Chapter 6

MR. CASS SPEAKS.

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!"