The Mysterious Rubies: and other stories

Front matter

■ THE SNOWDROP PAPERS, By Messrs. Tit, Tinkle, Pippin, Pop, Perry, Winkle, and Cherry-Blossom. Edited by Sir Florizel Blueb2ll, Knight of the Southern Cross, and Beanstalk-in-Waiting to King Oberon. Illus trated by Wallis Mackay. Fcap. 4to., handsomely bound, cloth extra, gilt edges, 3s. 6d. Of all Book sellers. "Written by the Literary Committee of the Fairies' Parliament, whose chief business would seem to be the preparation of stories for little mortals. If all the stories were as good as these, King Oberon's Parliament would do its work with a completeness to be envied and imitated by many of the grosser councils of common earth." — Times. "This bright little book of faerie — Fanciful tales edited by ' Sir Florizei Bluebell,' and charmingly written. The angel bearing the two children through the snow ; the seagull on the wave ; the little boy with the big black dog ; the bear in the moonlight, with Mr. Pop listening to his story ; the humanized iceberg ; and the desolate children in the garret are delightful bits of dainty design j and all who see them will turn to Mr. Wallis Mackay with eager demand for more." — Daily Telegraph.

"The same publishers have given us a collection of short and really graceful fairy tales under the title of ' Ida Dalton,' and the ' Snowdrop Papers,' which deserves somewhat higher praise for the beauty of some of its fancies, and the easily-sustained eleva tion of its tone." — World. REMINGTON & Co., 5, Arundel Street, Strand. THE MYSTERIOUS RUBIES: AND OTHER STORIES. BY Alice A. Neate. g0itb0it : REMINGTON AND CO., 5, Arundel Street, Strand, W.C. 1878. {All Rights Reserved.] CONTENTS. PAGE. The Mysterious Rubies I Rosabella ... ... ... ... ... ... 79 Lady Minna ... ... ... ... ... ... 205 Helen Mervyn's Troubles ... ... ... ... THE MYSTERIOUS ETJBIES.

Chapter I

p^^^jXE stormy but sultry day in July, a |^|jgi girl about thirteen years of age was standing under a large drooping willow tree, which hung over a dank pond. The day was most dreary, the rain had just ceased, the sky was dark with leaden clouds, and the grass around the pond was at once wet and dirty; large rain-drops, wanting the rainbow hue produced by the sun's rays on clear water, splashed sullenly on the young girl's dusky uncovered tresses. The poor child's face was in keeping J. THE MYSTERIOUS RDBIES. with the miserable day ; large unshed tears quivered in the dark eyes, the crimson lips trembled and pouted ; slender eyebrows were puckered into a desponding frown. " Rightly am I named Mara," she muttered half-aloud, " what am I but bitterness, and sullen despair ? " What could give rise to such unchild-like thoughts — thoughts incompatible with her age ?

A childhood of cruelly cold treatment, and almost total lack of love — no parents' fond care, no brother's laughing, teasing, affection ; no sister's loving sympathy ; naught but an alien's cold care and paid kindness. For poor Mara Heath had from a little child been brought up in the family of Mr. Brodwell, a well-to-do timber merchant, of no kith or kin ; she had never known family love, and was totally alone in the world, save for the busy bustling family for whom she had so little sympathy. She believed herself to be kept from charity by them, and her sensitive, haughty spirit recoiled and shrank from the idea. Mara's earliest recollections were of herself, a tiny child, set to mind still smaller toddles ; to tend their tottering footsteps, to amuse them, dry their tears, tobe reprimanded for their torn frocks ; of weary tears, in the noon-day heat ; of plaintive, half-formed wishes for a kindly helping hand, as she shrank from Mrs. Brodwell's stern glances and uplifted finger, as she stumbled over her daily task of baby lessons.

