Mrs. Marshall had reached the mature age of forty-five, but she was still beautiful. Dark women with hard natures always wear well, and Ruth's aunt was no exception to the rule. She need not be described here, for she resembled her niece in all particulars save those of youth and the exuberant spirits, which rendered the younger woman so charming. Tall and dignified in her black velvet dress, she advanced to greet Neil, and her greeting was that of the Ice Queen.
"You must have had an unpleasant journey," she said, in freezing tones.
"Thank you," said Webster, with a certain reserve. "I had not a very pleasant time. But this makes amends," and his eyes wandered to Ruth.
Mrs. Marshall drew her thick eyebrows together, for she had long suspected that the two young people were more to each other than ordinary friends. But at that moment Ruth was equal to the occasion. Her attitude towards Neil was one of genial hospitality.
Neither of the young people attempted to carry on the conversation, and Mrs. Marshall was somewhat at a loss. Turning at last to Ruth, she asked sharply where the remainder of the guests were.
"Dinner will be ready in a quarter of an hour," she went on, consulting a jewelled watch that hung at her girdle. "I hope we shall sit down punctually, for I detest waiting."
"So do I," assented her niece, cheerfully. "I am hungry."
The elder lady took no notice of the flippant reply. "Have you been giving any concerts lately?" she asked, with the supercilious patronage of a rich society woman.
"No, madam," replied the young man. His frequent contact with foreign artists had accustomed him to this form of address. "The season in London is hardly propitious just now. I am resting."
"When do you begin again?"
"After the new year. It is possible I may give some concerts in Paris."
"It might be advisable for you to leave England for a time," the lady said, drily, looking at Ruth.
"My aunt is thinking of your delicate appearance, Mr. Webster," interposed the girl, trying to parry the stroke. "This foggy climate does not suit you in her opinion. Is that not so, Aunt Inez?"
"Well, it is not quite what I meant, Ruth." And she turned to Neil. "Have you any relatives in England. Mr. Webster?" she asked.
The suddenness of the question took away the young man's breath. It was evident that her brother had not confided in Mrs. Marshall.
"I have no relatives in the world, madam," he said.
"You remind me of someone," she went on, fixing her black eyes on him somewhat fiercely. "Do you sing?"
"Not at all," he answered, wondering more than ever at the oddity of this second question. "I have no voice."
"Humph!" muttered the lady, and turned away. "I must be mistaken."
"You are certainly mistaken, madam, in crediting me with any relatives. I am an orphan, a waif, a stranger in the land----"
"And a great violinist," finished Ruth, glancing defiantly at her aunt. "That surely ought to cover all deficiencies, Mr. Webster."
"No doubt it does--to musical people," said the elder lady, coldly.
The young man felt nettled, and more puzzled than ever at her manner, and he was about to ask a leading question when Miss Jennie Brawn, accompanied by Mr. Heron, entered.
"Oh, here you are," cried Ruth, including both in one gay greeting. "You are late."
"The sacred mysteries of the toilet have taken up Miss Brawn's time," laughed Heron, looking mischievously at the homely face of the girl beside him.
"One must do honour to the season," replied Jennie. She was dumpy and sandy and wore a pince-nez on her turned-up nose. "How are you, Master?" For she always spoke to Neil Webster in that style. "I am glad to see you. Your lovely and exquisite music never fails to inspire my muse."
Put into plain prose this speech meant that Miss Brawn wrote poems for drawing-room ballad composers, and that she trusted to music for inspiration. Miss Brawn further occupied herself with writing short stories for children's Christmas books, and she figured in a popular magazine as "Aunt Dilly." She had come to regard herself as a literary personage.
"I hope I may be able to inspire you to some I purpose to-night," Webster said, quietly.
Young Heron turned away in disdain. He was a handsome country squire, possessed of no nerves, and no artistic cravings. He came of an old family, and had an income of four thousand a year. His time was spent in hunting, polo, shooting, fishing, and tearing round the country in a motor-car: and he had not much opinion of the "fiddler-fellow," as he called Webster. But this was due to the fact that he had noticed Ruth's predilection for him, not to any fault in the man himself. For Geoffrey loved the girl. He treated Webster with a coldness almost equal to that of Mrs. Marshall. That lady was his firm friend, and was most anxious that he should marry her niece. Seeing now his look of disdain, she was about to speak, when a cheerful voice was heard above the others.
"Oh, here is my husband," Mrs. Marshall cried, her dark face lighting up. "I was wondering where he had got to."
"I am here, my dear Inez, here," and a brisk, stout man darted forward. "Ruth, my dear, you look charming! Miss Brawn, allow me to congratulate you upon your toilet. Mr. Webster, good evening." His manner was colder but with renewed geniality he shook hands with Geoffrey Heron. "Ha, ha, my boy! a merry Christmas to you!"
