The Ashiel mystery Part 9

"I forget which, my dear, but it's something to do with chickens, I believe." They were sitting in the hall, and Lady Ruth looked up from her embroidery as she spoke, with art interrogative glance towards Mrs. Clutsam and Julia.

"Chicago," said Mrs. Clutsam, turning round from the table where she was writing. "That's where she comes from."

"Yes, that's it," said Lady Ruth; "the name had slipped my memory. It's the place where they all kill pigs, isn't it? I've read about it in Kipling. Her having been brought up to do that accounts for her pa.s.sion for wounding rabbits, no doubt. I daresay one has to keep one's hand in. That reminds me, I will tell the cook not to send up sausages for breakfast. The poor girl is probably tired of the sight of them, though I suppose they mean money to her, which is always pleasant. When I had a poultry farm I used to feel my heart warm at the thought of poor dear Duncan's bald head. You know, my dear," she went on, turning to Juliet, "my husband had the misfortune to lose all his hair some years before he died, though really I don't believe there was a patent hair-wash he didn't try, till the house fairly reeked of them: but they never did any good, and he got to look more and more like one of my nice new-laid eggs; though not so brown of course, for I always kept Wyandots which lay the most beautiful dark brown ones, like cafe au lait"

"Well, the money will be very useful to poor David," said Mrs. Clutsam, without turning her head. She was rather annoyed because she had found that she had written "I am so glad you can kill pigs," instead of "I am so glad you can come" to some one she had invited to stay with her.

"There's plenty of money on this side of the duck pond, or whatever they call it," said Lady Ruth severely.

And it was then that Juliet had burst in.

"I am sure Sir David has never given a thought to Miss Tarver's money," she said.

"Why not, my dear?" said Lady Ruth, turning upon her mild, surprised eyes. "He is terribly badly off; it is his duty to marry money; but he needn't have gone so far for it."

"I don't believe he would marry for money. He would be above doing such a thing!" Juliet declared.

Julia, who had said nothing, stared at her, and laughed softly. She had a very low, musical laugh.

"I don't think you understand the position," said Mrs. Clutsam, turning round at last and laying down her pen with an air of resignation. "David Southern has inherited a lot of debts from his father, who only died last year, and he had piled up a good many on his own account before then, never suspecting that he would not be very well off. But he found the place mortgaged up to the hilt. There is really nothing between his mother and starvation, except her brother-in-law Ashiel's charity, and that is not pleasant for her because she has never been on good terms with him. It is very important that David should obtain money somehow, for her sake more than for his own, and I'm sure he feels that deeply. He is devoted to her."

"But there are other ways of getting money than by marrying,"

Juliet objected.

"Yes, there are; but they are slow and uncertain, and David can't bear to see his mother poor. I am sure it was for her sake that he proposed to Miss Tarver."

"I think he would have tried some other way first, unless he had been in love with her," Juliet repeated, flushed and obstinate.

"Mr. McConachan says Sir David is very fond of Miss Tarver, really," said Julia, speaking for the first time. She spoke English fluently, but with a slight foreign accent. "He says his cousin is so reserved that he conceals his feelings as much as possible, but that, au fond, he adores her."

There was a short silence; Mrs. Clutsam seemed about to speak, but her eyes met those of Lady Ruth fixed on her with an expressionless gaze, and she turned round without a word and took up her discarded pen.

They were both thinking the same thing. If David concealed his feelings in the presence of Miss Tarver he was not so successful when he was in Juliet's neighbourhood. Both women had noticed the change that came over him when she was in the room. It was not that he did not try to appear indifferent; he did not talk to her, or seek her society. On the contrary he seemed to avoid it, and relapsed into silence at her approach. But both Lady Ruth and Mrs. Clutsam had caught him looking at her when he thought himself un.o.bserved, and their observations had not left either of them in any doubt as to how the land lay.

Sir David Southern might be engaged to marry Miss Tarver, but he had fallen in love with some one quite different, and some one who was, moreover, or so they imagined, destined for quite another person.

For what was Miss Juliet Byrne doing at Inverashiel Castle?

This was a question which much exercised the minds of Lord Ashiel's relations and, when she was not present, formed the subject of many discussions.

Where had this girl, this extremely pretty and attractive girl, suddenly appeared from? Well, they all knew, of course, where she really had come from; but why? Why had Lord Ashiel suddenly sprung her on them like this? He had not even told Mrs. Haviland that he had invited her until the day before she arrived. Why this mystery? Where had he met her? How long had he known her? To a casual question Juliet had replied guardedly that she had not known him very long, but that he knew her family. Fervently did she hope that what she said was true.

