THE MAN WITH THE DARK BEARD (Murder Mystery Classic). Annie Haynes
went on talking rapidly to cover her confusion.
All the wrath had died out of Wilton's face now, and his deep-set, grey eyes were very tender as he watched her.
"How is it that you care for Skrine?" he pursued. "Not as—well, let us say, not as you care for me, for example?"
The flush on Hilary's face deepened to a crimson flood that spread over forehead, temples and neck.
"I never said—"
Wilton managed to capture her hands.
"You never said—what?"
Hilary turned her heated face away.
"That—that—" she murmured indistinctly.
Wilton laughed softly.
"That you cared for me? No, you haven't said so. But you do, don't you?"
Hilary did not answer, but she did not pull her hands away. Instead he fancied that her fingers clung to his. His clasp grew firmer.
"Ah, you do, don't you, Hilary?" he pleaded. "Just a little bit. Tell me, darling."
Hilary turned her head and, as his arm stole round her, her crimson cheek rested for a moment on his shoulder.
"I think perhaps I do—just a very little, you know, Basil"—with a mischievous intonation that deepened her lover's smile.
"You darling—" he was beginning, when the sound of the opening door made them spring apart.
Dr. Bastow entered abruptly. He cast a sharp, penetrating glance at the two on the hearthrug.
In his hand he held a large bunch of roses—the same that Basil Wilton had thrown out a few minutes before.
"Do either of you know anything of this?" he asked severely. "I was walking in one of the shrubbery paths a few minutes ago when this—these"—brandishing the roses—"came hurtling over the bushes, and hit me plump in the face."
In spite of her nervousness, or perhaps on that very account, Hilary smiled.
Her father glanced at her sharply.
"Is this your doing, Hilary?"
Before the girl could answer Wilton quietly moved in front of her. His grey eyes met the doctor's frankly.
"I must own up, sir. I brought the flowers for—for Miss—for Hilary's birthday. And then, because I was annoyed, I threw them out of the window."
For a moment the doctor looked inclined to smile. Then he frowned again.
"A nice sort of confession. And may I ask why you speak of my daughter as Hilary?"
Wilton did not flinch.
"Because I love her, sir. My dearest wish is that she may promise to be my wife—some day."
"Indeed!" said the doctor grimly. "And may I ask how you expect to support a wife, Wilton? Upon your salary as my assistant?"
Wilton hesitated. "Well, sir, I was hoping—"
Hilary interrupted him. Taking her courage in both hands she raised her voice boldly.
"I love Basil, dad. And I hope we shall be married some day."
"Oh, you do, do you?" remarked her father, raising his pince-nez and surveying her sarcastically. "I suppose it isn't the thing nowadays to ask your father's consent—went out when cropped heads and skirts to the knees came in, didn't it?"
Chapter II
"What is this I hear from your father?"
Miss Lavinia Priestley was the speaker. She was the elder sister of Hilary's mother, to whom she bore no resemblance whatever. A spinster of eccentric habits, of an age which for long uncertain was now unfortunately becoming obvious, she was almost the only living relative that the young Bastows possessed. Of her, as a matter of fact, they knew but little, since most of her time was spent abroad, wandering about from one continental resort to another. Naturally, however, during her rare visits to England she saw as much as possible of her sister's family, by whom in spite of her eccentricity she was much beloved. Of Hilary she was particularly fond, though at times her mode of expressing her affection was somewhat arbitrary.
In appearance she was a tall, gaunt-looking woman with large features, dark eyes, which in her youth had been fine, and a quantity of rather coarse hair, which in the natural course of years should have been grey, but which Miss Lavinia, with a fine disregard of the becoming, had dyed a sandy red. Her costume, as a rule, combined what she thought sensible and becoming in the fashions of the past with those of the present day. The result was bizarre.
Today she wore a coat and skirt of grey tweed with the waist line and the leg-of-mutton sleeves of the Victorian era, while the length and the extreme skimpiness of the skirt were essentially modern, as were her low-necked blouse, which allowed a liberal expanse of chest to be seen, and the grey silk stockings with the grey suede shoes. Her hair was shingled, of course, and had been permanently waved, but the permanent waves had belied their name, and the dyed, stubbly hair betrayed a tendency to stand on end.
She repeated her question.
"What is this I hear from your father?"
"I really don't know, Aunt Lavinia."
"You know what I mean well enough, Hilary. You want to engage yourself to young Wilton."
"I am engaged to Basil Wilton," Hilary returned with a sudden access of courage.
Miss Lavinia raised her eyebrows.
"Well, you were twenty yesterday, Hilary, out of your teens. It is time you were thinking of matrimony. Why, bless my life, before I was your age I had made two or three attempts at it."
"You! Aunt Lavinia!" Hilary stared at her.
"Dear me, yes!" rejoined Miss Lavinia testily. "Do you imagine because I have not married that I was entirely neglected? I don't suppose that any girl in Meadshire had more chances of entering the state of holy matrimony, as they call it, than I had. But you see I went through the wood and came out without even the proverbial crooked stick."
"I remember Dad telling me you had been engaged to a clergyman," Hilary remarked, repressing a smile.
"My dear, I was engaged to three," Miss Lavinia corrected. "Not all at once, of course. Successively."
"Then why did you not marry some—I mean one of them?" Hilary inquired curiously.
Miss Lavinia shrugged her shoulders.
"I don't know. Thought somebody better would turn up, I suppose. And I had to do something. Life in the country is really too appallingly uninteresting for words, if one is not engaged to the curate."
"What did the curates think on the matter?"
"I am sure I don't know," Miss Lavinia returned carelessly. "One of them died—the one I liked the best. Doubtless he was spared much. Another is an archdeacon. The third—I really don't know what became of him—a mousy-looking little man in spectacles. His father had seventeen children. Enough to choke anyone off the son, I should think. Not at all in my line!"
Hilary coughed down a laugh. The vision conjured up of her maiden aunt with a numerous progeny of mousy-looking, embryo curates was somewhat overpowering.
"To change the subject," Miss Lavinia went on briskly, "who is this parlourmaid of yours, Hilary?"
"Parlourmaid!" Hilary echoed blankly. "Why, she is just the parlourmaid, Aunt Lavinia."
"Don't be a fool, Hilary," rebuked her aunt tartly. "I know she is the parlourmaid. But how did she come to be your parlourmaid? That's what I want to know. Did you have good references with her? That sort of thing. What's her