The voluble, active little man rattled on, cutting jokes, laughing at his own wit, and paying compliments all round, while his tall, dark wife stood near him listening with a smile on her face. Why Mrs. Marshall should love her husband so much remained ever a mystery to her friends. For he was a fat, beer-barrel of a creature, and possessed neither the looks nor the brains which would be likely to attract as refined and clever a woman as his wife undoubtedly was. Yet Inez adored him, although Mr. Robert Marshall was an elderly Don Juan, fond of the society of pretty girls, and he prided himself no little on his conquests. There was undoubtedly some charm about him which raptured the hearts of women. And Mrs. Marshall, as the lawful proprietor of this universal heart-breaker, took a pride in her proprietorship.
"I hope you will give us some music to-night," Mr. Marshall said, turning to the musician, and again his manner was freezing. "Your playing is delightful--delightful!"
"I am glad you like it," Neil said, quietly. "Of course, I am always ready to play here, although, as a rule, I never do so in private houses."
"Ha! The exclusiveness of a musician."
"Or the dignity of an artist, Uncle Robert."
"Quite so, my dear," said Uncle Robert, turning towards his niece. "But, of course, Mr. Webster will not wrap his talents up in a napkin here."
"The Master is always willing to oblige his friends," put in Jennie.
"His friends are much honoured," added Aunt Inez, with an iron smile.
Mr. Heron made no remark. In shaking hands with Webster he had done his duty. In his own heart the young squire wished the fellow well out of the way, for Ruth looked at him too often and much too kindly.
A diversion was made at this moment by the entrance of the host, a tall, slightly-made man, dark and solemn--a typical Spaniard both in complexion and bearing. To-night he was in a genial mood, and unbent more than usual. Nevertheless, although he shook hands with Neil, he was decidedly colder to him than to the rest of his guests. Indeed, it was apparent that Neil was not a favourite.
"A merry Christmas to all," Mr. Cass said, bowing. "Perhaps I am rather premature; still, it is better to be early than late."
"So long as you adopt that plan with your presents, papa, I shall not quarrel with you."
"You see what a bold daughter I have," he remarked to Heron. "How would you like to be her father?"
"Not at all, not at all," replied the young man with a very significant glance in the direction of Ruth--a glance which made Neil's blood boil.
"Ha, ha!" cackled Marshall. "We know all about that Heron," and he slapped him on the back. "But come! Dinner--dinner!"
And, indeed, at that moment dinner was announced. Mr. Cass gave his arm to his sister, and to his delight Geoffrey found himself seated beside Ruth; poor Neil had Mrs. Marshall for his companion. Neither of the two relished their juxtaposition. Jennie and Don Juan-in-his-Dotage were happy in the congenial company of each other, and kept the table merry.
The conversation only flickered feebly with Mr. Marshall's aimless merriment. Neil, annoyed by the coldness of his reception, was considering the advisability of a return to town the next day; he thought he recognised Mrs. Marshall's hand in the chilly reception of Mr. Cass. For hitherto the merchant had treated him with uniform kindness, and he was puzzled by this new departure.
When the ladies had retired to the winter garden Mr. Cass was more amiable to his guest, the violinist. And the young man, anxious to please, did his best to make himself agreeable. Heron and Marshall were discussing county affairs; so the merchant and young Webster had a quiet talk.
"I am making a good deal of money now," Neil said. He was recounting his artistic triumphs. "In a few years I shall be a wealthy man."
"You must let me invest your capital for you. You artistic folks know little about business."
"I should be more than grateful if you would. I daresay, in time, there will be enough for me to marry on."
Mr. Cass looked keenly at the speaker from under his thick black brows. "Are you thinking of marrying?" he asked, carelessly. Then, without waiting for an answer: "I would not if I were you."
"Why not? I am young, strong----"
"And nervous," finished his host abruptly. "I have peculiar views about marriage, and I do not think you are fitted for it. Take my advice, and keep single. Come," he started to his feet before the other could reply, "let us join the ladies."
Webster was annoyed. He had fully intended there and then--since the opportunity seemed to offer itself--to ask Mr. Cass for his daughter's hand. Plunged in meditation, he did not see that the object of it was beckoning to him with her very useful fan, and Heron, taking advantage of his absorption, secured the vacant seat. Before he could recover himself, Mr. Cass appeared to carry him off to the drawing-room.
"You must play to me," he said. "Miss Brawn will accompany you; she plays well."
Jennie did, indeed, play more like a professional than an amateur; and Webster, anxious as ever to please, got his violin. The sounds of the exquisite music which he drew from the wailing strings brought everyone to the drawing-room.
Then Geoffrey Heron sang, and sang well. He chose a typical drawing-room ballad, flat and insipid. The music, of a lilting order, suited the words--Miss Jennie Brawn's--which were full of mawkish sentiment.