Poor little weary toddle, yet there were some brief glimpses of sunshine in her darkened life ; of romping games in the winter twilight; of races in the sun-set hour ; of musings under the golden rain of the laburnum tree, in the sweet spring evenings. On this day in question, a passionate out burst of indignation, at an unfair accusation, had sent her into disgrace, and she had come to muse and weep by the dull pond, which, with the drooping branches of the willows, seemed most in harmony with her desponding mood. Her reverie wTas interrupted by a summons to the house, where Mrs. Brodwell gave her some needlework to do during her visit to the neighbouring town. Mara sat down with her task, a few tears coursing down her face. Two pretty fair-haired children ran in. " Mara, Herbie has taken my doll."

"Mara, Annie is so cross." Seeing Mara in tears, they stopped, their blue eyes rounding with wonder. Then Herbie ran up to her, and throwing his arms round her, whispered — " Don't cry, I love you." The child's loving heart had penetrated her trouble. Mara gave him an almost con vulsive embrace. How she loved this child ; this sweet little one, who alone cared for her in her alien home. Annie said nothing, but standing aloof with her finger at her lips, watched them curiously. Presently she re marked — " Mamma says Mara is very naughty." " Nay, Annie," cried Herbie, " she is good," and again his rosy lips were pressed to Mara's wet cheek. Mara took up her work, while Herbie nestled at her feet. When Mrs. Brodwell returned, and found the imposed task uncompleted, she scolded her severely. Mara stole out into the kitchen, and was weeping by the window, when Mr. Bro dwell came in.

" Why, Mara, lass, in disgrace ? " Mara sobbed still more ; touched by her distress, Mr. Brodwell stooped and raised her. " They are so unkind to me," she cried. " Nay, poor child, I fear you are naughty very often ; but come, cheer up, this evening you shall do what you like." Mara's look of gratitude moved him much, and that evening he protected her from his children, and Mara nestled behind his chair with a book. About ten months afterwards, little Herbie was taken ill and died ; in his illness, he called for Mara, and she tenderly nursed him ; he breathed his last with one little wasted hand clasped round her finger. Her wild grief brought her for a time into sympathy with the parents in their sorrow. Oh ! what did she not suffer, when she kissed the fair little face for the last time, as he lay in the coffin, his curls clustering round his head ; life seemed but a dreary waste, now the one loved and loving creature was gone.

But Mrs. Brodwell cut off a little curl and gave it to Mara, with a kiss on her sad brow ; as she did so, a tear fell on Mara's upturned face. Oh ! that tear and that kiss, how much coldness and severity in after days they made amends for. Mara now strove hard to do her duties well, but often sad tears fell on the open page or work, and her heart was " very sorry for poor little Herbie." Mara was past fifteen, when one day her life's fortune experienced a great and happy change ; but before that time came, another summer's evening saw her sobbing by the old pond, in disgrace again. " Would she never be happy ? Was her life always to be so drear and miserable?" Such were her musings, as she stood alone. The next morning a letter came to Mrs. Brodwell, that seemed to excite her much, and made her look anxiously at Mara.

After breakfast she held a long and secret con sultation with her husband, and afterwards desired Mara " to read out of doors and amuse herself," and, much surprised, Mara obeyed. " To amuse herself," she could hardly recall a like mandate from Mrs. Brodwell. In vain Mara tried to read the book she had takenwith her; surely that letter had something to do with her, who could it be from ? After dinner, Mrs. Brodwell took her up stairs and examined her scanty wardrobe, in search of a presentable dress ; alas, Mara's best dress had a very untidy appearance, seeing which, Mrs. Brodwell exclaimed — " Really, Mara, you should have taken more care of your clothes." " But I've had this dress eleven months," said Mara, sulkily, but with excited eyes. What could be going to happen ? " Well, you must wear Minna's blue one."

Now this dress of Minna's was too large, yet scarcely long enough for the tall slim Mara. " I would rather wear my own," she cried, with a flushed face, but Mrs. Brodwell was firm, and soon Mara was dressed in the bright blue ill-fitting dress. " Where am I going ? " Mara asked. " You will see," was the reply, " stay here till I call you." By-and-by, a carriage drove up to the door, the bell rang, some one passed into the drawing-room. Mara's curiosity grew in tense. At last, after half-an-hour had passed, Mara was summoned downstairs. In the drawing-room, a middle aged lady was sitting, who had a worn face that had once been very handsome, large dark eyes, and soft brown hair, sprinkled with grey. There was an anxious excited look on her face, as she gazed at the young girl. Mara was tall for her age, with a sligsht unformed figure, a delicate face of rather a long oval, a well curved crimson mouth, large, lustrous eyes, with a wistful, yearning look in them, and pale olive skin.

