Chapter 19

JOB BECOMES CIVILISED.

Again and again did Miss Cass wish that she could tell Jennie Brawn the story of the broken link and her position with regard to her father. But she had given her promise, and was forced to hold her tongue. On her part Jennie, always open and honest, felt a trifle embarrassed at the secret understanding with Geoffrey Heron regarding the bill of exchange, it seemed to her too delicate perception to be wrong; for was not the young man her friend's lover? But, like Ruth herself, Jennie had given a promise which could not be broken, and she, too, had to hold her peace. Under these circumstances, both girls were less open with each other than usual, and on this account did not seek one another, as was formerly the case. Jennie made her teaching serve as an excuse; and Ruth took to wandering about the country in the society of her own sad thoughts.

She had promised her father to refrain from further meddling with the Jenner case; but she did not think that this bound her to abstain from visiting the Turnpike House; and she was always finding herself in the neighbourhood of that ill-omened building. It held the secret of a crime.

Several times Ruth had noticed smoke rising from its chimney; she began to think, from the recurrence of this phenomenon, that some tramp had taken up his abode in the deserted building. Full of nervous apprehension lest the said tramp should find something in the house likely to connect her father with the crime, Ruth had, more than once, made up her mind to see who it was that occupied the hovel. But on each occasion her courage failed her at the last moment. But one day she screwed up her courage, and set out to visit the Turnpike House. She would [*** ***] if any other piece of evidence connected with the crime had been discovered; and, if so, ascertain who was the finder.

As she approached, she could see that although the house still looked dilapidated and disreputable in its green jungle, some attempt had been made to render it fit for human habitation. The windows had been mended, the door repaired, and the roof patched in various places. Ruth walked boldly up the path--now trodden down by the footsteps of the new owner--and after a glance at the closed door, looked in at the window. This was guiltless of blinds or curtain, and she could see quite plainly what was going on inside. To her surprise, the first person she saw was her aunt Inez seated by the fire and talking eagerly to Job, who was astride a chair beside her. The gypsy turned his head rapidly as the shadow of the girl, lengthened by the sun, fell across the floor, and he uttered an exclamation of mingled surprise aid vexation. Mrs. Marshall, looking up at that moment, beheld her niece--the very last person she expected or, indeed, desired to see in that place. Her dark face grew a trifle pale, her black eyes flashed, and she looked downright savage at the intrusion. However, there was nothing left for it now but to make the best of the situation, so before Ruth had time to recover from her astonishment, Aunt Inez had passed quickly to the window and had thrown it wide open.

"Goodness, Ruth! Why do you come in that silent way to frighten people? Come in--come in, and don't stand staring there like a fool!"

Ruth struggled to recover from her surprise.

"I am astonished to see you here, Aunt Inez," she said, when she had found her tongue. "I did not know you were acquainted with Job."

"He is a pensioner of mine," Mrs. Marshall said, composedly, preparing to shut the window. "Are you coming in, Ruth? We can walk back together. You know I do not approve of your roaming the country in this uncivilised fashion."

"It seems I am only following your example," Ruth said, pertly.

"I am a married woman."

"And Job's patroness," remarked Ruth, who was too much annoyed by her aunt's manner to be careful. Mrs. Marshall flashed at her a look which boded ill for the harmony of their future relations.

"Yes; I am looking after the poor man. There is nothing wrong in that, I hope?"

"On the contrary," said her niece, and went towards the door. It was opened by Job, who, during this interview, had been most discreetly silent. He winked at the girl--not rudely, but to intimate that he still looked upon her as a Romany sister--and ushered her into the room.

Mrs. Marshall had resumed her seat by the fire, and pointed out the other chair to her niece. Job leant up against the table, and regarded the two with a twinkle in his dark eyes. Evidently he anticipated some amusement.

"Have you been here before, Ruth?" asked the elder lady, sharply.

"Once; I was curious to see the place."

"On account of the murder, I suppose?" replied Mrs. Marshall, with contempt. "Really, Ruth, I do wonder that you should care to concern yourself with such horrors! And why do you come here again?"

"To see Job," was the quiet answer.

"Me and the lady are pals," put in Job. "Oh, yes; she can patter the black tongue, and she is a real Romany sister."

"Perhaps, Ruth, you will explain," said Mrs. Marshall, both puzzled and annoyed.

"I think Job has already done so," Ruth said, coolly. "I met him here by accident when last I came, and I talked Romany to him. He has taken me as a sister of the gypsy folk. I am a female Borrow."

"Ruth!" Aunt Inez threw up her hands in horror. "How dare you speak like this? A low gypsy--a tramp--and you a young lady! And pray where did you learn the gypsy language?"

"At school, and out of it. I got a gypsy woman to teach me. But I do not see why you should forbid me to associate with Job, aunt. You are doing so yourself."