The song was not yet finished when Mr. Marshall suddenly rose and hurriedly left the room. His wife looked after him with an uneasy smile, and shortly afterwards followed, to find him in the winter garden.
"What is the matter?" she asked, sharply, though she knew quite well what it was that had stirred him.
"Jenner," stammered her husband, lifting up a white face. "Heron's voice reminds me of his. I have never heard him sing before."
"Nor will you again if you make such a fool of yourself. What do you mean by rushing out of the room and provoking remark? Jenner is dead and buried these twelve years."
"Yes; but think how he died," moaned her husband. "And I was so intimate with him."
"You were--to your shame and disgrace. Don't behave so foolishly, Robert. I don't know what put him into your head in the first place."
"Heron's voice is so like his--and the looks of Webster."
Mrs. Marshall turned as pale as her swarthy skin permitted, and the fan in her hand shook. "What about him?" she asked.
"He is like----"
"I know who he is like," she interrupted, sharply. "A mere chance resemblance. Come back with me."
"I am going to bed," was the only response, and, turning abruptly, Mr. Marshall fled up the stairs, leaving his wife gazing after him with a black frown on her face.
"I wonder if that young man--but no; it's impossible. Sebastian," she spoke of her brother, "would not go so far." And after composing herself with a glass of water she returned to the drawing-room.
By this time Webster was seated beside Ruth, who was shewing him a book of photographs. Geoffrey Heron was talking to Mr. Cass, and casting glances at the two young people who were getting on much too well for his liking.
Suddenly the whole room was startled by a cry. It came from Neil, who, with a white face, was staring at a photograph.
"What's the matter?" asked his host, hurrying towards him. "Are you ill?"
"Who-who-is this?" stammered young Webster, pointing to the portrait of a thick-set man who figured in a group.
"An old clerk of mine," replied Mr. Cass, trying hard to steady his voice. "That is a photograph of the clerks in my office some twenty years ago. Why should that face disturb you?"
"I--I--don't know," was the stammering reply. "Have I seen him in a dream? His face is quite familiar to me."
"Pooh! Nonsense!" Mr. Cass had by this time recovered his self-command. "The man died long ago you never saw him."
"But I have seen him," persisted Neil. "I have seen him in a dream, and"--his voice leaped an octave--"I hate him," he exclaimed with passion. "I hate him."
They all stared in amazement. Suddenly Ruth cried "Neil--you are ill--you----"
"Stop!" cried her father, sharply. "He has fainted."
And as he spoke Neil fell back insensible on the cushions.
Webster recovered from his fainting-fit, but he was weak and ill. It seemed extraordinary that the sight of a pictured face should have had such an influence upon him. He himself could give no explanation save that he had been overcome by a feeling of nausea. So, after an apology, he went at once to bed. The party broke up, and Ruth retired, wondering greatly at her lover's strange indisposition.
Half an-hour later she was seated before her bedroom fire in dressing-gown and slippers. Having dismissed her maid, she indulged herself in a reverie with which Neil Webster and her chances of obtaining her father's consent to her marriage with him were mainly concerned.
She was aroused by a knock at the door, and in reply to her invitation Mrs. Marshall entered the room. At the first glimpse of that iron face the girl remembered a slip she had made in addressing her lover by his Christian name.
"You are in love with that violinist," said the elder woman, sitting down and fixing her niece with a piercing gaze.
"How do you know that?" asked the girl, coolly. She had been half-prepared for the question in spite of Mrs. Marshall's abrupt entry. In fact, for that very reason she kept on her guard.
"Pshaw!" ejaculated Aunt Inez, with scorn. "Cannot one woman divine the feelings of another? Your eyes were never off the creature to-night."
"Mr. Webster is not a creature," interrupted the girl, angrily.
"Mr. Webster!" sneered the other. "Why not Neil? You called him so to-night."
"Yes," said Ruth, defiantly, throwing off her mask. "And I shall call him so again. You are right; I do love him. And he loves me."
"I thought as much. And the end of this mutual passion?"
"Marriage?"
"Humph! I think your father will have something to say to that."
"My father will deny me nothing that he thinks will conduce to my happiness."
"No doubt. But marriage with this violinist creature hardly comes under that heading. You know nothing about him."
"I dare say my father does," retorted Ruth.
"Very probably," said the elder lady, with venom. "In fact, he may know sufficient to forbid you entertaining the preposterous idea of becoming Mrs. Webster. You are a fool, Ruth! Because the man is handsome and a great musician--I deny neither his looks nor his talents--you have developed a romantic passion for him. I should not be doing my duty did I fail to warn your father of this folly. To-morrow Mr. Webster will leave this house for ever."
