CHAPTER XII

MRS. PARRY'S TEA

Six months had passed away since the death of Daisy. The grass was now green above her grave. Where she had fallen there had she been buried beside her father, and the villagers often talked of the tragedy, and pointed out to strangers the spot where it had taken place. But she who had killed the girl—they still considered Anne guilty—had never been brought to justice. From the day she had fled on Ware's motor-car nothing had been heard of her.

No one troubled about the dead girl. Daisy had not been very popular during her life, and now that she was gone her name was scarcely mentioned. For a time Mrs. Morley had placed flowers on the green mound, but after her return from Brighton had desisted. The grass grew long, and the path beside the grave green. A tombstone of white marble had been erected by Giles, and already that was becoming discolored. Daisy and her resting-place were forgotten. The poor child might have been dead a hundred years instead of six months. Only the tale of her death remained as a fireside legend, to be amplified and improved upon as the years went by.

After that one sensation life went on in Rickwell very much as it had always done. Morley and his wife returned to The Elms, and instead of having a new governess the triplets went to school. Mrs. Morley never spoke of Anne or Daisy, and seemed to grow no more cheerful than before even in the perfect summer weather. She still looked pale and subdued, and her eyes still had in their watery depths an anxious expression. Everyone said that she was regretting the death of Daisy and the wickedness of Anne; but others remarked that she had looked just as haggard and worn before as after the tragedy. Mrs. Parry gave it as her opinion that the poor lady had a secret sorrow, and tried by skilful questioning to learn what it was. But either Mrs. Parry was not clever enough or Mrs. Morley had no secret to reveal, for the scandalmonger learned nothing. The only thing that Mrs. Morley said was that she missed her girls. Whereupon Mrs. Parry told her that she ought to be ashamed of herself, seeing that the three were getting a good education. However, this did not seem to console Mrs. Morley much, for she wept copiously in her usual fashion.

The good old lady returned to her cottage very much disgusted. It was rather a dull time for her, as she had heard no news for a long time. Everyone was so well-behaved that there was no scandal going, and Mrs. Parry began to think that she ought to pay a visit to town. Her cousin, Mrs. McKail, had already gone back to New Zealand with a fearful opinion of English Society, for Mrs. Parry had blackened the country just as though she had been a pro-Boer.

Then one day her little maid, who was called Jane, and had the sharpest ears of any one in the village, brought in breakfast with the remark that Mr. Ware had returned. Mrs. Parry sat up in bed, where she always partook of the first meal of the day, and looked excited.

"When did he arrive, Jane? How does he look? What does he say?"

Jane, being experienced, answered these questions categorically.

"He came last night, mum, with Trim, and looks a shadder of hisself, but said as he was glad to be home again, and what was the news."

"Ho!" said Mrs. Parry, rubbing her nose with a teaspoon, "wants to hear the news, does he? I'll ask him to tea to-morrow—no, to-day. You can take a note up to his place, Jane."

"Yes, mum," replied Jane, who was friendly with Giles' housekeeper.

"And don't let me hear that you've been gossiping with the servants, Jane," snapped Mrs. Parry, who was unusually cross in the morning, and looked an ogress without her wig. "I hate gossip. You have two ears and one mouth, Jane; that means you should listen twice as much as you speak."

"Yes, mum," replied Jane, who had long since taken the measure of her mistress's foot. Then she went to the door, and was recalled to be told that the cook was to make a cake. She was going again, and had to return for instructions about some particular tea. Then there was the silver to be especially polished, and various other matters to be gone into, until Jane's head was whirling and her feet ached. She went down to the kitchen and told the cook that the old vinegar bottle was more fractious than usual. If only Mrs. Parry had heard her! But she thought Jane was afraid of her, whereas Jane was meek to her face and saucy behind her back. The old lady heard all the gossip in the neighborhood, but she never knew the remarks that were made in her own kitchen.

However, it thus came about that Giles received a civil note from Mrs. Parry, asking him to come to afternoon tea. His first thought was to refuse, but he then reflected that if he wanted to learn all that had taken place during his absence, Mrs. Parry was the very person who could tell him. He knew she was an old cat, and had a dangerous tongue. Still, she was much better than a newspaper, being, as her enemies said, more spicy. He therefore accepted the invitation, and appeared in the little parlor about five. He had been for a ride, and having put his horse up at the inn, asked the old lady to excuse his dress. Mrs. Parry did so with pleasure.

Giles was a splendid figure of a man, and looked a picture in his trim riding-dress. The old dame had an eye for a fine man, and cast an approving glance at his shapely legs and slim figure. But she frowned when her eyes rose to his face. It was thinner than she liked to see; there was not the old brave light in his eyes, and his fair moustache had lost the jaunty curl, which, to her romantic mind, had made him such a gallant lover.

