CHAPTER XI

MACBETH'S BANQUET

The house of Mrs. Perage was quaint and old-fashioned, being so delightfully reminiscent of gracious antiquity that Hench was charmed with his surroundings. As a very modern young man, who had wandered largely in new lands where civilization was still raw, he was pleasantly impressed by the panelled room with the low ceiling. The furniture was Chippendale and Sheraton of the powder and puff epoch, while carpet and curtains were mellowed by age into restful colours, comfortable to the eye. An odour of dried rose leaves scented the air, mingling with the more living perfume of countless blossoms. Mrs. Perage had the happy taste to be extremely fond of flowers, it would seem, for the room was filled with colour and fragrance, even to the fireplace, which bloomed like a garden with white buds and green leaves. Even though the curtains were not yet drawn, and the luminous summer twilight stole in through the wide windows, the many lamps were lighted. And the radiance of these, diffused through rose-tinted shades, bathed the whole room in the delicate hues of dawn. This was a haven of rest, a bower of joy, a paradise of delight, and Hench drew a long breath of sheer pleasure on its threshold.

"What a charming room," he said, advancing to greet his hostess. "Charming!"

"Blunderer!" retorted that lady in her contralto voice, which boomed like the buzz of a bee in a fox glove bell. "You should say, what charming ladies."

"You would think me too bold if I put my thoughts into words."

"Very cleverly turned, young man. But women never think men are too bold when they pay compliments."

Hench laughed and smiled in a friendly way at Gwen, who was smiling in a friendly way at him. She looked wonderfully fresh, attractively delightful, as delicate as Titania and wholly as fascinating. Her dress of plain white silk adorned with black ribbons, hinting at mourning, became her well in its dainty simplicity, and Owain felt again that queer heart-throb which informed him very distinctly that this was the one girl in the world for him. No woman could be lovely unless she had golden hair and blue eyes and a complexion of cream and roses. He wondered how he ever could have admired Zara, who did not possess these necessary charms. But when he was attracted by the dancer he was a fool, now he intended to be a wise man and lay his heart at Gwen's feet. Whether she would pick it up had yet to be seen, for she gave no intimation of her feelings.

"When you two finish grinning at one another like a couple of Chinese dolls, perhaps you will remember that I am present. Sit down, young man. Are you very hungry? I have a very good dinner for you."

"Splendid! I'm not hungry, Mrs. Perage, but I am greedy."

"Pooh! That joke is as old as the hills. Be more original."

"That's difficult. How can I be original, Miss Evans?" Hench asked the question with ceremonious courtesy, which made Mrs. Perage smile, knowing what she did know.

"I think you are original," said Gwen brightly. "You saved my life!"

"Hum!" came the boom of Mrs. Perage, "and that's originality, is it?"

"Well, I don't make a practice of saving lives," laughed Hench lightly. "And I don't think I ever saved any one before. So I _am_ original, you see."

The old dame smiled grimly, as she relished the young man's flippant conversation. "One grows so tired of common-sense," she murmured, following her own thoughts.

"Why, you are always commending common-sense," exclaimed Gwen, lifting her eyebrows and laughing.

"In its place, child, in its place. To-night you and Mr. Hench can talk nonsense, as it will make me feel young."

"You _are_ young, Mrs. Perage," said Owain seriously. "Your heart is in its spring-time. You are one whom the gods love."

"Ta! Ta! Ta! young Chesterfield. Don't make me blush, as I have long since forgotten how to do so. You and your compliments, indeed! Not but what I wear tolerably well, although a trifle time-worn," which final sentence showed that Mrs. Perage had her little vanities.

And she was right in having them, for having stepped out of her rough day-clothes into sumptuous evening dress, she looked wonderfully stately. Amber satin, black lace and diamonds, oddly enough, seemed as natural to her as the more or less masculine dress which she affected during her business hours. Mrs. Perage always called looking after her farms and attending to her accounts business, which it assuredly was, and business moreover which required a clear head. In the day-time she was like one of her labourers in appearance, and her clothes might have graced a scarecrow, but when evening came she always appeared as a fine lady. This change, which reminded Hench somewhat of Miss Hardcastle in Goldsmith's comedy, amused the young man. He liked Mrs. Perage.

