RUTH IS COMFORTED.
Presently Mr. Cass raised his head and looked at Geoffrey with such a
woebegone expression that the young man started. It seemed as if the
merchant had grown suddenly old; lines appeared on his face which had
never been there before; his eyes were sunken, and his shoulders had
bowed themselves as though the whole weight of his misery had been
placed upon them. The transformation was at once startling and painful.
"Don't take it so much to heart," said Heron. "After all, we may both
be wrong about Marshall."
"I hope so. I trust so." was the hoarse reply. "But if he is guilty,
what am I to think of myself? I had a suspicion, on the grounds of
which I have told you, yet here I have allowed an innocent woman to
spend all these years in gaol, when that scoundrel should have been in
her place."
"As to that, you could hardly have accused your sister's husband."
"He was not married to her at the time. If I had insisted upon an
explanation that night when he came in torn and dirty at yonder window
I might have prevented the marriage. I do not think that even the mad
love that Inez had for him would have stood such a test. But Mrs.
Jenner held her tongue when she should have spoken out, so I had no
clue."
"Even if she had spoken out she could have done nothing. She was silent
because she fancied that Neil, in his madness, had killed his father;
she never suspected Marshall. But retrospection can do no good; the
thing is done, and what we have to consider now is how best to get out
of it. If Marshall is guilty he must give us a written confession and
leave the country--without our connivance. What purpose would it serve
to have him suffer at this stage? Besides, from all I have heard from
Mrs. Jenner her scamp of a husband quite deserved his fate. Marshall's
confession would set her free----"
"At the cost of publicity!" burst out Mr. Cass. "How [*** *** ***]
disgrace, Heron? Think of my sister, of Ruth, of Amy, my married
daughter; it would mean ruin to them all. And you, how could you marry
into such a family?"
"Oh, as to that I am not afraid to face the world. I should be a mean
hound if I were to visit Marshall's sins on Ruth. Whatever happens, you
may be certain that Ruth will be my wife, and that she will receive
from me all the love and affection due to so charming and honest a
girl."
"Thank you, Heron." He grasped the young man's hand.
"But," exclaimed the younger man, "as to Marshall, when we know the
truth for certain we will decide how to act. Above all we must not be
in a hurry. You say you gave the links to him?"
"I did. And what is more, he wore them on that night. I remember his
calling my attention to them at dinner."
"Humph! Then he alone could have lost that one at the Turnpike House.
I suppose you did not notice if one was missing from his cuff when he
came into this room?"
"No, I never gave the matter a thought. There was no reason why I
should. I believed that he had been attacked by gypsies--you know how
many there are always about these lonely roads. An assault of that
nature would have been quite enough to account for the mud on his
clothes and their torn condition. I never thought he had met Jenner."
"Was there bad blood between them?"
"Well. I am not quite sure. It seems that Marshall had persecuted Mrs.
Jenner with his attentions, but her husband was not of the sort to take
any trouble about that. He and Marshall I had been boon companions for
a long time. Whether they parted on account of come row, I don't know;
but one thing is clear, that Jenner saw Marshall again when Marshall
called on Julian Roper to discount that bill, and finding that it was a
forgery stole it to come down here and blackmail his former friend."
"How could he find out that it was a forgery?"
"Oh, very easily. Roper might have talked, or Jenner might have
listened. At all events he knew the truth. I suppose they met that
night at the Turnpike House."
"No," said Heron, suddenly recollecting his conversation with the dead
man's widow. "Jenner had seen Marshall before he came to the Turnpike
House. Of course, Marshall might have followed him and watched him
through the window; then seeing the pocket-book--which he supposed
would contain the bill--he might have killed him and cleared off. But
this Marshall must tell us; that's if he can be made to tell."
