L.T. Meade (continued 3)

“Yes, George. There were five degrees of frost then.”

“Ha! there’ll be fifteen by nine o’clock to-night. Why do you women keep such miserable fires? This thimbleful is enough to freeze any one.”

My father turned, and seizing the coal-scuttle, dashed a quantity of loose coal into the grate. It raised a dust, and almost extinguished the fire, but we none of us expostulated, for my father was unquestionably master in his own house.

George meanwhile flung himself into a deep easy-chair, crossed one muddy boot over the other, and seizing my mother’s favourite tabby cat, began to stroke it the wrong way, and otherwise to worry it. He laughed once or twice, when pussy resisted his endearments. He suddenly flung her on the ground almost roughly.

“Do turn that ugly thing out of the room, Rosamund,” he said.

I did not stir. I thought the time had come when I would cease to allow George to bully me.

“By the way,” said my father suddenly, in his harsh voice, “what’s this I hear, that Chillingfleet has given Jack the sack? You gave me the information, didn’t you, George?”

“Yes, sir, and it’s correct,” replied George. “I suppose Jack was playing the fool in some way, and Chillingfleet took advantage of his illness to get rid of him.”

“Monstrous, I call it,” interrupted my father; “an unprecedented sort of thing to do. I shall call on Chillingfleet to-morrow morning, and sift this matter to the very bottom.”

My mother looked up in alarm when my father spoke in this tone.

“I understand,” she said in her gentle voice, “that Jack has had a particularly kind letter from Mr Chillingfleet. He did not show it to me, but he told me of it.”

“Then you knew of this?” said my father, angrily.

“Yes, George, Jack told me that he was going about a fortnight ago.”

“H’m—ha! The young cub doesn’t choose to confide in me. Did he give you any reason for his dismissal?”

“No, I did not think any necessary. Jack has been ill for weeks, and unable to attend to his work. Mr Chillingfleet had naturally to get some one to take his place.”

“Naturally, indeed! That’s all you women know!”

My father began to pace the floor in his indignation.

“Much chance a poor young clerk would have, if just because he was unlucky enough to take fever, he was dismissed from his post. But, of course, people who know nothing jump to conclusions. Now if I had been consulted at the time, as I ought to have been, I might have talked Chillingfleet round, and shown him the enormity of his own proceeding.”

“I don’t think your talking would have had the least effect,” suddenly interrupted George. “If there is a hard old flint in this world, its Chillingfleet. Every one knows his character.” My father frowned at George’s presuming to doubt his powers of eloquence. After a pause, he said, emphatically:

“Your mother has acted in a very foolish way, keeping this affair to herself; but even now it is not too late, and notwithstanding your opinion, George, for which I am much obliged, I shall tackle Chillingfleet in the morning.”

With these last words my father left the room, banging the door noisily after him. My mother looked disturbed, George cross. How little they knew what revelations might reach them, what agony and distress might be theirs through my father’s untimely interference! I felt that I must prevent his having an interview with Mr Chillingfleet at any cost.

It was easier, however, to make this resolve than to act upon it.

“Rose, you don’t look at all well,” said my father, as we sat over our evening meal. “You have knocked yourself up nursing that common place young woman. I might have told you that would be the case. If you go on in this erratic fashion you will be old before your time.”

Even this rather gruff notice from my father was so unusual that I quite blushed with pleasure.

“I will not let him be humiliated,” I said to myself. “After all he is my father. Hard he is—sometimes cruel—but always, always the very soul of honour. I must—I will save him from what would bring his grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.”

My eyes travelled slowly from my father’s face to George’s.

George was also hard. George could also be cruel, but he at least was young. George might share my burden. If George knew, it would be his interest to keep the thing quiet, and I felt sure that where I was powerless to keep my father from turning even a hair’s-breadth from his own way, George might have many means of influencing him.

After dinner I came up to where George was idly reading the newspaper.

“Can I speak to you before you go to bed?” I said, in a low voice.

“What about?” he asked, crossly.

“I can’t tell you in this room. Will you come to my bedroom before you go to sleep?”

“Very well,” he answered, still very gruffly.

“Now what is it?” he asked, when he came to my room between ten and eleven that night. “What girl’s confidence am I to be worried, with?”

“No girl’s confidence, as you are pleased to call it, George. Now listen. Our father must not see Mr Chillingfleet in the morning. He must not—he shall not. You, George, must prevent it.”

“I must prevent it! Is that what you have kept me out of my bed to say? Upon my word, Rose, you are unreasonable. Pray tell me how I am to keep my father from doing what he wishes.”

“Oh! George, you are very clever, and you can find a way when I—I can’t, although I’d give all the world to. George, George! he must not see Mr Chillingfleet, and this is the reason.”

Then I told my story. I told it quite calmly and without any outward show of shame. I found as I talked that I had grown accustomed to this tragedy, that the first edge of its agony was blunted to me.

I was not prepared, however, for the effect it had on my brother. As my story proceeded I saw all the colour leave George’s large, healthily-tinted face; drops of perspiration stood on his forehead. He took out his handkerchief and wiped the moisture from his lips and brow.

When I ceased speaking he sank down on the nearest chair. I had expected a perfect storm of angry and bitter words. George did not utter one.

“Well?” I could not help saying at last.

“Well,” he answered, “there’s an end of everything, that’s all. I meant to ask an honest girl with a nice little bit of money to be my wife. I thought I’d ask her next Sunday. I love her, too, ’tisn’t on account of the money; that’s at an end. She shan’t ever say she married the brother of a thief!”

“Oh! George, don’t be too hard on him. He was sorely tempted, and he is so young.”

“Am I hard on him, Rose? Am I saying anything?”

“George, dear brother, I wish I could help you.”

“You can’t; I’m off to bed now.”

“George, you will keep this from my father?”

“Rather!”

“You will manage that he shall not see Mr Chillingfleet?”

“I will manage that he never hears the story you have told me to-night. Good-night, Rose.”

“Kiss me, George. Oh! George, I’m bitterly sorry for you.”

I ran after him and flung my arms round his neck, and gave him what we used in the old childish days to call a bear’s hug.

When I pressed my lips to his cheek I saw tears in his eyes.

Chapter Twelve.

My Brother’s Sin.

When George left my room I sat down near my dressing-table, and to comfort myself after all the worries of the day, took out my ruby ring to feast my eyes on its beauty. I had a vision of George’s face with the queer pallor on it. I heard again his voice as he spoke of the girl who had a little money, and whom he loved—the girl, however, who would never now be asked to be his wife. My brother George was a hard man, but he was righteous, he was honourable. I respected him for his words; and at that moment I pitied the girl who would lose him because of Jack’s sin.

“Oh, Jack, Jack, what have you done to us all?” I cried aloud.

How pitiable is weakness; how mean is cowardice; and of all things, how dreadful is that moral cowardice which leads men into crooked ways. Oh, Jack, if only you had told us about Hetty, and not stooped to theft for her sake.

I wiped some slow tears from my eyes. I was determined that my regrets should not overmaster me. I looked down at the ruby ring on my finger; it had the usual effect upon me; banishing my anxieties, lifting my mind from the sordidness of my surroundings, and taking me with it into a land of dreams, loveliness, and hope.

I said to myself, “Now I will touch the secret spring. Now, little ring, you shall open your heart and show me the very depths of your secret life. First, however, I shall make an illumination in your honour.” I opened my trunk; took out my bits of candles and lighted them; turned the key in the lock of my door, and sat down again by the dressing-table. It did not take me long to discover the slight nick by the serpent’s eye. I pressed my finger lightly on the spring, and to my joy the central splendid ruby revolved aside on its hidden hinge, and the serpents with their brilliant flashing eyes moved apart like doors. The inner mechanism of the ring was bare; the tiny, hidden chamber was open.

“What a secret I could put in here!” I said to myself. “Some hairs from a beloved head might be buried here along with thousands of brilliant hopes. Love itself could lie hidden here to leap into life and fulness when the right moment came.” I wondered if love, with his thousand hopes and fears, could ever in such a sense come to me. Scarcely likely. I was one of the women who, in all probability, would never marry. I should have a strong life and plenty to do. I should have a courageous life and many battles to fight; but it was scarcely likely that my portion in the book of fate could also include the passionate lover, the tender and devoted husband, and the clinging, soft love which would come from baby lips, and enter into my heart through sweet child voices.

I expected none of these things, and yet the trembling desire to grasp them all, to claim them all, to cry to fortune, “Give, give, give fully, give abundantly; don’t starve me, but feed me until my whole nature is satisfied,” swept over me as I looked into the heart of the ruby ring.

As I did so I noticed for the first time that the little recess, which appeared at the first glance to be quite empty, contained a tiny piece of paper, which might have been placed there as a bed on which to lay a treasure. The paper was white, of the finest texture, exquisitely cut to fit the exact shape of the chamber. There was nothing whatever written on the paper. I touched it with the point of my small finger, it did not move; I pressed it, it did not stir.

I was about to close the ring, but something induced me to look again more narrowly at the paper. Why was it put there? Why did it take up space so minute, so valuable?

I put my hand into my pocket, and taking out a penknife, opened the smallest blade and inserted the point delicately under the paper. After a very slight resistance, I detached it from the base of the little secret chamber. I took it out of the ring, and laid it on the palm of my hand. There was no writing on the upper surface of the paper. I looked underneath and saw, to my amazement, that something was faintly ciphered there. The writing was perfect, but so minute that I could not possibly read it with my naked eye. My mother possessed amongst her treasures an old microscope.