Her wavy locks, clustered in luxuriant tresses round her well-formed head. A wistful, childish, eager girl she looked. "This is Miss Wentworth, your bene factress," said Mrs. Brodwell. The lady rose, and taking Mara's hands, kissed her on the forehead. At the affectionate caress, Mara burst into tears. "Mara, child, how dare you behave so badly." " Poor girl," said Miss Wentworth, " kindly leave us a little time, Mrs. Brodwell." When they were left alone, Miss Went worth drew a chair to the window, and sitting1 3 O down, drew Mara to her knee. Mara's face was crimson, and her eyes drooped bashfully. The lady seemed strangely moved, tears gathered fast in her eyes. " So, poor child," she murmured, tenderly, " they never told you you had a benefactress, they made you believe they kept you from charity.

But I have paid them a yearly sum." A light came into Mara's troubled eyes, and her delicate head was proudly raised, but then it drooped again, and she again burst into a passion of tears. Miss Went worth gently drew her head to her shoulder, she kissed her affectionately, gently whisper ing— " But now, my darling, you will come to me?" The girl's eyes searched hers eagerly, then slipping down, she seized Miss Wentworth's hand, crying in an eager way — " Will you indeed take me from here ? Who are you ? Why did you never come to see me ? Who am I ? Who were my parents ? " Miss Wentworth took the excited child's face in her hands, and her voice trembled as she answered — " You shall come to my home; I am Caro line Wentworth, who takes a great interest in you, Mara Heath, a poor little orphan.

I thought you would be happier with other children, but I see I have been mistaken, they have deceived me. I cannot tell why I have kept myself unknown to you ; but it was from a good motive, and I meant you to know a lady paid them to keep you, but not my name." Then seeing Mara's eyes still had an unsatisfied look in them, she added — "Your parents' name I cannot tell." " Don't you know ? " asked Mara. " I do not," was the reply. But the words came huskily, and Mara being too excited to notice keenly, was satisfied with the reply, and in a broken voice said — " They are dead." " Yes ; I've heard they are." After a long pause, Miss Wentworth asked — " Can you love me, dear," and then Mara clung to her, and cried with earnest passion. "Yes, yes, oh! yes." Then she added timidly. " But how came you to know me ?

" After a little hesitating, Miss Wentworth said — "I found you a poor little baby, I kept you till you were four years old, and then sent you here. I will now make you very happy if I can, and will fetch you to-morrow morning." After a long consultation, during which she won from Mara the history of her trials and of little Herbie's death, Miss Wentworth departed to return to her hotel in Marston. Mara's reverie was broken by the entrance of Mrs. Brodwell. " So, Mara, you are to leave us. I hope you told Miss Wentworth we endeavoured to do our duty by you." " I told her the truth," was the haughty reply. " You are an ungrateful girl." " I've not much to be grateful for ; it was very unkind, to make me believe you kept me from charity, wrhen all the time I had a kind benefactress." And Mara burst from the room.

That evening was spent by Herbie's grave, and as she wove a wreath of roses and forget me-nots for the little grave, softer thoughts stole into her mind ; and the first soft dewy drops of the blessed task of forgiving our enemies crept into her young heart. " Love your enemies." This was the refrain of the song echoing and re-echoing in Mara's soul as she raised her eyes, suffused with tears, to the sky, o'er which swept the gold-tinged clouds. When at last the wreath was finished, the " shades of evening " had softly enfolded the little hill-side churchyard and the far outlying fields and distant purple-tinged hills. Quietly Mara placed the wreath around the cross, and, kneeling down, rested her head on the flowerjewelled turf; quiet but intense tears fell on the grass, on which her brow pressed.

