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.