"I'll force it out of him," Mr. Cass said, grimly. "Those sleeve-links,
for instance; he has to explain how he came to lose one at the Turnpike
House. I remember after Marshall went away from here the housemaid
brought me the pair enamelled the pack of cards and the horse, which
she said Mr. Marshall had left in his room. I thought he must be tired
of them, and that he had probably taken the other pair with him by
mistake. So I put those he had left into my desk, and I thought no more
about it. When Mildred wanted a brooch for her doll I separated them
and gave one to the child--the one with the horse. The one with the
pack of cards I left on my table, intending to give it to Ethel."
"I have the champagne bottle link which was dropped under the window,"
Geoffrey said. "Now, what has become of the other one, the ballet,
girl?"
"No doubt that also will be found at the Turnpike House," said Mr.
Cass. "I must tell you that the fastening of the links was somewhat
worn, and that a slight tug would have, broken them. In putting his
arm through the window to grasp the knife, which Mrs. Jenner says was
on the table, I daresay Marshall's cuff caught in a nail and the links
were torn apart. Both would have fallen to the ground. One has been
found, the other, no doubt, is still on the ground."
"In that case we must make a search to-morrow," said Geoffrey, rising.
"No, we must see Marshall first," Mr. Cass said, very decidedly. "I
would go over with you to-night; but that would make Inez suspicious.
I do not want her to know anything of all this. And, after all, we may
be mistaken; but he must give us an explanation. I will write a note
to him this evening and ask him to come over to-morrow. You call here,
Heron, at eleven o'clock, and we will force the truth out of him."
"Very well, I think that would be best. I hope he will be able to
exculpate himself. If Mrs. Marshall should get to know----"
"She would fight for her husband tooth and nail. You don't know what a
tigress my sister is when she is roused; the Spanish blood, I suppose.
By the way," he went on, looking at Heron with a faint smile. "I am
half Spanish, too, and no doubt I am credited with a fiery temper
Confess, now, Heron, you thought from my silence that I had killed this
man?"
Geoffrey nodded with some embarrassment. "I did," he said, frankly.
"But can you blame me? Appearances were against you."
Mr. Cass shrugged his shoulders. "No, I don't blame you," he said.
"But you might have given me the benefit of the doubt. Appearances are
against Marshall, too. Well, we shall see if he is as wrongly suspected
as I was. Are you going now? It is early."
"I should like to see Ruth for a few minutes."
"Well, she will be quite as glad to see you. She is dull, poor girl,
and the horror of this thing--so much as she knows of it at least--has
got on her nerves. Go and see her, and come here at eleven to-morrow.
Of course, you will tell her nothing."
"Certainly not. Good-night."
"By the way, I forgot to tell you that Webster is coming down next
week. He is much better, and I think the change will do him good."
"Humph! Will you tell him of this discovery?"
"I don't know. What do you think?"
"I should say nothing until we are quite certain. Let us our own
counsel for the honour of the family."
"I think you are right," said Mr. Cass with a sigh. "Heaven grant, for
the happiness of us all, that we are wrong in our suspicions. Now go,
my dear hoy, and leave me to think the matter over. Ruth is waiting for
you."
Heron found Ruth in the winter garden and in tears. She told him, she
was the moat miserable girl in the world, and that nobody cared for
her; which last statement Mr. Heron was not inclined to hear without
venturing to put forward his own claims.
"My darling, girl, how can you say so?" he asked, pressing her closely
in his arms. "I love you more than all the world."
"Every man says that when he can think of nothing else to say," replied
Ruth, who was too much disturbed to be wholly just. "And if you really
loved me, you wouldn't have neglected me so."
"My dear, I was busy. You know what took up my time."
"Yes, I know, and I wish I didn't know! This horrid business has
troubled me morn and night. I wonder my hair hasn't turned grey!"
"Nonsense!" cried Geoffrey. "It is as black as ever."
"Black as the outlook of our lives."
Heron could not help a smile at this grandiloquent speech. It was so
unlike Ruth to indulge in what the Americans call "tall talk." "Leave
the wretched affair alone, dear," he said, kissing her. "You need not
trouble your pretty head any more about it."
"But I must," she insisted. "If my suspicions are not set at rest, I
shall go mad. And the worst of it is, I have promised my father to tell
you nothing. If I could only speak freely to you, it would ease my
mind."