"I wrote and asked Jim Vane to come down to dinner," went on Mrs. Perage, after a pause. "As I thought that I could amuse myself with his wit while you attended to Gwen here. But he wrote saying that he could not come, as he was exploring Bethnal Green."

"Bethnal Green," echoed Hench with a start. "What the deuce--I beg your pardon, Mrs. Perage---but what is Jim doing there?"

"He did not explain. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing!"

"What an irrelevant reply."

"Well, I was only thinking that Jim usually prefers the West End to the quarters of the poor," said Hench guardedly. He was not quite certain if he had mentioned his sojourn at Bethnal Green to Mrs. Perage, and resolved to do so now, as--so far as he was able--he wished to be quite straight and above-board with the keen old lady. "I stayed there for six months."

"In Bethnal Green?" said Gwen, amazed. "And what were you doing in such a horrible place, Mr. Hench?"

"Well, as Jim would put it, I was doing a perish. I am a poor man, Miss Evans, and have lived for many years in Queer Street."

"Queer Street?" Gwen looked puzzled.

"It is the name given to the locality where those unsuccessful people who are trying for what they can't get live in penury."

Gwen looked at Hench's well-cut suit of evening clothes, at his well-bred face, and considered his general debonair appearance. "You don't look poor."

"There is poverty and poverty," said Mrs. Perage gruffly. "Mr. Hench is not yet in the workhouse, Gwen. For my part I think 'a perish,' as you say Jim calls it, is not a bad thing for a young man. It gives him experience of life----"

"Of the seamy side of life, Mrs. Perage," interpolated the young man.

"And what is more picturesque than that. Here we are all respectable and eminently dull. There's the gong." She rose with a well-managed sweep of her skirts. "Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die."

"Or diet," said Hench, holding the door open for the ladies. "Pooh! nonsense!" said the Amazon vigorously. "Young men shouldn't know the meaning of such a word. I'm sure I don't. I have a strong digestion and a hard heart."

"Not that last," said Gwen quickly; "as I know."

"What imagination you have, child," retorted Mrs. Perage, and took her position at the head of a small table, while Gwen and Hench sat on either side. "And I hope you don't mind our straggling into the dining-room in this free and easy way," she added to the young man; "but I couldn't take your arm as Gwen would have felt out of it, and I wasn't going to let you give Gwen your arm lest you should lack reverence for my age." And she laughed in her deep, hearty fashion, evidently desirous of making her guest feel quite at home.

The dining-room was a small apartment decorated and furnished in the Jacobean style. But Hench could not see much of it, as there were only candles in sconces here and there. The most powerful illumination was that thrown by a large lamp with a green shade, which hung low over the table. In its light the white napery, the old silver, the crystal glasses and the many flowers, looked peculiarly attractive. And the table not being over large, the three seated at it could converse with one another very much at their ease. A deft maid and Peter waited dexterously, and everything ran smoothly during the meal.

"This is my hour of relaxation," explained Mrs. Perage briskly. "I am ominously fond of my creature comforts and this is my favourite soup."

"Why ominously?"

"Silly questioner. Doesn't devotion to eating show that one is growing old?"

"Then I must have been born old," said Hench gaily, "for I have always had a good appetite since I was a boy, and have always liked nice things." His eyes rested, perhaps inadvertently, on Gwen as he spoke.

"Ah!" Mrs. Perage had noticed the look, and spoke significantly. "You are one of those lucky people who will always get the nice things."

"I haven't had much luck so far, Mrs. Perage."

"Ungrateful! What do you call this?"

"Paradise!" said Hench briefly.

"With you as Adam, Gwen as Eve, and myself as the Serpent."

"Aren't you talking dreadful nonsense?" observed the girl seriously.

"Not at all," retorted the old lady coolly. "It is common-sense to chatter amusingly. Enjoy yourself, child, and when trouble comes you will be able to remember at least one happy hour."