One thing, however, seemed certain. No matter how, where, or why, Ashiel had made friends with Juliet Byrne, he was bent on becoming even better acquainted. He appeared to be on excellent terms with her already, and every day saw them grow more familiar, and, on Ashiel's side, almost affectionate. If he went shooting or fishing Juliet must go too; to her he addressed his remarks; it was she whom he consulted when he made plans for the following days. His health was bad, he was subject to terrible headaches, and if she were not present he grew quickly nervous and irritable; when she was, he seldom took his eyes off her. He seemed to watch her, Mrs. Clutsam thought, with a certain expectancy; but also with a distinct and unmistakable pride. There was little doubt in the mind of anyone in the house that there would soon be a second Lady Ashiel.

As the party walked between the b.u.t.ts on that brilliant August day, Miss Tarver tacked herself on to her host and strode on ahead with him, keeping up a flow of interminable, drawling inanities, which made him wonder for the fortieth time what David could see in her.

The others tailed out after them, followed by dogs and loaders.

Without knowing how it came about, Juliet found herself walking beside David; and, as she was not used to the rough going on the hillside, they insensibly dropped behind the rest of the long, straggling procession. The way was uphill; Juliet panted and stumbled; and her companion seemed disinclined to talk.

They came to a burn, and he gave her his hand to cross from stone to stone. The burn was high, and one stone was under water, leaving a s.p.a.ce too wide for Juliet to jump. David stepped on to the flooded rock, and turned to her.

"I will lift you over here," he said shortly. "Oh, I can wade quite well," said she. "My shoes are wet already."

But without more words he put his arms round her, and lifted her over.

When he put her down he found his tongue.

"If Maisie stands with my uncle at the next drive," he said, "will you come to my b.u.t.t?"

"I should like to," she said. For some reason his tone made her breath come quickly.

David stood looking down at her as though considering.

"I can't go back on my word," he said at last inconsequently. "I shall have to marry her, if she wants it, I suppose. But I can't bear you to think that I care for her. I've got to think of other people."

"You mustn't say that!" she cried. "Oh, you mustn't say that to me!"

"Why not?" he said, looking at her strangely. "What have I said that isn't right?"

"Nothing, I suppose," Juliet faltered. "But-but-Oh," she cried, "if you don't care for her, you must tell her so, and she will break it off. Anything would be better than to go on with it!"

"I think she knows," he answered gloomily. "She won't break it off, because she wants to be 'my Lady,' It's a business matter, really. And I'd have to stick to it for my mother's sake, anyhow."

Juliet could think of nothing to say. "You ought not to marry her," she stammered again.

"If I didn't," he began hoa.r.s.ely-"if she did let me go, I don't suppose you'd ever care for me enough to marry me? Oh, I know I ought not to say it," he broke off; "I'm a cad to speak like this. Forgive me, Juliet."

Juliet's world revolved around her at an unusual pace for the s.p.a.ce of a second. She shut her eyes to steady herself; a mixture of misery and happiness deprived her of speech or movement. Gradually the misery predominated and she burst into tears.

"Forgive me, forgive me," he was saying. He stood before her, looking as wretched as a man can look.

"Yes, yes," she sobbed. "Let us forget all about it. You must forget me."

"You know I can't," he said. "Juliet, Juliet, don't cry. If you cry I shall be simply obliged to kiss you." And he took a step towards her.

They were still standing at the edge of the burn, screened from the track ahead, partly by a little bush of alder which grew beside them, partly by the winding of the path round the slope of the hill. As David spoke a rabbit came scampering up to the other side of the bush, and then, becoming aware of their proximity, turned at right angles and darted down the bank. It was three or four yards away, and going hard, when there was a loud report, and the branches of the alder cracked and rattled. Several little boughs fell to the ground a foot or two away from the spot on which Juliet stood. Surprise dried her tears and restored David to his senses.

"Hi!" he shouted, bounding on to the path, and waving his arms frantically. "What are you shooting at? Look out, can't you?"

Fifty yards up the track his Cousin Mark was standing, an open gun in his hand; a scared ghillie was running towards them down the path beyond.

"Good heavens, David," Mark e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, "do you mean to say you were in the burn? I thought you were on ahead! Why in the world did you lag behind like that? Do you know I might easily have shot you?"

"Do I know it? You precious near did shoot me, and Miss Byrne, too, I tell you. If it hadn't been for that alder we should have been bound to get most of the charge between us. It's not like you to be so careless."

"I'm frightfully sorry, old man," said Mark, coming up; "it was careless of me, but I felt sure there was no one back there. I saw that rabbit and stalked it, meaning to overtake you all afterwards. They walk so fearfully slow, you know, what with all these ladies, and Uncle Douglas not feeling very fit. And Miss Byrne here, too! By Jove, I am sorry! Beastly stupid of me."

He was plainly agitated, and could hardly blame himself severely enough. And David, for his part, was not disposed to make light of what had happened. Perhaps he was glad of a subject on which he could enlarge.

"It was a rotten shot, too," he mumbled, as they all hurried on after the others. "You were about four yards behind that rabbit."