"Then ease it and speak freely, Ruth. Oh, you need not shake your head.
I know what you are talking about--those sleeve-links."
"Yes, that is it!" she cried hysterically. "I have nearly killed myself
with anxiety over the whole thing. Oh, what a wicked girl I am!"
"No, my dear; only a very foolish girl. But you can set your mind at
rest once and for all. Your father is perfectly innocent of what you
impute to him. He had nothing do with the crime; and he believed in all
good faith that Mrs. Jenner was the guilty person."
Ruth rose to her feet, and a smile of relief dispelled her tears. "Oh,
how delighted I am!" she said, excitedly. "I shan't worry any more. Oh,
how thankful I am! What a weight is off my mind! But why didn't he tell
me before?"
"He had his reasons--reasons, which he has explained to me. They need
not trouble you, my dear. I think you had better put the whole affair
out of your mind."
"I will, now that papa is free from the stigma; he does not know that I
thought he was seriously mixed up in the case. He would never forgive
me if he did! Don't ever tell him, Geoffrey."
"No, I won't. Now, don't worry any more."
"But, Geoffrey, if Mrs. Jenner is not guilty, who is?"
"Ah, we must find that out," replied Heron, thinking it best not to
reveal anything about Mr. Marshall--an explanation which would only
have caused fresh trouble. "If you are wise, Ruth, you will leave the
matter alone."
"I intend to," she said. "But there is one thing I want to tell you,
Geoffrey--Job Lovel."
"Who is he?"
"The gypsy. Didn't I tell you about him?"
"Yes; I think you did say something about having met him at the
Turnpike House. Well, what has he been doing?"
"Nothing, except that he has taken up his abode at the Turnpike House."
"Like his impudence!" cried the young man. "Why, that house is mine,
and if he wanted to live in the wretched hovel, he should have come to
me. Besides, I do not wish anyone to live in that shamble. I intend to
have it pulled down, and so get rid of all the legends which haunt the
neighbourhood."
"I wish you would pull it down; it is an ill-omened place--a blot on
the landscape; and the sooner it is removed the better it will be for
the countryside. The people round here think it is haunted, you know,
and that keeps up the memory of the murder. If the house were pulled
down, there would be an end of it all--and the sooner the better. But I
do not know what Aunt Inez will say!"
"Mrs. Marshall?" cried Geoffrey, looking at her sharply. "What has she
got to do with it?"
"That is what I want to tell you, it seems that Aunt Inez has taken an
interest in Job; she suggested that he should patch up the house and
live in it; and she has arranged to allow him so much a week to live
on."
"Humph! That is strange. Mrs. Marshall is not usually so philanthropic."
"That's exactly what I thought; and that made me think that papa had
something to do with the murder, and that Aunt Inez was shielding him."
"Shielding him--how?"
"By assisting Job. I went to see him the other day, and I found Aunt
Inez there; she was very angry with me for having gone. I saw Job
afterwards, and he would tell me nothing, but he hinted at a secret
between him and Aunt Inez; now I think----"
"Don't think anything about it," Heron said, with a forced laugh. "Your
aunt is getting charitable in her old age. Believe me, there is nothing
between her and the gypsy, relative to the murder, whatever he may say."
"But he talked, Geoffrey----"
"I daresay; I wonder he did not threaten! I will this for myself and if
he knows anything--which I very much doubt--I will get it out of him.
My dear, how can you think your aunt knows anything about the matter?
Now, Ruth, you must promise me to leave it all alone, and think no more
about it."
"Very well," she said, with unusual meekness. "Then you don't think
Aunt Inez has anything to do--any knowledge, I mean?"
"I am quite sure she has not. She is kind to Job out of pure charity.
Now I must say good-night and, once more, don't worry."
But as he drove home he came to the conclusion that Mrs. Marshall's
kindness to the gypsy was meant, in some way, to shield her husband.
"And that complicates matters,"--thought Heron.