I guessed shrewdly, although she never told me so, that this microscope had been given to her by Cousin Geoffrey. My mother kept her microscope on her own little work-table in the drawing-room.

The house was quiet now; all its inhabitants, with the exception of myself, asleep and in bed. I knew there was little chance of sleep for me that night.

Placing the treasured morsel of paper under a glass on my dressing-table, I slipped off my shoes, softly unlocked my door, and ran down-stairs. I felt provoked with the small and poor cottage stairs for creaking so desperately. I reached the drawing-room, however, without disturbing any one, found the microscope, and brought it back in triumph to my room.

Again I locked my door, and opening the microscope, took out the strongest lens it possessed. I arranged the lens as I had seen my mother do; steadied the candles until I managed to secure a powerful ray of direct light; placed the morsel of paper under the magnifier, and applied my eye to the glass.

The minute writing was now magnified some hundreds of times. So largely was it increased that I could not see the whole of the writing at once. In large type I read, however, the following words:

“Look in the—”

I felt myself trembling all over. Where was I to look? Why was I to look? Was the ruby ring going to tell me a secret? Was it going to confide to me—to me, the mystery of Cousin Geoffrey’s unknown heir?

With great difficulty, and with fingers that trembled, I moved the morsel of paper until I got the microscope to bear on the remaining words of the sentence. They came out clear at last. Clear and large they flashed upon my vision.

The conclusion of the sentence was as follows:

“Chamber of Myths.”

The ruby ring had given up its secret; it had brought me a message.

“Look in the Chamber of Myths.”

“Yes,” I said, “I will look there to-morrow.”

Chapter Thirteen.

Geoffrey Rutherford’s Keys.

It is scarcely to be wondered at when I say that I did not close my eyes that night. I arose early the following morning, determined to lose no time in seeking Mr Gray, and receiving a renewed order to visit Cousin Geoffrey’s house. I rose long before dawn, dressed myself neatly, and went down-stairs. I felt far too excited to remain in bed any longer. It was still dark when I entered our tiny drawing-room, but I busied myself in helping our one servant to clean and tidy the little sitting-room. She polished the grate and laid the fire, and I put a match to it and caused it to blaze up merrily.

“Oh, Miss Rosamund, you are wasteful,” exclaimed Sally. “And there ain’t any too much coal left in the cellar,” she continued. “My missus, she never has the fire lit in the droring-room afore dinner-time, and you knows that well, Miss Rosamund.”

“Never mind, Sally, I must have a fire this morning,” I replied.

I felt reckless and extravagant. What if we never needed to economise more! What if—? My brain seemed to reel; I almost shook myself in my anger. “How silly you are, Rosamund Lindley!” I said under my breath. “What if you have got the secret which will lead to the discovery of Cousin Geoffrey’s will? is it likely that that will can affect you? Oh, what a conceited, foolish girl you are!”

Nevertheless, I toasted myself before a warm fire, and dreamed my dreams until breakfast time.

At that meal I called forth angry words both from my father and George. I calmly announced my intention of going up to town with them. When I said this, George’s face grew red with indignation. His eyes looked full at me. They said as plainly as eyes could speak: “Now what whim have you taken into your head? Are you going to interfere still further in this wretched, disgraceful affair of Jack’s?”

My own eyes danced as they replied to him with a gay and confident smile. He almost turned his back on me, and upset half a cup of coffee in disgust.

I jumped up to fetch a cloth to wipe up the mess he had made. My father said:

“Rosamund, it is out of my power to gratify all your restless whims; you are scarcely at home when you are off again. You will turn into one of those gadding women, those busy-bodies who are a disgrace to their sex. Mary,” turning to my mother, “I wonder you allow it.”

“Could not you stay at home to-day, Rose, dear?” she asked, gently, looking at me with a sweet piteous sort of smile.

“I’ll stay at home to-morrow, mother darling,” I answered. “I am ever so sorry to leave you to-day, but it is absolutely necessary for me to go to town.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” said my father. “I shan’t pay for your ticket, miss.”

“I’ve enough money to do that for myself,” I replied.

The sorrow in my mother’s eyes deepened. She could never bear any of us to oppose our father. I followed her into the little drawing-room.

“A fire already!” she exclaimed. “What can Sally have been thinking of?”

“It was my fault, mother. I lit the fire.”

“Rosamund, dear, how very wasteful! And we have scarcely any coal in the cellar, and your father says he will not be able to order a fresh supply before Monday.”

“Mother darling, sit down in your easy-chair and warm yourself by the fire; you look so white and shivery. Mammie dear,” I continued, kneeling down and rubbing my cheek affectionately against hers, “I feel full of hope to-day—I cannot economise to-day—don’t ask me.”

My mother smoothed back my hair, kissed me on my forehead, and gave herself up to the enjoyment of the fire.

“Do you know why I am going to town?” I whispered.

“I wish you would not go at all, Rose. Your father is vexed.”

“I fear I must vex him to-day, mother. I am going to Cousin Geoffrey’s house.”

Two pink roses stole into my mother’s pretty cheeks. She looked at me inquiringly.

“Last night,” I continued, “the ruby ring brought me a message.”

“Rosamund, my darling, what do you mean?”

“What I say. I will explain everything when I return from town. I am going now on the business which the ring told me of.” I sprang to my feet as I spoke, kissed my mother again, and ran out of the room to get ready.

I had a silent journey up to Paddington; neither my father nor George would say a word to me.

When I arrived at the terminus I coolly desired George to hail a hansom for me.

“I think you must be mad,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

“Will you get me a hansom?” I repeated, in a quiet voice. He stared at me again; but the steady look in my eyes quelled him. He held up his umbrella to a hansom driver, and walked unwillingly across the platform with me. My father had long ago left us to our own devices.

“Shall I give you a lift, George?” I said. “I am going towards the City.”

“No, thank you,” he replied. “I at least am too honest to ride in a vehicle I cannot afford.”

“George,” I said, looking earnestly at him, “believe me, I am doing nothing rashly. I am upheld by a hope to-day—a hope which may turn out a mere chimera, but which is yet sufficiently real to induce me to take steps to see Mr Gray with as little delay as possible.”

“Who is Mr Gray?”

“Cousin Geoffrey Rutherford’s lawyer.”

“That crazed old man who died in the autumn?”

“Good-bye, George,” I said, springing into the hansom and waving my hand to him. I shouted Mr Gray’s address to the driver through the little window in the roof. George was so angry that he did not even vouchsafe to take off his hat to me as I drove away.

I arrived at Mr Gray’s in good time. He was within, and I was shown almost directly into his presence.

“How do you do, Miss Lindley?” he said; “please be seated.”

His manner was calm and pleasant, but his eyes said plainly, “Now, what’s up? Have you got any news for me?”

I answered Mr Gray’s eyes, not his voice. I did not sit down, but stood close to him, as if I was in haste to be gone.

“I want an order to view Cousin Geoffrey’s house,” I said.

“What, again?” he asked.

“Yes, and I am in a great hurry.”

Mr Gray’s eyes grew absolutely eager and hurried in their speech, but his voice was as cool as ever.

“You had better take a chair,” he said.

Still replying to his eyes, I continued to stand.

“I want an order to view the house,” I said. “I want you to give me a letter to the caretakers asking them to allow me to go where I please alone; and I want you to give me all Cousin Geoffrey’s keys.”

“All Mr Rutherford’s keys! What do you mean?”

“I cannot tell you. Will you trust me? May I have them?”

“You are making a bold and extraordinary request.”

“I know it.”

“And you won’t explain?”

“I can’t explain. Oh! Mr Gray, please let me have the keys.”

The lawyer looked me all over from head to foot; his searching eyes travelled over my person.

“At least, Rosamund Lindley, you are honest,” he said. “If you open drawers, you won’t steal.”

“No,” I said, proudly.

“If you peer into secret places, you won’t disturb? I see order written across your forehead, Rosamund, and determination sits comfortably on those firm lips of yours, and courage and honesty dwell in your eyes. There! I’m an old fool, I suppose; but chit of a girl as you are, I am going to trust you. If you want those keys, you may have them.”

“Thank you, Mr Gray; they shall be all safely returned to you to-night.”

“I should rather think so, indeed. I only meant you to have them for an hour or two.”

“I shall probably want them for the whole of to-day; and if I do not come across what I am looking for, I shall be obliged to ask you to let me have the keys again to-morrow, again the next day, again every day until my search is ended.”

“Pooh, pooh!” he said. “You are intent on a search for the hidden will, I suppose. May you find it! you have my best wishes.”

“Thank you.”

“By the way, Miss Lindley, you have got that ruby ring of yours safe, I hope?”

“Quite safe; it is on my finger.”

“How often have I warned you not to wear a valuable ring of that kind in so careless a manner! Good heavens! it may slip off when you are washing your hands.”

“I will take care of that,” I answered.

The lawyer sighed, favoured me with another keen glance, and then rose deliberately from his chair.

“I had better get you the keys,” he said. “Shall I come with you to the house?”

“No, thank you.”

“But the keys are heavy. I must send a messenger with you to carry them.”