"I!" exclaimed that lady, with something of defiance in her manner. "But I have taken this poor man under my protection, and I intend to make him comfortable."

Ruth did not reply immediately. Then she looked up:

"Last time I was here you watched me, Aunt Inez," she said, slowly.

"Perhaps I did--perhaps I did not," replied that lady, coldly. She scorned to tell a lie, and refused to own the truth.

"Then you know what I found here--under the window?"

Job looked up eagerly and exchanged a glance with Mrs. Marshall. But that clever lady preserved an imperturbable countenance. "What you found, my dear, is of no consequence to me," she said, impatiently, and rose to her feet.

"It is more to the purpose that we should be going. I will arrange about your weekly money," she said, turning to Job.

"Thank you, lady," said the gypsy, gratefully. "You are a real good sort. I won't trouble you long, though. I'm booked before the year is out."

Ruth lingered, for she wanted to speak to the man alone; but her aunt hurried her away, and the last glimpse she had of him was standing in the doorway laughing in anything but a respectful manner.

One would have thought that Miss Cass had burnt her fingers quite severely enough to avoid playing with fire. But such was not the case. Her curiosity was stronger than her prudence.. Besides, after the smile she had seen on Job's face she began to doubt her aunt's plausible explanation. Unfortunately, Mrs. Marshall escorted her niece right up to the gates of Hollyoaks Park. But she refused to go in.

"I have left my carriage at the inn," she said, "and, as your uncle is not very well, I must go home at once. I hope you will come and see us soon, Ruth; you are neglecting me very much."

"I will come with pleasure, aunt. Will next week do?"

"Any week will do. I am always at home--except on an occasion like this, when I am employed in charitable works. I shall expect you next week."

When her aunt had gone, Ruth waited until she was out of sight; then took a short cut across the meadows to the Turnpike House. Within the hour she again presented herself at the door. It was opened so suddenly that she felt sure that Job had been watching her; and his greeting proved that such was the case.

"I expected you, sister," he said. "Come into my tent. Duvel! That a Romany should dwell under a roof-tree like a Gorgio."

"It is better for your health than wandering about the roads," said the girl, sitting down.

"I am dying," interrupted Job, quietly. "And I am not the man to decay like a tree. If I find that I can never recover, I will die after my own fashion. I am not afraid."

Ruth did not know what reply to make to this: she glanced round hoping to find a fresh topic of conversation. "You are comfortable here; quite civilised. I am sure that you will get better now that you are so well housed!"

"I do not think so, lady. But I yielded to Mrs. Marshall's request to take shelter here. One place is as good as another to die in; she is good to me; I have this house--and a little money to buy food."

"Why is she so kind?" asked Ruth, sharply. "Such kindness is not in her nature. Have you done her a good turn?"

"Perhaps I have; maybe I have not," Job said, coolly. "See here, sister, I knew you would come back to ask questions. I saw it in your eye; but I know when to keep my mouth shut."

"You do--when it pays you. Well, I have no wish to pry into your secrets, Job. Keep your own counsel."

"I intend to," replied the man. "And it is a good thing for your family that I do."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing that I can tell you."

"Job"--Ruth looked at him sharply--"are you hinting at any disgrace?"

"No: what disgrace could befall so noble a family? I hold my tongue."

"Because you are paid for it," retorted Ruth. Already her wits were at work trying to search out the reason for all this: she scented a mystery and began vaguely to connect it with the Jenner case. Half in jest, half in earnest, she asked a leading question. "Do you know anything of this murder?"

"No. Duvel! I should think not. It was before my time."

"Yet I wonder you are not afraid to sleep in this room. It was here that the body was found."

Job laughed, and stared at the stains on the floor near the window. "Yes; it was here," he said. "But I know nothing."

"You know what I found last time I came to this place?" she said, recalling the glance exchanged between her aunt and the gypsy.

"Perhaps," replied Job; then he began to laugh. "Oh, you are a rare one, lady, you are!" he said. "You would rob me of my new tent by asking me to speak about what does not concern you."

"Ah! Then you have something to conceal?"

"Perhaps," said Job again. "But you may as well stop, sister. I hold my peace until I die."

Ruth looked at him fixedly. By this time she felt quite sure that the secret which procured for Job food, and fire, and roof-tree, was connected with the murder.

"What you know has nothing to do with Mr. Cass--with my father?" she asked in a low voice.

"No, no; on my soul it has not," he said, earnestly. "Why do you think so, sister?"

"Has it anything to do with the murder?"

"I cannot tell you."

"You need not, for I can see the truth in your face. Tell me this, do you know what I found under that window?"

He looked at her. "Yes, I know," he said, softly, and refused to speak another word.