"Trouble has come, and severe trouble, too," replied Gwen softly, and with a gloomy air.

"Now, not another word!" Mrs. Perage spoke sharply. "We can talk of that afterwards in the drawing-room."

"Talk of what?" asked Hench innocently, for he was surprised by Gwen's gloom and Mrs. Perage's sharpness.

The old dame rubbed her nose in a vexed way. "Gwen has something to ask you this evening," she observed. "I think it is nonsense myself. No! I won't tell you what it is just now, neither will Gwen. Let us enjoy our meal without the discussion of horrors."

This was all very well, but how was Hench to enjoy his meal when Care stood like a waiter behind his chair? The presence of Peter reminded him of Bottles, and that memory brought to his recollection The Home of the Muses in Bethnal Green, where, for all he knew, Madame Alpenny might be plotting. Then he wondered what had taken Jim to the house, for there he must have gone, as it was unlikely he would journey to such a district for any other purpose. Perhaps the Hungarian lady was already weaving her nets to snare him--the thinker-either as a husband for Zara, or as a criminal. It was very uncomfortable thinking.

And being so alarmed, Hench did his best to talk brightly and amusingly. For the time being he was "fey," as the Scotch say, and roused his cousin out of her gloom by his sallies. Mrs. Perage seconded him admirably, as she quite enjoyed a contest of wits, which was rare to come by in Cookley. The food was good, the wine was excellent, the company interesting. All the same Hench felt that this meal was like Macbeth's banquet, and behind the revelry lurked the grim figure of Tragedy with her bowl and dagger. At any moment Banquo in the person of Madame Alpenny might appear. Of course such a supposition was nonsense, as the Hungarian lady did not know where he was. But the feeling became so real to Hench that he cast several uneasy looks behind his chair. Gwen noticed this and remarked on the same nervously.

"Why do you look over your shoulder?" she asked petulantly.

"For the Kill-joy," said Hench in a blunt way. "You know, Miss Evans, man is never permitted to be entirely happy. There is always the Kill-joy."

"Gwen will provide you with all the Kill-joy you are needing," said Mrs. Perage significantly. "Wait until we go to the drawing-room. Meantime go on scintillating, young man. Talk your heart out."

"To whom?" asked Hench audaciously.

"To me, sir. You can flirt with Gwen to-morrow; to-night old age must have its turn. Here are some very excellent cigarettes. Light up and talk."

"You remind me of the lady who asked Sydney Smith when he was going to be funny," said Hench dryly. "It is not easy to talk when so ordered. As to Miss Evans, she never flirts."

"Ah, you don't know my capabilities," retorted Gwen, with a mischievous gleam in her blue eyes. "I have many sides to my character."

"And all charming, I am sure," answered the young man courteously.

And so the conversation went on, all frothy, all about nothings--mere spume and spindrift of the mind. And the lighter it became the more certain did Hench become sure that Banquo's ghost was haunting the room. He felt quite relieved when Mrs. Perage conducted himself and Gwen into the drawing-room, for there the psychic atmosphere was less oppressive. The girl, however, appeared to feel it otherwise, for after playing on the piano for a few minutes she began to wander restlessly round the room. Mrs. Perage attempted to frown her into sitting down, but as this proved to be an impossible task she accepted the situation with grim resignation.

"You may as well enlist Mr. Hench as your champion, child. You will never be quiet until you do."

"Enlist me as your champion!" echoed Hench, glancing at Gwen.

The girl grew flushed. "That is Mrs. Perage's pretty way of putting things," was her reply, as she sat down near the hostess. "But I do wish you to help me, Mr. Hench. I'm not quite sure if I am right in doing so, and perhaps you will think it is presumption on my part. But, somehow, your having saved my life has made you more than a friend."

"More than a friend?"

"I mean"--Gwen became even more crimson than she already was, as she became aware that she had spoken more freely than was necessary--"more familiar than most of my friends."

"Who are usually mere acquaintances," observed Mrs. Perage quietly. "Why beat about the bush, Gwen? You know that Mr. Hench is clever and kind-hearted, and you are anxious that he should do you a favour. That is the situation."