“I will take them myself, please.”

“I warn you that they are heavy.”

“And I am strong.”

Mr Gray smiled.

“Wilful girl,” he said. He ceased to combat any more of my objections, and, walking across his office, opened an iron safe which was let into the wall. He pushed his hand far into the safe and took out a leather bag. There was a label on the bag which I could read.

“Geoffrey Rutherford’s keys” was written in clear type on the white label.

Mr Gray untied the label, placed it in the safe, and brought me over the bag.

“Here they are,” he said, “the precious keys! here they are, one and all—some bright, some rusty; some large, some small. You will have to take pains with these keys, Miss Rosamund. They were made specially for their owner by a skilled locksmith; they are full of curious tricks; some must turn twice before they open, some must lock and unlock and lock again and yet again; some remain immovable until they find the secret spring. Don’t break any of them, for it would be difficult to replace them. Now take the bag; its contents are heavy and more precious than gold.”

Mr Gray placed the leather bag in my hand. Its weight surprised me. I would not show dismay, however, but girding up my courage and all the muscles of my strong right arm, went out into the street.

I had to walk the whole length of this long street before I came across an empty hansom. Both arms ached by this time. From right hand to left I changed that bag; from left hand back again to right. I never carried anything so heavy before. I wished more than once that I had accepted Mr Gray’s offer of sending a trusty messenger with me.

At last, however, my earnestly desired hansom crawled slowly into view. I hailed it, got in, and a few minutes later found myself standing in the hall of Cousin Geoffrey’s house.

The caretaker, Drake, was within. He knew me this time, and smiled a welcome.

“Drake,” I said, “I have come to spend some hours here. Mr Gray says that I am to have full liberty, and am not to be questioned or interfered with in any way.”

“Certainly, miss; whatever Mr Gray wishes must be done.”

“Is Mrs Drake within this morning, Drake?”

“The missus is down in the kitchen, miss; shall I fetch her to you?”

“I don’t think you need do that. I only wanted to say that as I shall probably have to spend the day here, I should like to have something to eat.”

“Yes, Miss Lindley; the missus had better come up and take your orders.”

“No, Drake; I have no time to waste in that way. Go down-stairs and tell her that I will come to her in the kitchen at two o’clock. Ask her to have a cup of tea for me and a boiled egg, if quite convenient. I shall pay, of course.”

“Oh, miss, there ain’t no need. Mr Gray provides us very liberally. I’ll give the wife your orders, Miss Lindley.”

Chapter Fourteen.

Keys and Locks.

As the saying is, I had my task cut out for me. Never did any one go more nearly mad over the subject of keys than I. Cousin Geoffrey, with all his eccentricities, had in many respects a well-balanced mind. Nothing could have been neater than the queer arrangements of his house. Everywhere there were locked cupboards, locked bureaus, locked chests of drawers, boxes with locks to them, portfolios which could only be opened by fitting a key into a lock. In short, there never was a more thoroughly locked-up house. No wonder the bag which contained Cousin Geoffrey’s keys should prove heavy.

It was one thing, however, for the owner of the said keys to know where to apply each—it was quite another thing for me. To my horror when I unfastened the brown leather bag, I found that the great bunches of keys of all sorts and sizes were unlabelled. When I made this discovery I almost gave up my task in despair. I had to look twice at the ruby ring, and think of the voice which spoke so confidently within its secret chamber before I had the courage to commence my search.

I don’t believe, however, that my heart was a particularly faint one, and after girding myself to the fray, I toiled up-stairs, carrying the bag of keys with me.

I knew well that my search must be confined to the octagon room.

To reach this room I had to go up-stairs to the first landing of the house. I had then to turn to the left, and to descend some four or five steps; a narrow passage here led me to a spiral staircase which communicated directly with the Chamber of Myths.

This quaint and beautiful room was evidently an afterthought. It was built when the rest of the house was completed. It stood alone, and I found afterwards that it was supported from the ground by massive pillars. No pains and no money had been spared upon it. The middle of London, or at least the middle of Bloomsbury, could scarcely contain a lovely view. Geoffrey Rutherford had clearly apprehended this fact when he built the octagon chamber: he did the next best thing he could for it; he supplied it with painted glass, of modern workmanship it is true, but exquisite in colour and artistic in design. The eight windows which the room contained were narrow, high, and pointed; they were filled in with glass copied from the designs of masters. Geoffrey must have travelled over a great part of Europe to supply himself with these designs. He must have gone with an artist as his companion, for in no other way could these perfectly painted glass pictures from old Flemish Cathedrals and old Roman Council Chambers have been so exquisitely and perfectly reproduced.

“I wonder if he copied the designs himself,” I thought. “I remember that my mother told me what an accomplished artist Cousin Geoffrey was. Oh, what lovely glass! I could sit here and study. I will sit here and study. If I cannot acquire art in any other way, I will learn it from Cousin Geoffrey’s windows.”

The Chamber of Myths had always exercised a fascination over me, but never more so than to-day. I was so excited by what I saw that I forgot for a time the mission on which I had come. The subjects of the different windows represented Woman in various guises and forms: there was the mother with the baby in her arms: there was the maiden crowning herself with spring flowers, there was the wife tending the vines and watching for the return of her absent husband. One window was larger than the rest, and it contained what I supposed was a copy of a well-known masterpiece. The world’s greatest Friend sat in the centre of a group of children. Some had climbed into His arms, some leant against His knees, some knelt at His feet, the tender and gracious hands were raised in blessing, the eyes shone with the highest love. In the background a mother stood, worship in her face; adoration, humility, joy, thanksgiving in her smile. This picture of Christ blessing children made me weep.

“Oh, if I could but see the original,” I murmured.

I did not know then what I afterwards learnt that I was looking at the original; that this painted window was the work, the greatest work, of the eccentric owner of the house. Between each of the pointed windows hung valuable Gobelin tapestries, some the work of the great French artist, Noel Coypel; others by the splendid workman, Jans. I learned the value of these rare tapestries later on; now I scarcely noticed them, so absorbed was I in the fascination of the windows. Each window contained a deep seat, which was approached by oak steps, highly polished and black with age. The floor of the room was also of black oak. The roof was high and pointed, made of oak and exquisitely carved. Behind each of the tapestry curtains I discovered a small locked cupboard. There were four oak bureaus in the room, each of which contained ten separate locked drawers. A work-table of ivory, inlaid with lovely lapis lazuli, was also locked. There was an old-fashioned writing-table, and three or four oak chests. Everything that could be fitted with a key in this chamber had a lock which was securely fastened. I thought it highly probable that each lock would have to be fitted with a separate key. In this case, after making a careful calculation, I found that if I were to acquaint myself with all the secrets contained in the Chamber of Myths, I must be supplied with about sixty separate keys. No wonder the task before me seemed to increase in magnitude as I approached it.

Opening my brown leather bag, I laid the keys which Mr Gray had given me on a slender Queen Anne table, which stood near one of the tapestry recesses. My first task was to arrange them according to size. This occupied me until two o’clock, when a slow, somewhat heavy step on the stairs warned me that Mrs Drake was approaching. I did not want her to see me at my task, and hastened to meet her. She had provided a dainty little lunch for me; not in the kitchen, but in the queer and desolate sitting-room where I had first seen Cousin Geoffrey. I ate my chop off old Sèvres china, and drank a refreshing draught of water out of a tall, rose-coloured Flemish glass. I was far too excited to linger long over the meal. The moment I had satisfied my hunger, I ran back to the octagon room, and continued my task of arranging and sorting the keys. I had provided myself with paper and ink, and as I fitted each key to its lock I fastened a label to it. Night overtook me, however, before my work was a quarter done. I put the keys once more into the brown bag—the unsorted ones at the bottom, those with the labels at the top. I went down-stairs, desired Drake to fetch a cab for me, told him I should return to the house early the next day, and took the precious bag containing the keys back to the lawyer’s office. He was within, and evidently expecting me.

“Well, Miss Rosamund,” he said, “and what luck have you had?”

“None up to the present,” I replied. Then I continued: “There must have been a sad want of order in some person’s brain not to have had these keys labelled.”

“Ah, you have found that out, have you?”

“Yes, and I am rectifying the omission.”

“Good girl—clever, methodical girl.”

“Here is the bag, Mr Gray; I will come to fetch it early to-morrow.”

“Oh, you will, will you?”

“Certainly; expect me before eleven o’clock.” I bade Mr Gray good-night, and took an omnibus which presently conducted me to the neighbourhood of Paddington Station.

In course of time I got home. My father and George had arrived before me. It was quite contrary to the doctrines of our house for a woman to assert her independence in the way I was doing. My conduct in staying out in this unwarrantable fashion called forth contemptuous glances from my father, sighs of regret from my gentle mother, and sharp speeches from my brother George. I bore all with wonderful patience, and ran up-stairs to take off my things.

As I was arranging my thick hair before the glass, and giving a passing thought to my dear little sister Hetty’s curling brown locks, and remembering how deftly she had tried to arrange mine according to modern fashion, a knock came to my door, and George stood outside.

“You don’t deserve me to treat you with any confidence. You are the most curious mixture of childishness, folly, and obstinacy that I have ever had the pleasure of meeting,” he said in his cold voice; “but, nevertheless, as you were good enough to confide in me last night, and as your communication was of importance, you will be pleased to learn that I was able to persuade my father not to see Chillingfleet.”