"Oh!" cried Ruth with scorn. "And I, no doubt, will marry Geoffrey Heron. I know your plans, Aunt Inez. But I'm not for sale, thank you."
"Don't be insolent," cried Mrs. Marshall, with cold fury. "Mr. Heron loves you."
"Very probably," rejoined Miss Cass, carelessly. "But then, you see, I do not love him."
"Nevertheless, you will become his wife."
"I would die first."
"We shall see," and walked to the door. "I am going to tell your father of this infatuation."
The girl uttered an exclamation of dismay and sprang forward. But Mrs. Marshall had already closed the door.
"I don't care," cried Ruth, clenching her hands. "My love is strong enough to stand against my father's anger. I love Neil, and I intend to marry him. All the fathers and aunts in the world shall not prevent me." And in this determined frame of mind she went to bed. Her hot Spanish blood was aflame at the idea of contradiction and dictation. Nor for nothing was Ruth Cass the granddaughter of an Andalusian spit-fire, and as such was her father's mother traditionally referred to in the family.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Marshall, equally hot-blooded and determined, took her way to the library where she knew her brother frequently remained long after the rest of the household had retired. He was there, sure enough, sitting before the fire and staring into it with an anxious expression. At his sister's entrance he started from his seat. For Inez was the stormy petrel of the Cass family, and he guessed that her appearance at this unwonted hour indicated an approaching tempest.
"What is it?" he asked, irritably. "Why are you not in bed?"
"Because I have something to say which must be said to-night."
"Well, what is is?" He dropped back into his chair with a look of resignation.
"Who is that man Webster?"
Her brother's face grow black. "Always the same woman," he said, angrily. "You will never leave well alone. Webster is a violinist, and he comes here, at my request, because I admire his talents."
"I know all that. But who is he?"
"I refuse to tell you."
"Will you refuse to tell your daughter?" sneered his sister.
Cass looked up quickly, and something of dismay came over his face. "Ruth--what has Ruth to do with him?"
"This much. They are in love with one another; they are secretly engaged. Is that a sufficient excuse for my seeing you to-night?"
"I don't believe it. Webster would not----"
"Oh, as to that, I don't know what hold you have over him."
"Hold!" repeated Mr. Cass, rising and beginning to pace the room in an agitated manner. "What do you mean? I have no hold."
"In that case you should not have thrown him into the society of an impressionable fool like Ruth. I got the truth out of her to-night, though I had long suspected it. She loves him; and what's more she will defy you and marry him."
"That she shall never do:" he said vehemently.
"I tell you she will, and without your consent, unless you can talk her out of this infatuation and marry her to Heron."
"There will be no need to talk her out of it." Mr. Cass said, coldly. "Webster will not marry her."
"Do you mean that he will refuse?"
"I mean that he will refuse," he replied with decision.
"And under your influence?"
"Under my influence. Yes."
"Ah!" Aunt Inez drew a long breath, for her suspicions as to the identity of Webster were now confirmed. "Then you intend to use the knowledge of his father's murder to influence this so-called Webster?"
"What do you mean?" Mr. Cass asked angrily.
"Exactly what I say," retorted his sister. "I am not a fool, if you are Sebastian, Webster is the son of Jenner, who was murdered at the Turnpike House. I remember how his mother used to bring him here to beg for food. He is just the same nervous creature now as he was then. I could not recollect where I had seen him before until he recognised his father in that photograph----"
"He did not recognize his father."
"Perhaps he did not knew that the face, the sight of which made him faint, was that of his father," replied Mrs. Marshall. "But his fainting was quite enough for me. I remember Mrs. Jenner; he resembles her in every way. He is her son. Deny it if you can."
"I do not deny it," Cass said sullenly. "But, for Heaven's sake, Inez, leave things alone, or harm will come of it."
"Why, in Heaven's name, did you bring him down here?"
"I never thought he would fall in love with Ruth. I brought him out of sheer kindness, because I was sorry for the poor, lonely young fellow. I will arrange the matter. Rest assured he never marry Ruth."
"I hope not," said Mrs. Marshall, preparing to go. "I have done my duty."
"No doubt, but I wonder you dare speak as you do."
Her face grew hard as stone. "I am never afraid to speak," she said, haughtily, "or to act. I have set my heart on a marriage between Ruth and Geoffrey Heron. Webster--as you call him--must go."
"He shall go," assented Mr. Cass and, satisfied that all was well, his sister left him. Then he dropped back into his chair with a sigh and gazed a again into the fire. He foresaw trouble, which there appeared no means of averting. It was three o'clock before he got to bed. And by that time he had determined how to act.
"Webster shall refuse to marry her," he said, "and he shall go away. She will soon forget him, and end by becoming Mrs. Heron. With Webster away all will be well."
