"Nothing of the sort. I said that George--his other name doesn't matter at present, although it can be mentioned if necessary--I said that George was your grandfather. The daughter grew up and married your father, who was a colonel in the Indian army. But both your parents died when you were young. I received you from your dying mother's arms and I sent you to a convent. I couldn't bear the sight of you for months,"

said the old lady, energetically. "You have a look of handsome George, and handsome he was. Well then, when you grew up and behaved yourself, I took you from the convent, and you have been with me ever since."

"You are my second mother," said Alice, embracing her.

"The first--the only mother," said Miss Berengaria, sharply. "You never knew any mother but me, and as your grandfather defrauded me of my rights to marry, I look upon you as my child."

"But why did you not tell this perfectly plain story to Sir Simon?"

"Why didn't I, Durham?" asked Miss Berengaria tearfully. "You may well ask that. Pride, my dear--pride. Sir Simon and I were in society together. He wanted to marry me, and I refused. So I never became your grandmother, Bernard, and I certainly should never have had a son like your father, who is----"

"Don't. He is my father after all."

"Was, you mean, seeing he is dead. Well, my dear boy, I'll say nothing about him. But Sir Simon loved me and I preferred George, who was a villain. I couldn't bear to think that Sir Simon should know I had forgotten my anger against George to the extent of helping his grand-daughter. An unworthy feeling you all think it--of course--of course. But I am a woman, when all is said and done, my dears. And another thing--Simon Gore was too dictatorial for me, and I wasn't going to give any explanation. Besides which, had he known Alice, that you were George's grand-daughter--and he hated George--he would have been more set against the marriage than ever. And now you know what a wicked woman I have been."

"Not wicked, aunt," said Alice, kissing the withered cheek.

"Yes, wicked," said Miss Berengaria, sobbing, "I should have told the truth and shamed the--I mean shamed Sir Simon. Perhaps I could have arranged the marriage had I subdued my pride into obeying Sir Simon. But I couldn't, and he was angry, and all these troubles have arisen out of my silly silence."

"Oh, no," said Bernard, sorry for her distress.

"Oh, yes," cried the old lady, rising and drying her tears. "Don't you contradict me, Bernard. If I had told the truth and let Sir Simon know that Alice was well born, he might have consented."

"Not if he knew that Alice was George's grand-daughter."

Miss Berengaria tossed her head. "I don't know," she said, moving towards the door. "I might have managed him, obstinate as he was. But if Sir Simon had not been angry, he would not have sent you away, Bernard, and then all this rubbish about the Red Window would not have drawn you to that dreadful house, to be accused of a wicked crime. But, oh dear me! what's the use of talking? Here are the horses standing all this time at the door, and it's getting on to five. Alice, come home," and Miss Berengaria sailed out wrathfully.

The others looked at one another and smiled. Then Durham left the lovers alone and went to a.s.sist Miss Berengaria into the carriage.

She was already in and caught his hand. "Spare no expense to help that dear boy," she whispered. "He must be set free. And, for goodness sake, tell Alice to come at once. Why is she drivelling there?"

"Love! Miss Berengaria, love!"

"Stuff!" said the old lady, "and a man of your age talking so. Good-bye.

Alice, are you comfortable? James, drive on, and don't upset us."

CHAPTER XVI

THE UNEXPECTED

Miss Berengaria's servants had been with her for a long time and were all eminently respectable. She was--needless to say--very good to them, and they adored and obeyed her in quite a feudal manner. When at supper in the servants' hall--all old and all sedate--they might have been a company of Quakers from the sobriety of their demeanor. The head of the table was taken by the cook, and the foot by James the coachman. Those two were married and were both fat, both devoted to Miss Berengaria, and both rulers of the other servants. The coachman swayed the little kingdom of domestics with his stout wife as queen.

On the very evening Miss Plantagenet came back from Cove Castle, the servants were enjoying a good supper, and James was detailing the events of the day. After this his wife narrated what had taken place during his absence. And at the side of the table sat Jerry, looking the picture of innocence, occupied with his bread and cheese, but taking everything in.

The information conveyed to James by the cook related to several tramps that had called, and to the killing of two fowls by a fox terrier that belonged to a neighbor.

"And a nice rage the missus will be in over them," said cook.

"You should have set Sloppy Jane on the terrier," said James. "Our poultry is prize birds and worth a dozen of them snappy dogs as bite the heels of respectable folk."

"Sloppy Jane was with me," said a sedate housemaid. "A tramp came to the gate asking for Miss Alice, and I couldn't get him away."

"What did he want with Miss Alice?" demanded James, aggressively.

"Ah, what indeed!" said the housemaid. "I told him Miss Alice wouldn't speak to the like of him. But he looked a gentleman, though he had a two days' beard and was dressed in such rags as you never saw."

"Did he go, Sarah?"

"Oh, yes, he went in a lingering sort of way, and I had to tie Jane up in case she'd fly on him. I didn't want that."

"Why not?" said the coachman, dictatorially. "Tramps is tramps."

Sarah pondered. "Well, cook and James, it's this way," she said, with some hesitation. "This murder of old Sir Simon--" Jerry p.r.i.c.ked up his ears at this and looked more innocent than ever.

"Go on," said the cook, wondering why Sarah stopped.

"They said his grandson done it."

"And that I'll never believe," cried James, pounding the table. "A n.o.ble young gentleman Mr. Bernard, and many a half-crown he's given me. He never did it, and even if he did, he's dead and gone."

Sarah drew back from the table. "I really forgot that," she whimpered.

"It must have been his ghost," and she threw her ap.r.o.n over her head.

"What's that, Sarah? A ghost! There's no such thing. Whose ghost?"

"Mr. Bernard's," said Sarah, looking scared, as she removed her ap.r.o.n.

"Oh, to think I should have lived to see a ghost. Yes, you may all look, but that tramp, ragged and torn, was Mr. Gore. Don't I know him as well as I know myself?"

"Sarah," said James, while the cook turned pale and Jerry listened more eagerly than ever, "you rave in a crazy way."

"Oh, well, there's no knowing," cried Sarah, hysterically, "but the tramp was Mr. Gore, and I forgot he was dead. His ghost--it must have been his ghost. No wonder Jane wanted to fly at him."

"Mr. Bernard's ghost wanting to see Miss Alice!" said cook. "Get along with you, Sarah! He must be alive. I don't believe all the papers say.

Perhaps he wasn't drowned after all."

"We must inquire into this," said James, magisterially and feeling for his gla.s.ses. "Oh, by the way"--he drew a dirty envelope out of his pocket--"here's something for you, young shaver." He threw it across to Jerry. "I was sitting in the kitchen in his lordship's castle and being waited on by a dark-eyed wench. I told her of us here and mentioned you.

She said she knew you and asked me to give you that. And, to be sure, she would know you," added James, half to himself, "seeing Mrs. Moon is your grandmother, and a fine figure of a woman. But touching this here ghost----"

Jerry rose from the table and retreated to a corner of the warm room to read his note. But he kept his ears open all the time to the coachman's investigation of Sarah's doings with the tramp. The note was from Victoria asking Jerry to come over and see her, and stating that there was a gentleman stopping at the castle. "There's something queer about him, Jerry, as he keeps himself very much to himself. Also he knows your whistle as you whistles to me, which is funny. Can't you come over and see me?" This, with all allowance for mis-spelling, was what Jerry deciphered. Then he thrust the note into his pocket and returned to the table.

"He had an awful cough, this tramp," said Sarah.

"Ghosts don't cough," remarked cook.

"This one did awful, and he looked that pale and thin as never was."