A STRANGE EPISODE.
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.