Having made his plans, Mr. Cass proceeded to act upon them. He wished to see for himself if Ruth was really in love with Neil, and to learn, if possible, the depth and extent of her feelings. With this scheme in his mind, he was excessively genial to the young man, and at the breakfast-table on the following morning placed him next his daughter--a piece of folly which made Mrs. Marshall open her eyes. Ruth saw her aunt's look, and, in sheer defiance, allowed herself to behave towards Neil with a somewhat ostentatious friendliness. Naturally enough, Geoffrey Heron became sulky, while Miss Brawn and Mr. Marshall kept up a continuous chatter.
"Well?" Inez said to her brother as they were preparing for church.
"You are right," he said. "I have no doubt now of her feeling for him."
"And you will deal with the matter?"
"You can trust me. I know what to do."
She was satisfied with this assurance, and set off in a devout frame of mind, and, taking Geoffrey with her, shewed him very clearly that she was on his side. Indeed, as they returned to the house after the Christmas service, he opened his heart to her. Mrs. Marshall told him that she had seen it all along, and that nothing on her part should remain undone that would aid in bringing about the marriage.
"But she is in love with that fiddler-fellow," the disconsolate young man said.
"Oh, my dear Mr. Heron," and Mrs. Marshall smiled, "that is only a girl's love for the arts. She admires his music, as we all do, and perhaps she shews her appreciation in rather a foolish way. But I cannot believe she loves him."
"At all events she does not care for me."
"Don't be too sure of that. The more she cares for you the more likely she is to try and conceal her feelings."
"Why, in Heaven's name?" asked Geoffrey.
Mrs. Marshall laughed. "Because it is the way of women," she said.
"Do you think, then, that I ought to speak to her?"
"Not just now. Wait till Mr. Webster and his too fascinating violin have taken their departure. Then she will forget this--this Bohemian."
"Webster isn't a bad sort of fellow," Heron said, apologetically. "In spite of his long hair, he is something of a sportsman. He has seen a good deal of the world, too, and he is plucky in his own way. I like him well enough but, of course, I can't help feeling jealous. You see, I love Ruth--I may call her Ruth to you--so much."
"There is no need for jealousy. Ruth will be your wife. I promise you that; you have me on your side."
"I won't have her forced into the marriage," he said, sturdily.
Mrs. Marshall brushed the suggestion aside.
Neil's unhappy state of mind had taken him out into the cold. The quiet thoughts of the morning had given way to perfect torture, and he could in no way account for the change. So far, indeed, as his nerves were concerned, he never could account for anything in connection with them any more than could the physicians whom he had consulted. He was the prey of a highly neurotic temperament which tortured his life, and he had a vivid imagination which made him exaggerate the slightest worries into catastrophes.
An hour's brisk walking over the crisp snow brought him to a solitary place far from every human habitation. The village had vanished, and Neil found himself in the centre--as it seemed--of a lonely white world arched over by a blue sky. All around the landscape was buried in drifts of snow, which, dazzling white in the sunlight, were painful to look upon. He walked along some disused roads, guiding himself by the hedges which ran along the sides. Shortly the sky began to cloud over rapidly, to assume a leaden aspect; and finally down came the snow.
He turned his face homewards, anxious to get back before the night came on. But as the snow fell thicker he grew bewildered, and began to take the situation seriously. Suddenly, as he trudged along, a building loomed up before him through the fallen flakes; it stood where four roads met, and he guessed at once that it was an old turnpike house. On a nearer approach he saw that it was empty; the windows were broken, the door was half open, and it was fenced in by a jungle of bushes like the palace of the Sleeping Beauty.
"At any rate it will be a shelter," he thought; "and when the storm clears off I can get home. Only three o'clock," he added, looking at his watch. "I'll rest a bit."
He broke his way through the drifts which were piled up before the door, and stumbled in. The moment his foot touched the threshold a vague feeling of fear seized upon him; the place was quite empty, thick with dust and festooned with cobwebs. There was not a stick of furniture; yet it seemed to him that there should have been a bare deal table, two deal chairs, and a fire in the grate. "Had he ever been here before?" he asked himself. But he could find no answer to the question. Finally, shaking off the feeling of depression which the influence of this house had brought upon him, he lay down on the bare boards and tried to sleep away the time. In this way, by the degree of some mysterious Power, the man was brought back to the room where his father had been murdered twelve or thirteen years before. And he was ignorant of the terrible truth.