“I am delighted,” I said, running up to George, and kissing him, very much against his will. “How did you manage it, George? Do tell me.”

“Dear me, Rosamund, how impulsive you are! What does it matter how I managed the thing, provided it was done? I think it due to you to let you know that I have taken steps to prevent our father ever becoming acquainted with Jack’s wickedness; and now let us drop this revolting subject at once and for ever.”

“I am more than willing,” I replied, “provided we do not drop Jack as well.”

“What do you mean? Do you suppose I am going to have anything further to say to the fellow?”

“I cannot say whether you are or not, George, but I am. Jack must live; Hetty must be cared for.”

“Hetty! How dare you speak to me of that low-born girl?”

“I know nothing about her birth,” I retorted. “I only know that she Is a lady at heart; that she is a sweet little thing, and that I love her tenderly.”

“I don’t want to stand here any longer, Rosamund, to listen to your childishness.”

“Just as you please, George.”

“One word, however, before I go,” continued my brother. “You will have the goodness to give up this gadding into town in future, and will arrange to stay quietly at home with our mother.”

“I am sorry I cannot oblige you,” I replied. “It will be necessary for me to go back to town early to-morrow, and to continue to do so for several days.”

“I shall ask my father to forbid you.”

“Very well, George; you can please yourself, only I warn you, you had better not.”

“What do I care for your warnings?” He slammed the door behind him, and went down-stairs in the worst possible humour.

I wondered if George had quite made up his mind to give up the girl whom he loved, and who possessed a little money, and if this was the reason he was even crosser than his wont.

This thought helped me to be patient with him; and I went down-stairs to supper, resolved to show no ill-temper, but to make myself as agreeable as I possibly could.

I had never in my whole life wilfully disobeyed a direct command of my father’s, and I did not want to begin to do so now. I took it upon me, therefore, to make myself agreeable to him. I put his worsted-work slippers before the fire to warm. I pulled forward his favourite arm-chair, and cut the pages of a new magazine and laid it by his side. George was not in the room. My father received these attentions without any outward show of thanks; but when I came close to him for a moment, he bent forward and patted my head.

“It’s a good thing to have you at home again, Rose,” he said.

“Father,” I said, suddenly, “I should always like to do what you wish, of course; but I need not obey George, need I?”

“Obey George!” echoed my father. “I should think not, indeed. The fellow is growing much too hectoring. Obey George! What next, I wonder?”

“He wants me not to go to town to-morrow,” I said; “but if you give me leave, I may, may I not?”

“Of course, child, of course.”

“Then I’ll tell George that I have your leave. It isn’t as if I were a little girl, is it? I shall always wish to please you and mother.”

My father muttered something which might have signified approval or the reverse; but when George came into the room and began, according to my father’s verdict, to hector me once again, he received a sudden and unlooked-for check.

I could not help feeling myself quite double, and even deceitful, when I discovered that I had so easily gained my point.

Chapter Fifteen.

Method in this Madness.

I came down-stairs the next morning dressed in my best brown cashmere. I had a neat white frill round my throat, and my hair was dressed with attention. I looked smart for me, and I felt certain that George would notice this fact, and begin to make himself disagreeable. The meal that morning was particularly appetising. I myself had seen to this. I had supplemented our inefficient maid-of-all-work’s efforts. I had boiled the porridge myself, and took care that it was thick, but not too thick, and that it was smooth in substance and admirably done. I had also made the toast; and that delicate brown toast, crisp and thin, was certain to meet with my somewhat fastidious father’s approval. The coffee, too, was strong, and the milk which was to add to its flavour was thoroughly well boiled. While my father drank his fragrant coffee, and munched that thin crisp toast, good humour sat upon his brow, his deep-set and somewhat fierce eyes glanced at me complacently. He made a remark which I was almost certain he would make—

“It is a good thing to have you back again, Rose. I do not need you to tell me, but I am quite certain that we do not owe this breakfast to Bridget.”

“Yes,” suddenly responded George; “it’s always well to have a capable woman in the house. You are staying at home of course to-day, Rosamund—the right place for you too. I am sure, sir, you must agree with me,” continued George, glancing at my father, “when I say that young women have no business to spend their time gadding about.”

“Much you know about young women,” answered my father. He was about to continue, when I suddenly interrupted.

“And I am going to town this morning,” I said, in my meekest voice, “and father knows all about it, and he has given me leave.”

“Tut! I am not so sure of that,” said my father, with a frown.

“I hope, sir, you will once for all forbid Rose to spend her time in this thoroughly unprofitable, not to say extravagant and improper manner,” said George, his face turning crimson.

“It is not your place to interfere,” said my father.

“And if you give me leave, I may go, may I not, father? You said last night I need not obey George.”

“Most certainly you need not. George, stop that hectoring.”

My father stamped his foot vehemently. George dropped his eyes on to his plate, and I ate my breakfast feeling that my cause was won.

“Rose,” said my mother, when the meal was over, calling me into the drawing-room as she spoke, “are you really going back to London to-day?”

“I must, mother darling.”

“My dear child, your present strange proceedings agitate me a good deal.”

“Dearest mother! you shall know everything as soon as ever I can tell you. Perhaps to-night you shall know all.”

My mother sighed. “And where is the good of vexing George?” she continued.

“George shall not stand between us and—and happiness,” I said with vehemence. “Mother, it is impossible for me to explain. I shall, I must, I will go to London to-day. Mother darling, you won’t blame me when I tell you everything by and by.”

“I never blame you, Rosamund,” said my mother; “you are the great comfort of my life. How could I possibly find fault with you, my dear, dear daughter?”

She kissed me as she spoke.

I ran up-stairs for my hat and jacket, and as my father was putting on his great-coat in the hall, I tripped up to him, equipped for my little expedition.

“So you are coming, Rosamund?” he said. “Yes, of course,” I replied, “if only to show that George is not to lay down the law to you.”

Oh! how double I felt as I said this. I hated myself. I blushed and fidgeted. It is a most uncomfortable sensation to fall a peg or two in your own estimation. It ruffles the nerves in the most extraordinary manner. As I walked to the station, leaning on my father’s arm, I kept saying to myself, “Rosamund, you are a detestable, double-minded, deceitful girl. You must do penance for this. You must be punished by yourself—by the better part of yourself, Rosamund Lindley. Some day, Rosamund, you will have to confess your real motives to your father. You must let him know what a low, double sort of a creature he has got for a daughter.”

George did not speak at all during our journey up to town, but my father was quite chatty and confidential with me. He even confided some fears, much to my surprise, which he entertained with regard to my dear mother’s health.

“Your mother ought never to spend her winters in England,” he said. “She has always been fragile; she grows more fragile every year; she ought to winter abroad—in the Riviera, or some other dry and sheltered place.”

He spoke quite kindly, with real anxiety in his voice. I never loved him so well. We parted the best of friends at Paddington, and I went off to Mr Gray’s office, secured my bag of keys, and before ten o’clock that day found myself once again in Cousin Geoffrey’s house, with many long hours before me to spend as I thought fit. I went up to the octagon room, and spent the whole of that long day arranging and sorting those dreary bundles of keys. I had made up my mind that I would not commence my task of examination until each key fitted each lock. I was firmly convinced that if I did not use method I should effect nothing. I was aware that the task before me was one of great difficulty. I would not add to it by any irregularity with regard to my method of search. Methodical work is always more or less successful, and as the day wore on I fitted key after key into the locks they were meant to open. My spirits rose as my work proceeded, and I felt almost sure that I might commence my search in good earnest to-morrow.

The light was beginning to fade, and I was thinking of putting my nicely-sorted keys away and retiring from my hard day’s work, when I heard steps on the deserted stairs, the murmur of voices—several voices, one of them high and sweet, the others low and deep in tone, evidently proceeding from men’s throats.

The sounds approached nearer and nearer, and a moment afterwards the door of the octagon room was opened, and Drake, accompanied by three people, entered. In this dark room, which, with all its beauty, never admitted the uninterrupted light of day, it was difficult for me at first to recognise the people who so suddenly invaded my solitude. But the clear, high voice was familiar, and when an eager figure ran across the room, and two hands clasped mine, and a fervent kiss was implanted on my somewhat dusty forehead, I did not need to look again to be quite sure that Lady Ursula Redmayne stood before me.

“Here I am, Rosamund. Whether welcome or not, I am here once more. Ursula, the impetuous, comes to visit Rosamund, the mysterious. Now, my dear, what are you doing? and have you no word of greeting for me, your real friend, and for your cousin, for he is your cousin, Rupert Valentine? Have you no word of affectionate greeting, Rosamund?”

I stammered and blushed. I was not very glad to see Lady Ursula Redmayne. At this moment her presence confused me. I avoided looking at Captain Valentine, and wondered quickly what he must think of my present very remarkable occupation.

“How do you do?” I said, not returning her kiss, but trying hard to seem pleased; “how do you do, Captain Valentine? I won’t shake hands with you because my hands are very, very dirty.”

“And why are they dirty, Rose?” asked Lady Ursula, her merry eyes twinkling. “A lady should never have dirty hands. Oh, fie! Rose; I am shocked at you. I will only forgive you on one condition—that you tell me what you are doing here.”