"Any favour I can do you, Miss Evans----" began the young man eagerly, when the girl stopped him.

"Don't say another word until you know what the favour is," she said in an abrupt manner; "to do what I want may be unpleasant. In a word I want you to try and find out who murdered my father."

"That's about a dozen words, more or less," sighed Mrs. Perage, but Hench took no notice of her flippant remark. He was too much taken aback to do so, and remained silent.

Gwen misunderstood his silence, and looked mortified "You won't help me?"

"I was thinking," said the young man gravely. "Of course I have read all about the death of your father in the newspapers, Miss Evans, and I can quite understand your desire to avenge him. Anything I can do shall be done with the very greatest pleasure. How do matters stand?"

"As they stood after the inquest," explained Gwen with a shrug. "The jury brought in an open verdict, but the general opinion is that my father was murdered by the man who spoke to the girl in the tap-room of the Bull Inn." Hench winced. Every one appeared to be agreed that the tramp was the culprit, and he guessed that if discovered the tramp would have little chance of escaping a most uncomfortable trial. Even if he proved his innocence the experience would be unpleasant. Wondering what Mrs. Perage and the girl would say if he were to acknowledge that he was the man referred to, he began to ask questions in a grave voice.

"Do you think that this tramp is the guilty person?"

"It looks like it," rejoined Gwen promptly. "The man asked the way to the Gipsy Stile and evidently went there. Afterwards my father was found dead near the stile."

"Had this tramp any motive to murder your father?"

"How can I tell that?" said the girl irritably. "I am only taking what evidence suggests his guilt. Why should he come to Cookley and ask the way to the very place where my father was afterwards found dead?"

"But the fact that the man asked the way to the stile shows that he was a stranger in Cookley. Would a stranger come here to murder your father?"

"Hum!" said Mrs. Perage suddenly. "Madoc Evans had many enemies!"

"Can you name any of them?"

"Every one in the neighbourhood, I should say," snapped the old lady cynically.

"Exactly. Every one in the neighbourhood. But this tramp was a stranger."

"He might have been hired by some one to murder the Squire," said Mrs. Perage vaguely.

"In that case the some one would have explained how this bravo was to get to the stile," said Hench coolly. And then he wondered if Gwen knew anything about the advertisement. "Also," he continued, "the some one must have known that Squire Evans would be at the stile at that particular time. Now, Miss Evans, can you tell me if your father made any appointment?"

Gwen shook her head. "I can't say. My father did many things about which he told me nothing. Often in summer he walked out after dinner, as he did on the night he was murdered, but where he went I can't say. We searched the park when we missed him, and afterwards the woods on chance."

"Was your father agitated on that night?"

"He was agitated from the time the woman came to see him," said Gwen quickly. Hench sat up, and a thrill passed through him.

"A woman?"

"Yes! Some time in June a woman called one afternoon and had an interview with my father in the library. She was with him for two hours, and when she went away he was very much upset. I asked him who she was and why the visit annoyed him--as it plainly did."

"And he told you to mind your own business, I'll be bound," said Mrs. Perage with a grim smile, for she knew Evans thoroughly.

"Yes, he did. But from the time this woman called my father was silent and morose and irritable. I hope you won't think that I am undutiful, Mr. Hench, when I say that my father was not a pleasant-tempered man. But after the interview he became unbearable."

"I never knew him when he was otherwise," cried the old lady, determined that Hench should know everything. "Madoc Evans was without doubt the most disagreeable person I have ever met. A bear would have had a more amiable temper."

"Well, my father is dead," said Gwen coldly, "so it's no use calling him names."

"Oh, I'll be a very tombstone for lying about the dead, if you like, my dear Gwen. But if Mr. Hench is to help he must know that your father was one of those uncomfortable men who never had a friend, and who never wanted one, so far as I know."

"My father was eccentric," said Gwen, her colour coming and going as she explained herself to the young man. "And certainly he did not get on well with people. He quarrelled with my grandfather and with his brother Owain."