The snow continued to fall steadily, but there was no wind. The absolute quiet was soothing to the tired man, and after a time his eyes closed. For a while he slept peacefully as a child then his face grew dark, his teeth and hands clenched themselves, and he groaned in agony. He dreamt--and this was the manner of his dream:
He was still in the bare room, but a fire burnt in the grate. A table and two chairs furnished the apartment, and made apparent the frightful poverty. The dreamer was no longer a man, but a child playing with a toy horse by the fire. Near the table sat a woman sewing. Then a man entered--the man whose face he had seen in the photograph. A quarrel ensued between him and the woman; the child--the dreamer himself--became suddenly possessed of a blind rage against the man. Then all faded in darkness. He was in bed still a child--again in darkness. Then once more he was in the room. The window was open; near it lay the dead body of the man, the blood welling from his heart. At the door stood the woman, a knife in her hand, a look of terror on her face. Then came rain, and mist, and cold, and the dreamer felt that he was falling into a gulf of darkness, never again to emerge into the light of day. But the woman's face, with blue eyes looking from under a crown of fair hair, still shone like a star in the gloom. It smiled on the dreamer, then it vanished as he awoke with a cry.
Neil Webster sprang to his feet with the perspiration beading his forehead and shaking in every limb. The dream had been so vivid! Was it but a dream? Here was the room, here the open window, and here, where he had seen the dead body of the man, black stains of blood marked the floor. He started back with a cry as he saw it all, and flung himself out into the snow which still kept falling in thick flakes. Away from that house he ran, feeling that he had recovered the memory of his childhood. His father had been murdered. By whom? That was the question he asked himself as he sped onwards through the snow.
"Oh Heavens!" he kept murmuring. "What does it all mean? Why was I sent to that house to learn this terrible truth? Why? Why?"
But the snow fell ever more thickly, and the young man fled along the road. In the same way had his mother fled with him in her arms, fled through the mists to escape the horror of the Turnpike House.
Jennie Brawn sat in her bedroom with an agonised took on her face, with inky fingers and tumbled hair. Miss Brawn was courting the Muse.
As yet she had had but ill success, for the Muse was not in a kindly mood.
"If, dear, thou should'st unhappy be, Remember me, Remember me!" murmured the poetess. "I think that will do for a refrain. But how am I to begin? Ah!" with a sudden inspiration. "Spring in the first verse, summer and roses in the second, then winter and dying for an effective finish." And she began to thresh out the first lines.
"The spring is flowering all the world----"
"Humph!" she broke off. "That sounds as though spring were a baker! I must try again."
But before she could think of an alternative line the door burst open and Ruth rushed in violently, all on fire with excitement. "Jennie! Jennie! she cried, plumping down on the bed. I've had a proposal!"
"Oh!" Jennie, quite phlegmatic, laid down her pen. "Geoffrey Heron has you to be his wife?"
"That is the plain English of it, I suppose," Ruth said, impatiently. "Of course I said 'No.'"
"Of course you did," remarked the prosaic Miss Brawn. For prosaic she was in ordinary matters, in spite of her poetic gift. "You are in love with the Master?" She put this in the form of a query.
"Haven't I told you a thousand times!" cried Miss Cass. "I love him as dearly as he loves me."
"That's a pity."
"Why is it a pity?" asked the girl, her face flushing.
"Oh. I know you don't like the truth," Jennie went on, calmly. "But I always tell it, even when it is disagreeable. I don't think you are the kind of wife to suit the Master. You are too impetuous, too fond of admiration. You would never be content to take a back seat."
"I should think not!" cried Miss Cass, indignantly. "Catch me taking a back seat! I want to admired, to have an ample income and a big position. I am an individual, not a piece of furniture."
"Marry Mr. Heron, then," advised Jennie, "and you will have all you wish for. He belongs to a good county family, and can give you a position in society. He has a handsome income, and with your own dowry as well you would be rich."
"But I love Neil," persisted Ruth, piteously.
"Oh, no, you don't. You think you love him, but you are only attracted by his charm of manner."
"I believe you want to marry him yourself," cried Ruth, pettishly.
Jennie flushed, for, unknown to herself, Ruth had touched upon Miss Brawn's romance. She did love Webster, and she would have given many years of her life had that love been returned. But she saw no chance of this, and, like a sensible girl, crushed the passion in its birth.
"I never cry for the moon," she said, quietly "and there is no chance that the Master, who loves beautiful things, will ever fall in love with plain me. But if I were to marry him I should be prepared to make myself his echo--the piece of furniture you so scornfully allude to. Believe me, my dear, it is better in every way that you should reconsider your answer to Mr. Heron."
"I won't! I don't deny that I like Geoffrey very much indeed, and he took his rejection, so kindly, poor fellow, that I did feel very like changing my mind. But Neil--Neil!" Ruth clasped her hands and raised her expressive eyes. "Oh, I can't give him up."
"Perhaps your father will make you."
"No, my father can make me do nothing I have not set my heart on. And when it comes to the point, I'll defy my father."
"That is wrong."
"No, it isn't. I have to live with my husband, whoever he may be, and I have a right to choose him for myself. I choose Neil."