“Nothing wrong,” I replied; “but Mr Gray knows. You had better ask Mr Gray.”

“Don’t worry her, Ursula,” said Captain Valentine. “Miss Lindley has a perfect right to employ her time as she pleases. You remember, Miss Lindley, the last time I had the pleasure of meeting you, how we established a sort of cousinship. I believe we are undoubtedly cousins. May I therefore have the pleasure of introducing to you another relative—my brother Tom?”

Mr Tom Valentine now came forward. He was a little shorter than his brother, broader set, with a good-humoured and kind face.

(Forgive me, Tom, if at that moment I saw nothing more in your face.)

He shook hands with me kindly, said a word or two about being glad to meet a relative, and then began to examine the curious room for himself with much interest.

“But what are you doing here?” said the irrepressible Lady Ursula; “and oh! Rupert, do look at these keys. Fancy our methodical Rose arranging these keys in bunches, and labelling them. Oh! what a model of neatness you are, Rose! What a housewife you would make!”

“Don’t worry her, Ursula,” said Captain Valentine again. Then he added, turning to me: “The fact is, my brother Tom and I are very much interested in this old house. Tom is my eldest brother, Miss Lindley. He is a great traveller—a sort of lion in his way. You must get him at some propitious moment to tell you all about his many adventures. He has met the savages face to face. He has been through the heart of darkest Africa. He has fought with wild beasts. Oh, yes! Tom, you need not blush.”

“Who would suppose you could blush, Tom?” said his future sister-in-law, patting him familiarly on his shoulder. “I should imagine that swarthy skin of yours too dark to show a blush.”

“I hate making myself out a hero,” said Tom Valentine in his gruff voice. “Do stop chaffing, Rupert, and let us tell Miss Lindley why we have come here.”

“Curiosity,” said Captain Valentine; “curiosity has brought us. I told Tom last night about Cousin Geoffrey Rutherford’s death, and about the curious will he had made. Tom and I spent many happy months in this old house; long, long, long ago, Miss Lindley. I told Tom last night the story of your ruby ring. Altogether I excited his curiosity to an enormous extent; and he said he himself would like to have a search for the missing document. May I ask you a blunt question, Miss Lindley? Are you looking for it now?”

I hesitated for a moment. I felt my face turning white; then raising my eyes, I said, steadily, “I am.”

As I uttered these words I encountered the direct and full gaze of my new cousin, the bearded and bronzed traveller, Tom Valentine. If ever there were honest eyes in the world they dwelt in Tom’s rather plain face. They looked straight into mine as I uttered these words, and I read approval in their glance.

“Yes, I am looking for the will,” I said, encouraged by the glance Tom had given me.

“I may never find it; but I am not without a clue. Look here!” I added, suddenly, “I will confide in you all. Two of you are cousins, the other is, I am sure, my true friend. Look at my ruby ring.” I held up my hand—my dirty hand. I pulled the ring off my third finger. “You know the secret of the ring,” I said to Rupert Valentine. “Open it carefully; let it show its secret chamber. You thought that secret chamber revealed nothing; that it was empty and without its secret. You were mistaken. Look again, but carefully—very carefully.”

I was so excited that I absolutely forgot that I was addressing my words to three comparative strangers. I gave the ring back to Captain Valentine.

“Be very, very careful,” I repeated.

He looked at me gravely, took the ring over to the light, motioned to his brother to follow him, and touched the spring. The central ruby revolved out of its place, the serpents’ heads opened wide their doors, and the little chamber inside the ring was once more visible.

“Raise that white paper,” I said; “there is writing under it.”

“Rosamund, you shake all over,” said Lady Ursula.

I flashed an impatient glance at her.

“Can you wonder?” I said. “Yes, perhaps you can. It is impossible for you to understand. If you wanted money as badly as I do, and saw the bare possibility of getting it, you too would shake—you would find it impossible to control your emotion.”

Again Tom Valentine’s eyes met mine. Now they were less approving. Their glance expressed a sense of being puzzled, of being disappointed.

Meanwhile, Captain Valentine, lifting the tiny portion of paper, was trying to decipher the very minute writing on the other side.

“You cannot read that with the naked eye,” I remarked. “Has any one here got a magnifying glass?”

“I have,” said my cousin Tom.

He took a tiny little lens, exquisitely mounted, out of his pocket, and handed it gravely to his brother. Captain Valentine applied the lens to his eye, looked at the ring, and uttered an exclamation.

“Look in the Chamber of Myths,” he read aloud.

”‘Look in the Chamber of Myths!’ What does this mean? I always thought Geoffrey Rutherford was off his head. Dear Miss Lindley, are you allowing wild words of this sort to guide you?”

“There is method in this madness,” I returned, “for this is the Chamber of Myths.”

“This room, this lovely room?” exclaimed Lady Ursula.

“Yes; it was one of Cousin Geoffrey’s fancies to name each room in his house. This was called by him the ‘Chamber of Myths’—why, I cannot tell you. The fact I can verify. Go to the door and look.”

I brought them all to the door of the room, pushed aside the sliding panel, and showed the name in white letters on a dark ground.

Chapter Sixteen.

Vanity.

I returned home late that night, but by this time my people were accustomed to my eccentricities. My father and mother made no comment when I came in looking tired and yet excited. Even George was silent. He evidently thought it useless to continue to torment me. I scarcely slept at all that night. I had fitted all the keys into their locks, and to-morrow my search would begin.

Lady Ursula Redmayne, Captain Valentine, and his brother had all arranged to come and see me on the morrow in the Chamber of Myths.

“We will none of us disturb your search,” Lady Ursula had said, “but the result we must—we really must know.”

I could not forbid them to come, for the Valentines were also Cousin Geoffrey’s relations; but I was sorry. The secret had been in a measure confided to me alone, and I had an unreasonable feeling of jealousy in sharing it with any one.

I was early at Cousin Geoffrey’s house the following day, and everything being arranged now according to the most approved method, I began my search without a moment’s delay. Oh! the pathos of the task. Oh! the strange, dreary, undefined sense of loneliness which came over me as one by one I opened those drawers, and looked into the secrets of the dead man’s life. The drawers of the different cabinets in the Chamber of Myths were filled, not with rubbish, but with strange, foreign curiosities. A sweet scent came from them which brought me a waft of another and richer world. Sandal-wood and spices, old-fashioned silks, gorgeous brocades, boxes full of exquisite dyes, shawls from Cashmere, coloured beads from Japan, piles of embroidery, Indian muslins of the softest and finest texture, all lay neatly folded and put away in the drawers of the cabinets in the Chamber of Myths.

Were these things myths? Were they myths in the life of a man who had gone down to his grave leaving the world no whit better for his presence? He had hoarded his wealth instead of using it. He, living in the richest of homes, had yet been practically homeless; he, with a long rent-roll and a heavy banker’s account, had yet been poorest of the poor. He had never known children to love him or a wife to render his existence beautiful. On his tombstone only one word could be written—Vanity.

I felt all these thoughts. They coursed through my brain as I opened the sacred drawers where the delicate riches from Eastern lands lay treasured up. No clue had I yet obtained to guide me in my search—no papers, no memoranda of any sort. The Eastern perfume began presently to intoxicate me—it seemed to get into my head, to put a light into my eyes and a flush of roses on my cheeks. I felt under a spell. I should not have been the least surprised if Cousin Geoffrey himself had opened the door of the Chamber of Myths and come up to my side and asked me what I did opening coffins. For in one sense these closed drawers were coffins. They held, I made no doubt, many buried hopes.

At one o’clock the rattling of gay, light laughter was heard on the stairs, and Lady Ursula, accompanied by my two relatives—for by these names I was pleased to designate the Valentines—entered.

“We have brought lunch,” said Lady Ursula; “a delicious basketful—containing all kinds of good things. Rupert must open it. Well, Rosamund, what rosy cheeks! Have you found the will?”

“No,” I said. “Please, Lady Ursula—”

“Well, what does this most pleading of pleases mean?”

“We are not going to lunch in this room,” I said.

“Why not? It is a charming room to lunch in. Oh, what a love of a cloth! I must open it. See the delicacy of this ground, and these fairy stitches, and that embroidery. We will spread it over the centre Queen Anne table, and put our lunch on it.”

“You will not,” I said. “The cloth does not belong to us. We have no right to desecrate it.”

“Desecrate! Honour, you mean, Rosamund. Oh! Rupert, Rupert,” continued Lady Ursula, turning to her future husband, “I do pray and trust that you will be discovered to be Cousin Geoffrey’s heir. I absolutely pine for that cloth. I long for it as intensely as I used to long for Rosamund’s ruby ring.”

Lady Ursula’s volatile spirits had a depressing effect on me. I was determined, however, not to yield to her whims. We had no right to spoil Cousin Geoffrey’s Chamber of Myths by dining in it.

I took my friends down to the great drawing-room, and there we spread our repast; truth to tell, we had a merry time. Afterwards we all returned to the Chamber of Myths.

“You alone have the right to continue the search, Miss Lindley,” said my cousin Tom Valentine.

“I think I had better go on with it,” I said, steadily. “I have a certain plan marked out in my own mind, and if any one interfered with me now I should only feel puzzled.”

“You must certainly continue the search,” said Captain Valentine.

“And we will look at these loves of windows,” said Lady Ursula.