" Herbie, Herbie, in all my good fortune, I will never forget you, dearie." Quietly she left the churchyard, and soon the moon's tranquil rays caused the tear drops on the forget-me-nots to gleam in the fading eve, like thrice-tried silver. The rest of the evening passed quietly away, Mrs. Brodwell's behaviour to Mara seemed changed, for she appeared anxious to please her ; and Mara, how strange to feel so fearless and so tranquil, the children gazed on her with wonder. It had been Mrs. Brodwell's wish to keep Mara in ignorance of her benefactress's existence, alleging as her reason, that if she knew it she would be so untractable. The next morning Miss Wentworth called for her, and with mingled feelings, Mara left her unsympathetic friends and the scene of her many trials. The children seemed sorry, now the time had come, to bid their often ill used companion " good-bye."

Mrs. Brodwell, touched by Mara's new humility and softened demeanour, murmured as she kissed her cheek — " We might have got on better together, Mara," and Mara accepted the rather lame effort at conciliation, and Mr. Brodwell said with a kindly gleam in his eyes — " We shall miss you, lassie." Mara's heart beat high, as the village was left behind, and, with her hand clasped in her kind friend's, she set out on her new life. After a long hot journey in the railway train, they arrived, in the cool of the evening, at the station of a large country town. " This is Hayfield," said Miss Wentworth, turning with a cheerful smile to her young companion ; Mara's eyes brightened and she gave a smile and sigh of satisfaction. Hiring a cab, they drove through the quiet quaint streets of the old town, along a level road, bordered with stately elm trees, to a moderate sized house.

When they were in the cosily-furnished dining-room, Mara's joy seemed complete. After supper, Miss Wentworth led her up stairs into a pretty little bedroom, with many pretty devices for both comfort and elegance. " This is your room, dear Mara." " Mine, oh, you are too good." "-Nay, you are my own adopted child," said Miss Wentworth, kissing her. How joyful the next day was, the cosy breakfast, the pleasant morning chat, the walk into the town, the early dinner, the drive in the pony carriage, the cheerful tea table, the pleasant evening; and yet that night Mara's pillow was wet with tears, for in her new home were no souvenirs of " Herbie," and hers w*as not a nature that could easily forget.

Chapter II. Or

some time her life was very happy, her new friend was so kindly tender, she thought of nothing but her protege s welfare and happiness, and it was so wholly new and delightful to Mara to be able to do nothing but read and enjoy her self. Miss Wentworth, after a rest of a few weeks, finding Mara's education had been much neglected, generously sent her to a good school in Hayfield, and there fresh trials awaited her. It was hard to feel her self indebted for her education to a stranger, hard to associate with bright-faced happy girls, possessors of own homes ; and then Mara was shy and awkward, but extremely sensitive : still there were the happy evenino-3 spent in the society of Miss Wentworth, who was fast becoming dear to Mara, and after a time and many struggles with her many failings, she became more bright and cheerful.

When she was eighteen years old, Miss Wentworth in spite of the girl's sorrow, sent her to a high class finishing school, a long distance away. Indeed Miss Wentworth was very anxious to have Mara well educated, sparing no expense, and Mara worked hard, with a profound interest to second her en deavours. French, German, Italian, music and singing, together with other accomplish ments, went far to make up the tout-ensemble of the now accomplished and gifted girl's education. At nineteen her school days ended ; Miss AVentworth then introduced her in the good middle class society she moved in. Mara, who had not yet conquered her shyness, was at first very diffident and nervous, sensitive to a fault. But her friend's encouraging faith in her merits helped her on ; and after some time she began to take courage and hope, and with it all she had a yearning for something higher, which made her call herc self ungrateful, and endeavour to make up for her rebellious thoughts to Miss Went worth, by being doubly dutiful and affection ate, and untiring in her efforts to please her kind patroness.