"Humph!" murmured Jennie, shaking her rough head. "You say that now while all is smooth; but if trouble came, and the Master was proved to be an ineligible parti, you would your mind."
"You shall see. Besides, what trouble could come?"
"I merely suggest it. Trouble might come, you know. Life is not entirely sunshine; clouds will arise. Well, when they do, we shall see if you really love the Master. At present it is merely a girl's fancy."
"Why do you talk to me as if you were a grandmother?" cried Ruth, half offended.
"I am young a years but old in experience," said Miss Brawn, with a sigh. "We are nine in our family, and father, as a Civil Service clerk, has only a small income. I have a lot of trouble to make both ends meet, with no mother to help. They all rely on my brain and my fingers, and the responsibility makes me sober."
"Poor dear," said Ruth, kissing the freckled cheek. "I wonder you write poetry with all your anxieties."
"I have to, and when you have to you do," replied Jennie, somewhat incoherently. "I make a very good income out of my verse, though what I get is not what it ought to be. Why, some of my songs have made thousands of pounds, but of course the publisher and composer share that between them. I only get ten guineas or so."
"What a shame!"
"Yes, isn't it. However, I don't want to talk about myself, except to thank you for giving me such a perfectly lovely Christmas. As to your refusal of Mr. Heron, I am sure you are wrong."
"I don't think so. But if I were it would be perfectly easy to whistle him back. At present I intend to marry Neil, and he is going to ask my father's consent to-night, or to-morrow. If there is trouble you shall see how I stand up for him. You write romances, Jennie, I act them." And with a rustle of silken skirts Ruth vanished.
Jennie sighed as she once more took up her pen. It did seem hard that this girl should have all the money, all the looks, and the chance of becoming the Master's wife. Mis Brawn was not an envious person, as we have said, but she could not help grudging Ruth the favours of Fortune which she seemed to value so little.
The Christmas dinner passed off that night in the orthodox fashion. Mr. Cass made the usual speech; the usual compliments were exchanged, and the usual reminiscences indulged in. It was quite a family gathering, save that Mr. Cass's eldest daughter was absent. She was married, and had elected to stay with her husband in London. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Chisel--such was her name--could not approach her sister in the matter of looks, and being of a jealous nature did not like--to use an expressive, if somewhat vulgar, phrase--to take a back seat. Ruth was always the recipient of all the admiration and all the attention, so her sister preferred to stay in a circle wherein her own looks could ensure her a certain amount of queendom. Mr. Cass referred to her absence, drank her health, and considered that he had done his duty.
But he had yet another duty to perform towards his unmarried daughter. It was his intention to speak to Neil Webster that night, and, once and for all, put an end to any hopes that young man might cherish with regard to Ruth. She was the apple on the topmost bough which he could not hope to gather; and it would be as well to inform him of this fact at once. Mr. Cass was, in the main, a kindly man, and, for reasons best known to himself, was well disposed towards Neil. He hated to make trouble at this season of peace and goodwill. But the imminence of the danger forced him on. Besides, he had given a promise to his sister Inez, and he knew very well she would allow him no rest until he had done what she desired.
"How dull you are to-night," whispered Ruth to Neil in the winter garden after dinner. "What is the matter?"
"Nothing. I went out for a walk to-day and I am rather tired."
"Were you caught in the snow?"
"Yes, but I managed to get home all right, as you see. I sought shelter in the old Turnpike House."
Mrs. Marshall, who had seated herself close at hand, started at the words. "The Turnpike House!" she said, anxiously. "Did you go in there."
"Yes, Mrs. Marshall. It was my refuge from the storm."
"Strange!" she murmured, thinking of the crime which had taken place there so many years before--the crime in which the parents of this young man had been concerned. "It has not a good reputation, that house," she added.
Webster fixed his eyes on her. "How is that?" he said.
"Oh, don't you know?" cried Jennie, who had come up to them. "A dreadful murder was committed there! A man was killed, and the house is said to be haunted."
"A man was killed?" repeated Neil, his breath coming quickly. "And who killed him?"
Before Jennie could make reply Mr. Cass, who had been listening uneasily, interposed sharply: "Don't talk of murders, Miss Brawn. The subject is not fit for Christmas. Come and play for Mr. Webster."
"Thank you," the young man said. "I do not think I can play this evening."
There was a murmur of disappointment, but Neil was firm. "I am not very well," he said, wearily. "My nerves again."
"Ah!" remarked Mrs. Marshal, in a low voice. "That comes of going to the Turnpike House."
"Hush!" rebuked her brother under his breath. "Hold your tongue, Inez, and leave me to deal with this."
As there was to be no music, Jennie and Mr. Marshall set to work to amuse the guests, and even Heron took part in the games. But after a time Ruth declared that she could play no longer and abruptly went away. Perhaps Geoffrey's reproachful looks were too much for her equanimity. At all events she sought the empty drawing-room and sat down at the piano. In a few minutes she was joined by Neil.