My three visitors—for in one sense I considered them my visitors—went to the far end of the room and left me in comparative peace. With all my heart I wished them away, but I had not the courage to desire them to go. I felt also that I had not the right.

The search, however, was now becoming irksome. The Eastern treasures no longer exercised a spell over me. I was anxious for the daylight to wane—for the time to arrive when I might re-lock the drawers, and return the keys to Mr Gray.

I had now completely examined five of the cabinets. I approached the sixth, which stood exactly under the window which contained the representation of Christ blessing the children. I opened the top drawer of this cabinet with a renewed sense of great weariness, of fatigue of both mind and body. The first thing I saw lying by itself in the little shallow drawer was a thick envelope with my name on the cover—“Miss Rosamund Lindley.” I seized it with trembling fingers. I felt suddenly cold and faint—my heart seemed to stop—my brain to reel. I knew that my search was ended.

“What is the matter?” said Lady Ursula, coming up to me quickly.

“Nothing,” I replied, “except—except this—my search is over.”

I held up the thick packet to her. She half screamed, and called the two Valentines to look. “Read it, Rosamund, read it,” she said. “Read the contents of that letter quickly, dear Rosamund.”

“No,” I answered, “I could not take in the words now, my head aches, my hands shake, I am tired—I am very, very tired. I must read the words written to me inside this thick envelope when I am alone.”

“Oh, but that is too bad. We are consumed with curiosity. Won’t you open the envelope? Won’t you read just a few words to satisfy us that you are really the heir.”

“I may be as little the heir as you, Lady Ursula. The packet with my name on the cover proves nothing. But I am agitated—perhaps it is with hope. I should be glad to be Cousin Geoffrey’s heir, for I am tired of great poverty. I am not a bit ashamed to say this; but I cannot read the letter which either confirms or destroys my hopes in the presence of any one else.”

Lady Ursula looked annoyed. Captain Valentine also plainly expressed a sense of disappointment on his face, but my cousin Tom heartily approved my resolution.

“You are right,” he said; “we will all go away. You shall read your letter in peace.”

“You need not go away,” I said. “I am going myself. I will not read this letter until I get home. Now I must lock these drawers and return the keys to Mr Gray.”

“And you will be sure to write at once and tell us the news, Rosamund,” said Lady Ursula.

“Better still,” exclaimed Captain Valentine, “let us meet here to-morrow. Let Miss Lindley tell us the contents of Cousin Geoffrey’s letter in person.”

After a little consultation this plan was resolved upon. We four were to meet in the Chamber of Myths at noon on the following day.

After this I took my leave, ordered a hansom, and drove to Mr Gray’s.

He was in and disengaged. I entered his room without any delay. The moment he saw my face he jumped up, seized my two hands, shook them heartily, and exclaimed—

“You have succeeded, Miss Lindley. I know by your face that you have succeeded.”

“I have found this,” I answered, holding up the packet.

“Yes, yes; in finding that you have found everything. What a relief this is to me. That eccentric clause of the will was the last straw to try the temper of any man. Now let me congratulate you. I do so most heartily.”

“I don’t know what for; this solid packet may mean nothing to me.”

“Oh! but it does.”

“You know its contents then?”

“Perfectly. Sit down, read your letter; know for yourself what a fortunate—what a really fortunate girl you are.”

“I won’t read my letter now,” I answered. “I will take it home and read every word, study each sentence in my own room; but not now. You excite me. I am tired. I cannot bear any more.”

“Poor little girl,” said Mr Gray, in quite a tender voice. “There never was a more plucky creature than you, Rosamund Lindley; but you are a true woman after all. Well, my dear, go home. Early to-morrow I shall see you again.”

“I am to meet Lady Ursula Redmayne and Captain Valentine and his brother in Cousin Geoffrey’s house at twelve o’clock to-morrow,” I replied.

“What!” answered Mr Gray. “Has Tom Valentine returned? Do you know the Valentines—your cousins?”

“Are they really my cousins?”

“Yes, three or four times removed; but undoubtedly there was at one time a relationship. Well, Rosamund, what do you think of your cousin Tom Valentine?”

“I scarcely know that I think of him at all,” I replied.

“What! Have you not discovered that he is a traveller—a man who has met with remarkable adventures; a man of the world, a gentleman, a man of culture; also, and above all, an Englishman, with a true and honest heart?”

“I have had no time to find out these many excellent qualities,” I answered back.

“You will soon see them,” responded Mr Gray. “Your eyes will be opened. You will perceive what I mean; all, all that I mean. So you have already met Tom Valentine; and Tom has returned just in time. What an extraordinary coincidence! what a piece of luck!”

“I don’t pretend to understand you,” I answered.

“No, my dear; go home and read your letter. God bless you, Rosamund. Upon my word, this day’s work has taken a load off my mind.”

He again wrung my hand. I had no time to think of his extraordinary rapture, nor of his queer uncalled-for words about Tom Valentine. Everything he said came back to me by and by; but I had no room in my mind to dwell upon his words at that moment. There was no doubt whatever that the packet held in my hand brought good fortune to me and mine. Ugly Poverty might take to himself wings and fly away—he and I—he and those I loved, would not have even a bowing acquaintance in future. This fact was quite sufficient to fill my mind to the exclusion of all other ideas. I went home early—had tea with my mother—said nothing at all about the packet which lay in my pocket, but listened to a long and miserable letter from Jack, while I held in my hand a little note from Hetty, which I knew must be sad, but which scarcely troubled me at that moment, for I also knew how soon I could relieve my dear little sister’s anxieties; how absolutely it now lay in my power to comfort and aid her, and to give to Jack all the good things which would make him a manly fellow once more.

I do not think in my whole life I ever felt happier than I did that evening. My fatigue had vanished—a feeling of absolute rest reigned in my heart; even the annoyances, the vexations, the penury of home brought to me a sense of rejoicing. It was sweet to know that with a touch of my magic wand I could sweep them once and for ever out of sight.

If I was happy, however, this could scarcely be said of any of the rest of the family. My mother had a headache; she had also caught cold, and the cough, which always more or less racked her slender frame, was worse than usual.

My father kept looking at her anxiously. He really did love my beautiful, gentle mother very much. George was disagreeable and morose; and my mother’s eyes kept straying in the direction where Jack’s photograph stood. She was thinking no doubt of that last letter from the poor fellow. Never mind, these were passing clouds, and knowing how soon I could chase them away, I felt scarcely any pain as I watched them.

At last, one by one, my family bade me good-night. I stayed down-stairs to put the little house in order, and then, going up to my room, locked my door, and prepared to acquaint myself with the contents of that letter, which was to turn all the dross of my life into pure and glittering gold.

Chapter Seventeen.

Ugly Poverty and I.

Cousin Geoffrey had sealed his letter with red wax. He had stamped the seal with his own signet-ring, which gave the impress of a coat-of-arms with a quaint device. That device became a household word with me by and by, but I was too impatient even to trouble myself to decipher it just then. I spread the thick sheets of paper before me, and gave myself up to the luxury of satisfying the most burning curiosity which surely ever besieged a girl.

Cousin Geoffrey’s letter—a letter addressed to myself, well and carefully written—was far too long to make it possible for me to quote it here. I read it once, twice, three times. Then I sat with my hands before me, the open sheets of paper lying on my lap, my eyes fixed on vacancy. Two or three candles were lighted in my room; one by one they burnt low in the socket, and expired. I was in the dark, not mentally but physically. There was no darkness in my mental vision that night; my mind was so active that my body was incapable of feeling either fatigue or cold, and my eyes were incapable of noticing the thick darkness which surrounded them.

This was my position: I was an heiress of Cousin Geoffrey’s wealth. On certain conditions I was to inherit exactly one-half of his houses and lands, of his money in stocks and shares, and in the English Funds. I could have for my own, exactly one-half of the marvellous treasures which filled the old house. I could divide those shawls from Cashmere, those sandal-wood boxes from China, those quaint embroideries from Persia. Even the half of those lovely painted windows in the Chamber of Myths would belong to me.

It was very funny. I could not help almost laughing, as I sat in the dark, with Cousin Geoffrey’s open letter on my lap, over the persistency with which I would think of the treasures which the Chamber of Myths contained. Which Cashmere shawl might I take? Which piece of embroidery might I clasp to my heart as my very, very own? Above all, which of the painted windows might in future be known as Rosamund Lindley’s window—hers and no one else’s?

I felt far, far more anxious about these comparatively minor matters than I did about the money in the Funds and the landed possessions, one-half of which also belonged to me.

Alack and alas! the news in the letter had nearly stunned me. I found that I was incapable of clear reasoning. What a fool I was—what an idiotic girl—to plan and consider, and think of Cashmere shawls and Indian embroideries and painted windows, and wonder which would fall to my share—which of the beautiful things I might claim as my own.

My own! Cousin Geoffrey gave me nothing, nothing whatever of all his wealth as my own absolutely.

On a certain condition I might have half. Half of the money, half of the treasures, should be settled on me and on my children for ever, if—ah, here was the rub, here was the astounding discovery which took my breath away and paralysed me, and made me incapable of any consecutive thought beyond a burning sense of shame and anger. I was to have these riches if I fulfilled a condition.

This was the condition. I was to marry the heir of all the other half of the wealth and the beauty. The other half of Cousin Geoffrey’s riches was left to my almost unknown cousin, Tom Valentine. He was to possess his half if he married me. I was to take possession of my half on the day I became his wife.

