jewels and have gone into hiding either here or on the Continent. We can only wait until we hear from him. Then the mystery may be solved."

"I am not so sure that your father got the jewels," said Bella, after a pause. "After all, they were in the chest in the attic by Durgo's showing."

"The papers were, but Durgo was not certain if Huxham left the jewels there, my dear. You see, the old skipper might, and probably did, keep the jewels in his study for safety. But the jewels were in the house I am sure, for Huxham feared lest they should be stolen, and so planted the corn and used the search-light. By the way, I saw that used the other night."

"Henry Vand knows how to use it," said Bella indifferently; "my father showed him how to work it on one occasion. But what is to be done?"

"I must wait and see what Durgo intends to do. He knows much that we are ignorant of, and for my father's sake I think he will help us both."

"And Mr. Pence's statement?"

Cyril took her in his arms. "I believe it," he said, kissing her fondly, "so the barrier between us is removed."

"Thank God for that," said Bella reverently, and being unstrung wept bitterly.