"And with every one else," said Mrs. Perage. "After all Mynydd Evans would have done better to leave the money to Owain"--she stole a glance at Hench as she spoke. "He was a better man than Madoc."

"Madoc was my father," said Gwen impatiently, "so please say as little bad of him as possible. And, after all, the estate has gone to my cousin, Owain's son, though I don't know why he doesn't come and take possession. What do you think is the reason, Mr. Hench?"

"How can I tell the reason?" asked Hench awkwardly, and aware that Mrs. Perage was looking at him significantly. "Let us leave that fact alone for the present and talk of this woman who evidently upset your father. Who was she, Miss Evans?"

"I have told you that my father refused to say."

"Did you see her?"

"I caught a glimpse of her when she went away from the Grange, as I happened to be looking out of the drawing-room window."

"What was she like to look at?"

"I didn't see her face. Her back was turned towards me, as she was going down the avenue."

"Oh," said Hench disappointed, "that's a pity."

"But I remember how she was dressed."

"That's better. Well?"

"She looked an untidy old thing," said Gwen, after a pause to recollect the appearance of this important stranger. "Very fat and unshapely. She wore a black dress spotted with orange dots, a black velvet mantle trimmed with jet beads, and a hat much too large for her, and----" She broke off. "What's the matter, Mr. Hench?"

Owain's sudden change of colour and sudden start at this vivid description of Madame Alpenny betrayed him immediately, and he looked confused, not very well knowing how to excuse himself. For obvious reasons he did not wish to admit that he recognized the costume described. Therefore he took refuge in a white lie, and told the first one that occurred to him. "An idea struck me, Miss Evans, that your father might have been murdered by gipsies."

"Hum!" cried Mrs. Perage, quite taken in by this plausible untruth. "That isn't at all unlikely. Madoc was hard on gipsies, especially when they poached."

"But why do you suggest gipsies?" Gwen asked Owain, without attending to her hostess.

"Well," he said, with an affected shrug, "that queer dress of the untidy old woman hints at a gipsy. Perhaps it's only a fancy on my part."

"It's a very good fancy," said Mrs. Perage emphatically. "If this tramp is innocent, which he may be for all I know, the gipsies may have something to do with the crime. Why, Gwen, don't you remember how your father turned a whole gang of them off Parley Common a year ago because they were robbing the hen-roosts? And an orange spotted dress is just what a gipsy would wear."

"But you don't think, Mrs. Perage, that this woman murdered my father?"

"My dear, I don't suggest anything because I don't know anything. All I say is, that Mr. Hench's chance shot may have hit the bull's-eye."

Gwen looked down thoughtfully at the carpet. "My father certainly was very much worried after his interview with this woman, and his worry lasted up to the time of his death. Gipsies--if this woman was a gipsy--might have something to do with the matter."

"It's only my idea, of course," said Owain hastily, for he did not wish Madame Alpenny to be run to earth immediately. "Don't let us jump to conclusions. We must think. I shall be here for a few weeks, and during that time, Miss Evans, I am wholly at your disposal."

"You will help me to learn who murdered my father?"

"Yes. I'll do my best to find out," said Hench earnestly.

"Hum!" boomed Mrs. Perage. "Easier said than done. How do you intend to begin?"

"Well," remarked Hench, after a pause. "I think it will be a good start if Miss Evans takes me over Cookley Grange and into Parley Wood where the corpse was found. Then we can talk over the matter."

Gwen looked doubtful. "Do you think my cousin would mind if I went over the Grange and took Mr. Hench?" she asked her hostess.

Mrs. Perage stole a sly glance at Owain. "No, I don't think he would. Why should he, if you come to that?"

"Well, his father and my father didn't get on well together."

"That is no reason why their son and daughter shouldn't," retorted Mrs. Perage. "You can take Mr. Hench to the Grange to-morrow at noon. Now, young man,"--she rose to the full height of her lofty stature,----"you can depart. I keep early hours here, as it is necessary that I should have my beauty sleep."

"As if you needed it!" said Owain jestingly, and this agreeable visit ended as it had begun--with badinage and frivolity.