“I like you, Rosamund Lindley,” Cousin Geoffrey had said in his letter; “you are no beggar, and no fawner. You are a simple-minded, honest, downright English girl. You have courage, too, and I always respect courage. You have come to me to help you with your art. You have done this with such a ludicrous, belief in yourself and your own powers, with such a simple sort of vanity, that I should probably have tried to cure it by granting your request had you come to me as a stranger. But I cannot look upon you as a stranger, Rosamund; you belong to my own kith and kin, and you are the daughter of the woman I love best on earth. Because you are Mary Rutherford’s daughter I give you half my wealth if you fulfil the conditions I require!”

I knew these words of the long letter almost by heart; I said them over to myself many times.

When the first light of morning dawned I rose from my chair, stretched my cramped limbs, pinched my arms to see if I were awake or if I had only been going through a horrid nightmare; opened the window, took in a draught of the cool morning air, and putting Cousin Geoffrey’s letter into my pocket went down-stairs.

The place looked as I had left it last night—our maid-of-all-work had not yet come down-stairs. Ugly Poverty surrounded me, and once more it hemmed me tightly around, and made its presence more felt even than of old, I had looked into a land of promise—an ideal and lovely country. I had thought to enter; but alas! iron bars of pride, of maidenly modesty, of right feeling, of even righteousness, kept me out. All the womanhood within me declared wildly and desperately—

“Even to enter into that promised land you shall not sell yourself?”

Ugly Poverty and I must still be close acquaintances—nay more, we must be intimate friends, even comrades, walking the path of life side by side and hand in hand.

Chapter Eighteen.

Are the Conditions Impossible?

“Now, my dear young lady,” said Mr Gray; “now, my dear, good Miss Rosamund, let me ask you if you are doing right in flinging the gifts of Providence from you?”

“I am doing perfectly right,” I retorted with spirit.

“Pardon me, please do pardon me; youth is so impulsive and hot-headed; youth is so assertive, so positive, it must be guided by age—it simply must. Now, Miss Rosamund, will you sit down in this easy-chair? Will you sit perfectly still, and allow me to speak for three or four minutes?”

“Yes, you may certainly do that,” I replied.

“Take this chair, then; lean back in it. It is known to have the most soothing effect imaginable on irritable nerves.”

“Thank you very much; but my nerves are not irritable, and I prefer to stand.”

“Good heavens! Rosamund Lindley’s nerves not irritable. Rosamund, who is all fire and impatience; all quicksilver; the most sensitive, the most nervous of mortals.”

“Oh, please, please, Mr Gray, don’t discuss me. If you have anything to say, please say it quickly.”

Mr Gray was not a lawyer for nothing. He saw he had gone too far; his manner altered—he became business-like, grave, polite, and as a matter of course, persuasive.

“You have been left this money, Miss Lindley,” he said, “on, I grant you, very peculiar conditions.”

“On impossible conditions,” I interrupted.

“Now, now, that is the point I am coming to; are the conditions impossible?”

“They are. Mr Gray, if you have nothing more to add I will say good-morning.”

“I have a great deal more to add. This is a very serious matter, and you must not be a child about it.”

“A child?”

“Yes! a baby, if you like. The fact is, Miss Lindley, I have no patience with you.”

“You have not?”

“No, I have none whatever! You are both conceited and selfish. I am ashamed of you.”

Mr Gray spoke in a very angry tone. Strange as it may seem, I quite enjoyed it. At that moment it was positively nice to be scolded.

“I will listen to you,” I said, in a weak voice.

“You are very selfish,” pursued Mr Gray. “Providence intends you to be wealthy, and to help all your relatives. Providence means you to be a blessing and assistance to your family. You prefer to be a hindrance, a clog, a kill-joy, a spoil-all. Your mother is delicate, your father poor, your brothers without any opening in life. You can remove the thorns out of all their paths. You refuse to do this. Why? Because of pride. Providence, in addition to wealth, offers you the best fellow in Christendom for a husband. You won’t even look at him. You refuse to make him happy by becoming his wife, and you leave him in a state of poverty, because he can not inherit the fortune which is offered to him without your assistance. Thousands and tens of thousands of pounds are placed at your feet. What a power they are! what a grand power! But you won’t have anything to say to them, and they go to enrich the Jews, and the Society for Befriending Lame Cats, or some other preposterous charity, I’m sure I can’t say what.” Mr Gray’s voice rose to a perfect storm of indignation as he spoke of the provisions Cousin Geoffrey had made for the spending of his wealth in case I refused to comply with the conditions of his will.

“Well, what am I to do?” I said, when the angry little man paused again for want of breath. “Am I, influenced by the reasons you have mentioned, to lower myself, to have no regard at all for those natural feelings of pride which all girls ought to have, and go up to my almost unknown cousin and beg and pray of him to take pity on me, and allow me to become his wife?”

“Who said you were to do anything of the kind?”

“Please, Mr Gray, what am I to do?”

The lawyer jumped from his chair, rushed over to me, and seized both my hands.

“Now you are reasonable,” he said; “now you are delightful—now you shall listen to my scheme.”

“Please what is your scheme?”

“Listen, listen. In the first place, Tom knows nothing of the conditions of the will.”

“Of course he does not. How could he know?”

“Listen, Miss Rosamund. Tom Valentine shall fall in love with you in the ordinary and orthodox fashion, and shall propose to you in orthodox fashion. And you shall fall in love with him.”

“How can you bring that about?”

“Never mind. Nothing shall be done to hurt your pride. My part in the matter is simple enough. I give you and Tom Valentine an opportunity of becoming acquainted with each other. I have a place at Putney—a charming place. You shall pay me a visit there.”

“I won’t go,” I said.

“Yes, you will go—you will do what I tell you.”

“No,” I repeated; “you ask me to Putney for an object. You mean to conquer me—I won’t be conquered. I shall be very glad to visit you, if you will be kind enough to invite me on another occasion. But I am not going to meet Mr Valentine; I am not going to meet him, because at last I know the contents of Cousin Geoffrey’s will.”

Mr Gray rubbed his hands with impatience. “You are doing wrong,” he said stoutly. “You are offered a gift which will befriend you and yours, which will help your mother who is ill.”

“How do you know my mother is ill?” I asked testily.

The lawyer gave me a piercing glance, he turned away.

“Your mother is not well,” he said evasively. It was curious, but that tone in his voice broke me down. I said—

“A visit to you, after all, involves nothing. Say no more about it—I will come.”

I went home that day feeling uncommonly weak and small. My excitement had run its course—the re-action had set in; I felt dead tired and languid. I had a slight headache too, which I knew would get worse by and by. In short, I was more or less in a state of collapse, and I felt that tears were not far from my eyes.

It seemed to me that I had just been going through a very severe fight, and that I was in danger of being beaten. I knew this by the fact that in my collapsed condition I did not much care whether I was beaten or not.

I arrived home to find matters a little more dismal even than usual. My mother’s cough was so bad that the doctor had been sent for. He had prescribed (in those comfortable, unfaltering words which doctors are so fond of using) the Riviera as the sovereign remedy. My mother must leave the harsh east winds of our English spring, and go into the land of balmy breezes and colour and flowers.

“You must go without delay, Mrs Lindley,” the doctor said, and then he shook hands with her, and pocketed his fee, and went away.

His visit was over when I reached home, and my mother was seated, wrapped up in a white fleecy shawl, by the little fire in the drawing-room. That shawl became her wonderfully. Her beautiful face looked like the rarest old porcelain above it; her clear complexion, the faint winter roses on her cheeks, the soft light in her eyes, the sweetness of her lips, and the fine whiteness of her hair gave her as great a beauty as the loveliness of youth. In some way my mother’s picturesque loveliness exceeded that of the innocent freshness of childhood, for all the story, and all the sorrow, and all the love, the courage, the resignation which life rightly used can bring, was reflected on her beloved features.

I bent forward and kissed her, and the tears which were so near welled up in my own eyes.

“Well, Rose, I can’t go,” she said; “but I’ll tell you what we’ll do, we’ll bring the Riviera here. With a few flowers, and a nice book, and a little more fire in the grate, we can get these pleasant things around us; and I have no doubt, notwithstanding gloomy Dr Hudson, that I shall soon lose my cough, and be as well as ever.”

“Oh, yes, you will soon lose your cough, mother,” I said. I sat down at her feet, and took her thin hand and pressed it passionately to my lips. Over and over again I kissed it, and each moment a voice kept whispering to me:

“The battle is going against you—you know it—you know it well!”

We were very poor at our home; but I will say this for us, we did not make money the staple subject of conversation. When we met at meals we each of us pushed our penury away under a decent sort of cloak, and although we constantly fought and argued and disagreed, we did not mention our fears with regard to the possibility of meeting the next quarter’s rent, and paying the water rates, and filling the coal cellar with fuel.

It seemed to-night, however, as if all my family were in league to break this customary rule. George crossly declared that he could not exist any longer without a new suit of clothes. My father desired him to hush, and said that he might be thankful if he had a roof to cover him, as there were already two quarters owing for rent, and he had not the faintest idea where the necessary cheque was to come from. Then he began to scold about the expenses incurred during Jack’s illness, and my mother, weak and low already, put her handkerchief up to her eyes and wept.