"Oh! are you here?" she said, coldly enough. "What is the matter?"
"Nothing. I have come to have a few words with you."
"It is rather late in the day, Neil. You were out ail the afternoon, and I was left to Mr. Heron."
"I did not feel well," he said. "But I daresay you were happy with him."
"Indeed I was not. Oh. Neil!" she murmured, looking up at him with eyes shining like stars. "He proposed to me to-day and I refused him."
"My darling," he cried, and then drew back. He was thinking of his dream and wondering if he had the right to hold this girl to her engagement. Ruth misunderstood him and pouted.
"I thought you would be pleased."
"I am pleased. I want you all to myself. All the same, perhaps, you do well to marry Heron."
"Then you don't love me?" she burst out, with wounded pride.
"Love you?" he repeated, fiercely. "Heaven knows I love you than my own soul. But I am beginning to think that I am not a fit husband for you. My position is so insecure, my nerves are in such a wretched state. Then again, your father may object. Indeed, I think he will."
"Why not ask him before you make so certain?" cried the girl, eagerly.
"I will do so to-night, but I tell you frankly, I am prepared for a refusal."
"Oh, no, there will be no refusal. I am sure he will not put any bar between us. Dear Neil, do you not took so sad. I am certain all will be well, and we shall be married sooner than you think."
"Well, it all depends upon your father."
"Indeed, it al depends upon me." Then she rose from the piano. "If you were a true lover, Neil, you would not make all these objections. If you do not care for me I shall marry Mr. Heron."
"Ah! you like him, then?" cried the young man with a pang.
"I like him, but I--love you!" whispered Ruth, and dropping a kiss on his forehead she fled away before he could stop her.
But when alone again she began to wonder whether she really did love him. He was so cold and strange in manner that he sometimes chilled her, and although he persisted in declaring that he loved her, she could not help feeling that something had come between them. What it was she could not think, and his refusal to explain piqued her. She after all, had a right to share his secrets, and he declined to trust her. She was a very good-hearted girl and affectionate; but she thought a great deal of herself, for flattery and adulation had been her portion all her life. Jennie had divined rightly. What she felt for Webster was not so much love for the man as admiration for the artist.
"Wait till he speaks to my father," she said to herself. "If he should consent, Neil will be once more the affectionate fellow he was."
That night came young Webster's opportunity of speaking to Mr. Cass. They found themselves alone in the smoking-room somewhere after eleven. Mrs. Marshall had whisked her husband off, intimating that she wished to speak to him; and as a matter of fact she desired to tell him of her discovery as to Ned's identity. The communication, she knew, would not be a pleasant one for him to hear from his association with the young man's father. Besides which, it is not always agreeable to remember that you have been the friend of a man who has been murdered.
Heron also had left the smoking-room early, so the two who were so desirous of speaking to each other had their wishes gratified.
"You are not in spirits to-night, Neil," the elder man, who always addressed him thus when they were alone. And why not, seeing that Webster was his protege?
"No," was the gloomy reply. "I do not feel satisfied with my position."
"And why not? You have found fame and money, and----"
"I know all that," interrupted Neil, "but I am thinking of my parents. I do not know who they were."
Mr. Cass was quite prepared for this. Indeed, it was not the first time the young man had asked him! and his answer now was the same as he had always made. "I have told you a dozen times that your parents were Americans and died in the States. I knew them intimately, and so was the means of bringing you to England. There is nothing for you to worry about."
"Why cannot I recollect my childhood?" persisted Neil.
"Because you had a severe illness which affected your memory."
"Then there is nothing in my past that I need to be ashamed of?"
"Nothing," if you mean as regards your parents. "As to yourself, my dear Neil, your life has been most exemplary. I am proud of you."
"Are you sufficiently proud of me to let me be your son-in-law?"
Mr. Cass tugged at his long moustache. "I cannot truthfully say that I should like that," he said. "Does Ruth care for you?"
"Yes; we want to marry--with your consent."
"That you shall never have."
"Why not?"
"I don't approve of the marriage. For your own sake, don't ask the reason."
Neil Webster started to his feet with a look of horror. "Ah!" he cried. "Then the dream was true. My father was murdered!"
Mr. Cass rose also pale and agitated. "In Heaven's name who told you that?" he cried.
"I dreamt it in the Turnpike House----"
"The very place," Mr. Cass said, under his breath.
"It was a dream, and yet not a dream," continued Neil. "Myself I believe it was a recovery of the memories which you say were destroyed by illness. Ah! Now I know why you will not let me marry your daughter. It is because I am the son of a murdered man!"
"No," was the deliberate answer. "You may as well know the truth. Your mother is now in prison for the murder of her husband--of your father!"