The Black Patch. Fergus Hume

look on the girl's face that he was saying more than was wise, he halted, stuttered, and sat down again abruptly, moving the papers with trembling hands. "Leave the past alone," he said hoarsely. "I can't speak of it calmly. It is the past that makes the future," he continued, drumming feverishly on the table with his fingers, "the past that makes the future."

      Beatrice wondered what he meant, and noticed how weary and worn and nervous he seemed. The man did not love her; he had not treated her as he should have done; and between them there was no feeling in common. Yet he was old, and, after all, had sheltered her in his own grudging way, so Beatrice laid a light hand on his arm. "Mr. Alpenny, you are not young----"

      "Eighty and more, my dear."

      The term startled her, and she began to think he must indeed be near the borders of the next world when he spoke so gently.

      "Well, then, why don't you go to church, and feed the hungry, and clothe the naked? Remember, you have to answer for what you have done, some day soon."

      Alpenny rose vehemently and flung off her arm. "I don't ask you to teach me my duty, girl," he said savagely. "What I have done is done, and was rightly done. Everyone betrayed me, and money is the only thing that did not. Money is power, money is love, money is joy and life and hope and comfort to me. No! I keep my money until I die, and then----" He cast a nervous look round, only to burst out again with greater vehemence. "Why do you talk of death? I am strong; I eat heartily. I drink little. I sleep well. I shall live for many a long day yet. And even if I die," he snapped, "don't expect to benefit by my death. You don't get that!" and he snapped his fingers within an inch of her nose.

      "I don't want your money," said Beatrice quietly; "Durban will look after me. Still, you might let me have enough to keep me while I try to find work."

      "I won't!"

      "But if you die, I'll be a pauper."

      "Without a sixpence!" said Alpenny exultingly.

      "Have I no relatives who will help me?"

      "No. Your mother came from I know not where, and where she has gone I don't exactly know. She married me and then died. I have kept you----"

      "Yes--yes. But if my mother was poor and came from where you knew not, why did you marry her?"

      "My kind heart----"

      "You haven't got one; it's in your money-chest"

      "It might be in a woman's keeping, which is a much worse place."

      Beatrice grew weary of this futile conversation, and rose. "You asked me to see you," she said, with a fatigued air; "what is it you have to say?"

      "Oh yes." He seemed to arouse himself from a fit of musing. "Yes! I have found a husband for you."

      Beatrice started. He announced this startling fact as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "You--have--found--a--husband--for--me?" she drawled slowly.

      "Yes. You won't have my money, and I may die." He cast a look over his shoulder nervously. "I don't want to, but I may: one never knows, do they? You will be poor, so I think it best to get you married and settled in life."

      "Thank you," she returned icily. "It is very good of you to take so much trouble. And my future husband?"

      "Ruck! Major Ruck--Major Simon Ruck, a retired army officer, and a handsome man of fifty, very well preserved, and with a fine fortune."

      "How alluring! And suppose I refuse?"

      "You can't--you daren't!" He grasped her arm entreatingly. "Don't be a fool, my dear. Ruck is handsome and well off. He is coming down on Saturday to see you. This is Wednesday, so you will have time to think over the matter. You must marry him--you must, I tell you!" and he shook her arm in his agitation.

      Beatrice removed her arm in a flaming temper. "Must I indeed?" said she, flashing up into righteous anger. "Then I won't!"

      "Beatrice!"

      "I won't. I have never seen the man, and I don't wish to see him. You have no right to make any arrangements about my marriage without consulting me. You are neither kith nor kin of mine, and I am of age. I deny your right to arrange my future."

      "Do you wish to be left to starve?"

      "I shall not starve; but I would rather do so, than marry a man of fifty, whom I have never set eyes on."

      "If you don't marry Ruck, you'll be a pauper sooner than you expect, my girl. Marry him for my sake?"

      "No! You have done as little as you could for me: you have always hated me. I decline."

      Alpenny rose in his turn--Beatrice had already risen to her feet--and faced her in a black fury, the more venomous for being quiet. "You shall marry him!"

      "I shall not."

      They faced one another, both angry, both determined, both bent upon gaining the victory. But if Alpenny had an iron will, Beatrice had youth and outraged womanhood on her side, and in the end his small cruel eyes fell before her flashing orbs.

      "I want you to marry Ruck--really I do," he whimpered piteously.

      "Why?"

      "Because"---- he swallowed something, and told what was evidently a lie, so glibly did it slip out. "Because I should be sorry to leave you to starve."

      "I shall not starve. I am well educated, and can teach. At the worst I can become a nursery governess, or be a companion."

      "Better marry Major Ruck."

      "No. It is foolish of you to ask me."

      "If you don't marry him I shall be ruined. I shall be killed. No"--he broke off suddenly--"I don't mean that. Who would kill a poor old man such as I am? But"--his voice leaped an octave--"you must marry the husband I chose for you."

      "I chose for myself."

      "Ah!"--the miser was shaking with rage--"it's Vivian Paslow: no denial--I can see he is the man; a penniless scoundrel, who is at my mercy!"

      "Don't dare to speak of him like that," flamed out Beatrice. "As to marrying him--he has not asked me yet."

      "And never will, if I can stop him. I know how to do so--oh yes, I do. He will not dare to go against me. I can ruin him. He----" At this moment there came a sharp rap at the door, which made Alpenny's face turn white and his lips turn blue.

      "Who is there?"

      "A telegram," said the voice of Durban; and Alpenny, with a smothered ejaculation of pleasure, went to open the door. As he did so, Beatrice noticed on the wall near the desk two keys, one large and one small. The little one she knew to be the key of the postern gate, and without hesitation she took it down and slipped it into her pocket. As Alpenny turned round with the telegram and no very pleasant expression of countenance, she felt that she would at least be able to see Vivian Paslow on that evening without arousing the suspicions of her stepfather. It was unlikely that any one would come that night, and he would not miss the key, which she could get Durban to replace the next day. As this thought flashed into her mind, she saw the face of the servant at the door. He looked puzzled, but probably that was because he beheld her in the sanctum of his master, hitherto forbidden ground both to him and to her. The next moment Alpenny had closed the door, and Durban went away.

      "This telegram is from Major Ruck," said Alpenny. "He is coming down on Saturday, so be ready to receive him."

      "I shall leave the place if he comes."

      "You won't: you'll wait and see him--and accept him also. If you don't, I'll make things hot for Vivian Paslow."

      This was, as Beatrice conceived, a game of bluff; so she replied boldly enough, "Mr. Paslow is able to look after himself. I decline to speak to Major Ruck, whosoever he may be, or even to see him."

      "Saturday! Saturday!" said Alpenny coldly, and opened the door. "Now you can go. If you leave The Camp, or if you refuse Ruck