In the midst of our tribulation a letter arrived from Hetty, in which she begged and implored me, for the love of Heaven, to send her a postal order for a couple of sovereigns by return of post.

This letter of Hetty’s was the last drop. What did it matter about me and my feelings, and my righteous pride, and all the holy instincts of my youth? There was my mother to be saved, my home to be relieved, my poor little new sister to be comforted and made happy. I rushed out of the room and wrote a frantic letter to Hetty. I could not send her the money, but I could send her hope. I did. I sent it flying to her on the wings of her Majesty’s post. Then I wrote to Lady Ursula, and apologised for not keeping my appointment at the Chamber of Myths that day. I said that Cousin Geoffrey’s letter was of a very startling character, and that it was impossible for me to disclose its contents to any one at present. I spoke to Lady Ursula affectionately and in a sisterly spirit, and I sent my kind regards to her intended husband, Captain Valentine. I paused and even blushed as I considered what message I could forward to my cousin Tom. After careful reflection I felt that I could say nothing about him. He was the thorn in my lot at present, and I felt that I owed him an enormous grudge, and that I should have liked very much to hate him. But when I remembered his extremely honest expression, his bluntness and downrightness, I could not quite manage to get up a feeling of hatred to a man who was really in himself quite innocent.

Finally I wrote to Mr Gray, and told him that I would present myself at his villa in Putney to-morrow.

Chapter Nineteen.

My Mother’s Wedding-Dress.

Never did a girl prepare for a gay visit with a sadder heart. I had not an idea what I was going to. Mr Gray was rich, and I felt certain that his villa was what my father would term “pretentious.” By this would be meant that he had large rooms instead of small, good furniture instead of shabby, good meals instead of bad, and in the place of loneliness and gloom, brightness and company.

This I was sure of, for Mr Gray’s eyes sparkled as if he lived well and cheerily, and the pleasant sunshine of hospitality shone all over his expressive features.

I was going to a gay house then—a “company” house.

I ran down-stairs early the next morning and told my mother of my invitation, and of my acceptance of it.

She seemed a little surprised, then, after a pause, she said she was pleased.

“Go, and have a good time, Rosamund,” she said; “it is quite right that girls should enjoy themselves; but oh! my love,” an anxious shadow coming across her face, “what have you got to wear?”

“Plenty of things, mother,” I retorted, “lashin’s and lavin’s, as they say in Ireland.”

“But you have no evening dress, Rose. At Mr Gray’s the girls are sure to dress for the evening.”

“Oh, I can manage,” I said.

“But you have not got an evening dress, my darling; all the girls will have evening dresses.”

“One girl must do without,” I retorted in a stout voice which concealed many qualms of the heart.

“One girl must not do without,” replied my mother. “Come with me, Rosamund. Rose, did I ever show you my wedding-dress?”

My mother laughed gaily; her eyes were bright.

“I did not know your wedding-dress was in existence, mother,” I said.

“Yes, it is, and well preserved,” she replied. “Come up-stairs with me, and you shall see it.”

I followed my mother into her bedroom. She unlocked a great square wooden trunk, which stood in one of the windows, and laying aside many folds of tissue paper, took from the depths of the trunk a brocaded silk dress of heavy make and rich texture. She laid the dress on the bed, and looked at me with pink spots on each of her cheeks.

“There!” she said; “there! Geoffrey gave me the dress, and he saw me in it. You may suppose that Geoffrey knew how to choose good things. You could not buy silk like that now. Geoffrey pinned a rosebud just here. Do you notice the tiny, yellow stain? And then he kissed me on my forehead. We were good friends that day, although Geoffrey, dear Geoffrey, had a strange look in his eyes. I remembered the look afterwards; but we were good friends, very great and affectionate friends. I never saw him again—never. Well, Rosamund, what do you think of your mother’s wedding-dress?”

I was examining it all over. It was quaint in make, and the silk had the faint yellow tinge which years of lying by always produces. The sleeves were high and puffed. There was a ruffle of very soft and exquisite lace round the V-shaped body. The waist was long, with a pointed stomacher, and the skirt below was full and wide.

Never was there a dress less like the mode in vogue at the time of which I write.

“The dress is out of date, perhaps, but it is very good in itself,” said my mother. “It will fit you, Rosamund, for your figure is small and dainty, like mine used to be. Will you wear your mother’s wedding-dress, even if it is a little out of the fashion?”

“Yes, I will wear it,” I said. “Give it to me, and I will take it away with me.”

“But you must have other things to match,” said my mother. “Wait a moment; you must have other things to suit the dress.”

She rushed again to her trunk; she looked like a girl in her excitement.

“These are my wedding—shoes,” she said, “and these white silk stockings go with the shoes. This petticoat, with the deep embroidery, will have to be worn under the full skirt of the dress. Oh, Rose, how glad I am now that I did not cut this petticoat up! Rose, I should like to see you dressed for your first dinner-party!”

I kissed my mother, gathered up the poor old-world mementoes of lost youth and love, and ran away to my own room. I took with me on my visit a larger trunk than I had at first intended, for my mother’s wedding silk must not be crushed or injured.

I arrived at the Grays’ house about an hour before dinner.

The villa was less of a villa and more of a mansion than even I had imagined. There was a wide entrance hall, and an open roof overhead, and a square well-staircase, which opened on to galleries which led to the bedrooms. The spring light had nearly faded when I arrived at the house, but the soft and cheerful blaze of coloured lamps gave the brightest and most picturesque effect. There were flowers everywhere, and vistas of pretty things from open doorways, and little peeps of wide conservatories, and a distant faint clatter of glasses and silver in the far-off dining-room.

Mr Gray came out himself to bid me welcome. He was followed by his wife and two daughters, Nettie and Tottie. Nettie and Tottie were round and fat and fair and insignificant-looking. Mrs Gray was also round and fat, but she had a matronly dignity about her, and a comfortable, homely manner which made me take to her at once.

After Mr Gray had shaken me warmly by both my hands, Mrs Gray kissed me, and Nettie and Tottie came up, each to one side of me, and in this manner I was conveyed across the hall, and into a cheerful little boudoir, where three anxious women’s voices pressed hot tea and buttered cakes on my notice.

I drank my tea and ate hot muffins, and felt that the pleasant and luxurious surroundings of my present habitation suited me uncommonly well. After staring at me for half a minute Tottie made an abrupt observation.

“Two or three people are coming to dinner,” she said; “only gentlemen, however, friends of papa’s.”

“Oh, Tottie!” exclaimed Nettie, giving her sister a knowing look. “Friends of papa’s indeed! What next? Are they all only papa’s friend’s?”

Tottie shrugged her shoulders—she looked pleased and conscious—perhaps she expected me to quiz her; but that was not at all the kind of thing I felt capable of doing.

“Some gentlemen are coming to dinner,” resumed Tottie, after an expectant pause, “so perhaps you would like to come up to your room in good time to dress, Miss Lindley?”

I assented at once.

“I shall be very glad to go to my room,” I said.

Tottie preceded me up the shallow stairs. She ushered me into a large bedroom supplied with every modern comfort. It was getting well on into April now, but a bright fire burnt in the grate, and the room was further rendered cheerful with electric light. I had the key of my old-fashioned trunk in my pocket, so it was not yet unpacked; but to my surprise two dinner dresses lay on the bed. One was of soft creamy silk; the other pink, a kind of almost transparent muslin. Both were simple in outline and graceful. Even a brief glance showed me that they were exquisitely finished, and must have cost a large sum. Beside the dresses lay gloves, a fan, small shoes, and delicate openwork stockings. In a box were some beautiful freshly-arranged flowers, a spray for the hair, and another for the front of the dress.

“Oh dear, dear!” exclaimed Tottie. She rushed to the bed and stood silent, the colour mounting high into her cheeks. “That accounts for it,” she said, when she could find her astonished breath. “That accounts for the mysterious box, and for papa’s manner. Does papa take you to the dressmaker, Miss Lindley? How very, very odd that he should superintend your toilet!”

Tottie looked at me with intense curiosity as she spoke. I knew that my cheeks were burning, and that a burst of angry words was crowding to my lips. With a violent effort I restrained them.

“Your father is very civil,” I said, after a pause. “He has evidently fetched this box home. I am much obliged to him for his trouble. Now perhaps, Miss Gray, you will let me get ready for dinner?”

Tottie blushed and stepped away from the bed as if my manner half frightened her.

“Of course,” she said. “I forgot how time was flying. But can I do nothing to help you? Shall I send Dawson, our maid, to you presently to help you to put on one of your pretty dresses?”

“No, thank you,” I replied. “I always prefer to dress myself.”

With some difficulty I saw Tottie out of the room. Then I locked the door, and with a violent effort kept my hands from tearing those pretty and dainty robes. My heart was full of the most ungovernable anger. I felt that kind-hearted Mr Gray had offered me an insult. I must be sacrificed, and Mr Gray must deck me for the altar. No, no, not quite that; not this lowest depth of all. How thankful I was that I had my mother’s wedding-dress in my trunk.

I dressed myself slowly and with care. I was determined to look well. I was determined to show Mr Gray that Rosamund Lindley was not altogether dependent on him for her chance of looking nice—for looking what she was, on her mother’s side at least, a lady of old family and proud descent.