One day late in the summer, or rather the beginning of autumn, Mara was seated in her room musing. She was going that night to a ball, and at Miss Wentworth's urgent request she had permitted her to choose her dress, which she had not yet seen. Mara was much improved : love and energy had done much for her, her face was very beautiful, her features clear and decided, her nose being almost Grecian, her eyes long, large and full of a lustrous fire. Her hair was black and very wavy, and gathered into a cluster at the back of the dainty high-bred looking head. She was tall, slight and graceful, though quiet in her movements. Truly Miss Wentworth might well feel satisfied with her lovely charge, the girl she had trained and enlivened. And Mara her self, she has come into her kingdom, has began to reign, and finds it very pleasant; yet though she knows that others feel and acknowledge the power of her beauty, there is no coquetry in the full grave eye, or in the whole sweet face.

For there is still the wistful shade on brow and lip, speaking of a melancholy childhood; and though now Mara is full twenty years old, the past is not forgotten. " People say she is too quiet and grave for her years'; but few dream that the stately maiden who looks so calm, so almost cold, struggles with timidity and an early-im planted sense that she is incapable of pleasing others. After a cosy tea, Miss Wentworth took Mara to a small dressing-room and showed her the dress. " It is white, flowing, and gauzy, but too white and cold-looking for her own style," Mara thinks, as she looks at it in a little dis may — " May I not wear some colour, auntie ? " (so she sometimes called Miss Wentworth). The latter smiles and says — " We shall see." And, summoning the maid, between them they arrange the luxuriant hair, and robe her in the flowing robe.

But as Mara gazes in the long pier-glass, she sees a dark-haired, pale-faced spectre gleaming at her from its depths, and again feels dismayed. " It is my wish, Mara, that you go robed like this." " Very well," Mara answers cheerfully, but with a young girl's regret, as she thinks of the rich hues she could have chosen to accord with her olive skin. But with a smile, her friend opens a casket, and reveals, to Mara's amazement, the most splendid rubies, flaming from their white satin bed like liquid fire. " To reward your docility, you shall wear these ; they are worth a fortune. I bought them, and now give them to you." With trembling fingers she decks the girl's neck and arms with the glittering, flashing jewels. " Are these for me ? They are too good for me ! I cannot accept them ! " With a strange, yearning look in her eyes, Miss Wentworth. folds the girl in her arms, saying— " They are mine, and to whom should I give them but to you ?

" " To me ! I am no relation to you." " Believe me, Ruby, there are no others who should have them. Are you too proud to accept them ?" "Proud," cried the girl, with a sort of hysterical laugh ; " how can I repay you ? " " Only promise me that you will ahvays love me," cried her friend, with a strange eagerness. " Always ; but, dear Miss Wentworth, you called me ' Ruby.' " " Ah ! those rubies must be blamed," answered Miss Wentworth, with an uneasy laugh. Mara now turned to the glass. The rubies sparkled brilliantly. "They are too costly for me,", she mur mured. Miss Wentworth now fastened a ruby coloured sash on to the white robe, after which she arrayed herself in black velvet and a suite of old-fashioned pearls. With what high spirits they went to the ball ! How bright Mara looked, now and then holding up an arm to see the effect of the jewels gleaming in the light of the carriage lamps.

The first part of the evening passed plea santly away; but in the pause of a dance, Mara saw a young girl, about eighteen or so, gazing at her, or rather at the jewels, with widely-distended eyes, a sort of terror or amazement in them. Mara looked surprised, and somewhat hurt and offended. The dance concluded. She was resting in a conservatory, when presently the same girl entered with a handsome lady, evidently her mother, who had classical features, placid grey eyes, and fair hair. The girl was very lovely, in the style that being opposed to her own, Mara intensely admired; very fair, with regular features, long curling brown hair, and bright azure orbs. On seeing Mara she turned pale, and eagerly whispered to her mother, who, with a mixture of haughtiness, interest and fear, surveyed the rubies through her eye-glass, and then turned her gaze on the wearer her self.