Giles was one of the few persons Mrs. Parry did not abuse, for his good looks and many courtesies had long since won her foolish old heart, although she would never confess to it. But then, Mrs. Parry was softer than she looked.

"Who had been taking the heart out of you, Ware?" she asked in her gentlemanly way, which Giles knew and had often laughed at.

"No one," he answered gloomily, "unless you call Fate some one."

"I call Anne Denham some one," she replied coolly, "so you haven't found her yet, poor soul!"

"No; I have looked everywhere. She has vanished like a bubble."

"It is just as well. You couldn't possibly marry her and bring her back to Rickwell as your wife."

"Why not? She is innocent. You said yourself that she was."

"And I believe it. I have stood up for her all through. All the same, Ware, there would be a scandal if she came back as Mrs. Ware."

"I don't care two straws for that," said Giles, flinging back his head.

"No," she replied dryly, "I know that. You're an obstinate man, as any one can see with half an eye. Well, I'm glad to see you again. Sit down in the armchair yonder and tell me what you have been doing all these months. No good, if your face is the index of your mind."

Ware laughed, and sitting down managed to stow his long legs out of the way—no easy matter in the little room. Then he accepted a cup of excellent tea from Mrs. Parry and some of her celebrated cake.

He did not reply immediately, as he did not want to tell her the truth. She had too long a tongue to be told anything which it was necessary to keep secret. He put her off as he best could with a general answer.

"I have just been going to and fro."

"Like Satan," sniffed Mrs. Parry. "He's your model, is he? So you have been searching for Anne. Where?"

"In Paris and in London. But I can't find her."

"She doesn't want you to find her," replied the old lady. "If she did, you would stand face to face with her soon enough."

"That goes without the speaking," retorted Ware. "However, my adventures would not amuse you, Mrs. Parry. Suppose you tell me what has been going on in these parts?"

"As if I knew anything of what was going on," said Mrs. Parry.

Giles laughed.

It was a fiction with Mrs. Parry that she never interfered with other people's business, whereas there was not a pie within miles into which she had not thrust her finger. But he knew how to start her tongue.

"The Morleys, what about them?"

"No change, Ware. The Tricolor has gone to school—I mean the three children—although I can't get out of the habit of calling them by that ridiculous name. Mrs. Morley is as dismal as ever, and seems to miss Anne very much."

"As well she might. Anne was a good friend to her. And Morley?"

"He has found a new friend," said Mrs. Parry triumphantly, "a man called Franklin."

"George Franklin!" cried Ware, startled, for he had heard all about the fortune from Steel. "He is the man who inherited the five thousand a year that Powell left to Daisy. Steel, the detective, told me, and, now I think of it, Morley told me himself when I was ill."

"It's the same man, Ware. He has been here two months, and has taken the Priory."

"That's a cheerful place," said Giles. "Why, it has been standing empty for three years."

"I know. The last tenants left because they said it was haunted."

"Rubbish! And by what?"

"By a white lady. She wanders up and down the park, wringing her hands. But this Franklin evidently does not believe in ghosts, for he has been there these two months, and never a word from him."

"What kind of a man is he?"

"A tall man, with very black eyes, and a black beard. No," added Mrs. Parry, correcting herself, "I am wrong. He had a beard when he first came, and now has shaved it off."

"Have you seen much of him?"

"Hardly anything. Morley is the only person with whom he is intimate in any degree. He hardly ever comes out, and when people call he is not at home. Why the man should have five thousand a year I can't make out. He does no good with it."

"Any family? a wife?"

"There is a daughter, I understand, but she is an invalid, and keeps to her room or to the grounds. Weak in the head I should say, seeing how secluded her father keeps her."

"Have you seen her?"

"Yes, I came on her unexpectedly one day—or rather one evening. A short girl, with red hair and a freckled face. She looks a fool, and was dressed in all the colors of the rainbow. I don't wonder he—I mean Franklin—keeps her out of sight."

"Humph!" said Ware, rather astonished by the extent of Mrs. Parry's information, "did the servants tell you all this?"

"There are no servants," retorted Mrs. Parry, with scorn. "The man is a mean creature. You may not believe me, Ware, but he has only three people to do the work of that huge house."

"Then there are three servants?"

"Some people might call them so," retorted Mrs. Parry, determined not to give up her point, "but they are a queer lot—not at all like the domestic I have been used to. An old man, who acts as a kind of butler; a woman, his wife, who is the cook; and a brat of fifteen, the daughter I expect, who does the general work. Oh, it's quite a family affair."

"A queer household. Does this man intend to stop long?"

"He has taken the Priory on a seven years' lease."

"And Morley visits him?"

"Yes, and he visits Morley. They are as thick as thieves. Perhaps they may be thieves for all I know."

"Does this man Franklin go about much?"

"Not a great deal, but he occasionally takes a walk into the village. Sometimes he comes to church, and I believe the rector has called. I wish any one but him had taken the Priory. We want company in this dull place. Will you call and see him?"