With crimson cheeks and haughty bearing, Mara quitted the room. Later on, the mother and daughter, accompanied by a handsome young man of four and-twenty, whose appearance generally proclaimed him to be the son of the elder lady, and brother of the younger, met Mara in the ball-room, and again there were the curious looks. Mara felt bitterly hurt. What was there in herself or rubies to excite their curiosity. All pleasure in the lovely ornaments forsook her, the gay scene around her failed to amuse her, and seeking Miss Wentworth, she said — " Let us go home." " Why, Mara ? " was the anxious question, as Miss Wentworth looked in alarm at the girl's flushed face and angry expression. " Because," Mara replied (excited tears springing to her dark eyes), " there are some people here who look at the rubies in such a rude but anxious way, as though there were some mystery connected with them."

Miss Wentworth turned red and then very white. " Are they ladies ? " " Yes, two ; by appearance mother and daughter, also a gentleman." " We will go home if you wish," said Miss Wentworth rising hurriedly, and drawing on her shawl. And so they started for home. Miss Went worth parried all the girl's remarks,, and when they arrived home, seemed anxious to get her to her room, retiring herself almost immediately. Mara took off the mysterious rubies with a feeling of relief, and hastily taking off her ball robe, went to her bedroom. Sleep soon over came her imaginings. When all was still, about two hours after, the door leading from the dressing-room on to a balcony, was stealthily opened, and a man, muffled up in a cloak, stepped into the room. Gazing curiously around, he spied the rubies which, in her weary disgust, Mara had left carelessly on the table.

Anxiously, but eagerly, the muffled figure stepped towards them and examined them intently. Then, carefully replacing them, departed as he came. A strange burglar, in troth, to leave those priceless jewels behind him. What could it mean ! Surely, there was a secret attaching to those mysterious rubies. And the fact that the face that bent over the gems was that of the brother of the young girl who had appeared so astonished by the first sight of the rubies, made it still more mysterious. The next day Mara implored her friend to tell her the secret and the manner in which she herself became the possessor of the orna ment, feeling assured she could in some way give an explanation. Miss Wentworth seemed very confused and alarmed, but answered — " The jewels are mine, as I told you before ; I bought them, and I give them to you.

Why should you doubt me, dear?" " Doubt you, I do not. But why should they attract such notice, such curious interest from those people ? " " Mara, Mara, they are mine. I have had them for years ; and I paid a great price for them. Oh ! in truth, I bought them ! " — an expression of the keenest agony flitting over her face. "Forgive me, but," and the young face flushed deeply, " you told me last night you bought them the other day." Miss Wentworth turned pale — " You confuse me so, Mara, I make mis takes. Why should you doubt me?" " I suspect you ? who owe you all," cried Mara, clinging to and kissing her friend's troubled face. " You may give them to me to keep for you, till you care to wear them again." " I will, thank you, but I feel as though they would burn me, or something, if I wear them again; " she laughed nervously.

" Now go for a walk, dear. I will have tea ready when you return." Mara kissed her and went, by no means satisfied. Left alone, Miss Wentworth leant her head on her hands, and sobbed — " I bought them. But, oh, that the price had never been paid." Some days after Mara was in a shop, making a little purchase, as a present for Miss Wentworth, when the two ladies previously named entered the shop ; not per ceiving Mara, they took seats some little distance from her. Furtively Mara regarded them. They were evidently ladies of some quality ; their bear ing was refined, and perfectly graceful ; their voices low toned, but clear as silver bells ; the elder lady must have been very lovely in her youth, after a calm, classical beauty; but the girl's face was lively and sweet, her smile engaging, her eyes keen and brilliant.

Mara was lost in interest, as she gazed on them ; suddenly the girl's quick eyes espied her, but, save for a penetrating glance and a flush on her delicate cheek, she gave no sign of having recognised Mara; but presently she whispered a few words to her mother, who turned her stately head for a slight glance. On leaving the shop they entered a luxurious carriage, in which sat the young man, their companion at the ball ; as they drove away, ensconced in their furs and wraps, Mara gave a little sigh, half of envy, half of interested curiosity. After finishing her shopping she attended the morning service in a church that was near. Tired with her walk she was sitting listening with rapt attention to the beautiful anthem, when, turning her head, she saw standing near a pillar the strange gentleman, intently regarding her ; she dropped her eyes, an expression of displeasure stealing over her face, and he, with flushed countenance, hastily bent his gaze on the book he held.