"I ought to," replied Ware slowly, "seeing that I was engaged to Daisy, who should have had the money. But from what you say I should not think Franklin would care to see me, and certainly he does not seem to be a desirable neighbor."

"He's quite a mistake," snorted Mrs. Parry. "I tried to be friendly, but he gave me to understand that he preferred his books to my company. He's a great reader, I understand."

Evidently the good lady was somewhat sore on the subject, for she shortly changed it for another. First she began to talk of Daisy; secondly, wonder who had killed her, and why; and thirdly, she made mention of the grave. "There's something queer about that," she remarked, rubbing her nose, a sure sign of perplexity.

"How do you mean, queer?"

"Well——" Mrs. Parry looked thoughtfully at her guest. Then, before replying, she gave him permission to smoke. "I like the scent of a cigar about the place," she said; "it reminds me of the Colonel. He was an awful man to smoke. The one habit I could not break him of."

Giles lighted a cigarette willingly enough, and repeated his question. This time he got an answer that surprised him. "It's this way," said the old lady, taking up her knitting, "for some time the grave was quite neglected."

"No, I gave orders that it should be looked after. I told Drake and my gardener. He's a friend of the sexton's, and I thought there would be no trouble."

"There has been, then," said Mrs. Parry triumphantly. "The sexton and your gardener quarrelled, and have not been on speaking terms for months. Thomas, the sexton, won't let Williams do anything to the grave, and out of spite won't touch it himself, so it went to rack and ruin. The grass is long—or rather was long—and the flowers all gone to seed. A sore wreck, Ware."

"I am most annoyed. I'll see about it to-morrow."

"There is no need. The grave is now as neat as a new pin. The grass is clipped, and fresh flowers were planted a month ago. I never saw a grave better kept. Quite a labor of love."

"And who has done this? Mrs. Morley?"

"Pish!" said the old dame pettishly. "As though that woman had the gumption to do anything. Humph! No one knows who has done it."

"What do you mean?" Ware looked puzzled.

"What I say; I usually do. The grave has been put to rights. At first few people noticed it, because few go into that corner; but one day some imp of a choir boy saw the improvement, and told old Thomas. He came and looked at it, and others came. No one knew who had put it to rights. Then," continued Mrs. Parry impressively, "it was discovered that it was done at night."

"At night?"

"Yes; but no one seems to know by whom or at what time. Every morning some fresh improvement was noted. Some people watched, but saw no one coming. Yet when the watching was dropped there was something fresh done. It may be a brownie," added Mrs. Parry, with a sniff, "but it's a mystery. Even I can't find out the truth."

"It's very strange," said Ware thoughtfully.

"It's worse; it's improper," cried Mrs. Parry in her sternest voice. "I see no reason why such a thing should be done in the darkness of night. Though to be sure," she continued, rubbing her nose, "we have had moonlight lately."

"I must see into this," said Ware, rising.

"You'll find nothing. Everyone has watched, but to no purpose, my friend. Now the idiots talk of ghosts, and what not."

"What do you think yourself?" asked Giles.

"Why, that some one who loved Daisy better than you did has taken pity on her neglected grave, and——"

"Don't!" he cried, wincing. "I did my best to make her happy. The engagement was unfortunate."

"The marriage would have been still more so. It is just as well the poor girl died. No, no, I don't blame you. But Anne——"

"Don't say a word against Anne," he interrupted quickly. Then, before his hostess could reply, he took his leave. "I must be going now."

Mrs. Parry was not at all pleased, but knowing how far she could go, decided that she had reached the limit of his forbearance. With feminine craft she smothered her resentment, and parted from him in the most cordial manner. All the same, she still held to her opinion that Anne was not the wife for her favorite.

Giles went at once to the churchyard to view Daisy's grave. He found everything in good order. The grass was shorn, the flowers were blooming, and the white marble of the stone had been cleansed carefully. Wondering who had performed this labor of love, he returned to get his horse. At the gate of the churchyard a tall man passed him with bent head. As he brushed past the young squire he raised it suddenly. Giles saw a clean-shaven face, large black eyes, and a sallow complexion. He stood aside to let him pass.

"Rather a nice day," said Ware pleasantly.

"Very," responded the man, and continued his walk.

Giles knew very well that he was the new tenant of the Priory. It was in his mind to speak to him, but on second thoughts he decided to do so on a more propitious occasion. Standing at the gate, he looked thoughtfully after the retiring figure. There was something familiar about it and about the face of the man. His eyes especially aroused a vague recollection in his mind, but he could not, as the saying goes, "put a name to it." But while walking to the inn it suddenly flashed into his brain that this was the man whom he had seen in church on that fatal New Year's Eve.

"It's the clerk," he said breathlessly. "He has shaved his beard. He is Wilson, the man who fled with Anne, who murdered poor Daisy!"