The Mystery of the Ravenspurs. Fred M. White
you are all right now, darling,” Geoff said anxiously.
“Yes, dear; I never felt better. Still, it was a strange thing altogether. I was well when I went to bed, but in the night I had a curious dream. It seemed to me that I was lying half asleep with a singular pricking sensation of my lips and face. An then an angel came down and laid some white powder that looked like a mixture of salt and powdered glass. Almost immediately the pain ceased, and I slept again. Then I awoke finally and had that fainting fit. Don’t you think it was a queer thing?”
“Yes; but what had the dream and the powder to do with it, little girl?”
“I was coming to that, Geoff. After I got better I remembered my dream and looked at the pillow. You smile, thinking that only a woman would do that. Sure enough there was some trace of gritty powder there, and I collected it in a tissue paper. Directly I got it to the light half of it melted; it seemed to dissolve in light like water. And here it is.”
Vera produced a tiny packet from her pocket and opened it. There were several grains of some sharp powder there which, as Geoffrey held them in his hand dissolved to nothingness. His face was very pale.
“Darling, this is a dreadful thing,” he murmured. “I fancy—”
He paused, fearful of alarming Vera. He saw the hand of fate in this; he saw the sword that was hanging over that beloved young life.
A passion of anger and despair filled him, but for Vera’s sake he checked the feeling. And it seemed to him as if he had passed in a minute down a decade of years; as if in that brief space he had left his boyhood behind and become a man.
“This must be looked into,” he said sternly. “Every precaution—”
“Has been taken,” Vera said quietly. “We have a protector among us, dearest. One who is worth all the precautions put together. Do not fear for me, and do not ask me any questions, because I must not answer them. But I am safe.”
Geoffrey nodded. The cloud slowly lifted from his forehead. Vera was speaking of her uncle Ralph, and there was no reason to ask any questions. Was it possible, Geoffrey wondered, that Ralph Ravenspur had gone to the heart of the mystery, that it was wrapped up in his life, and that he had come home to solve it?
But of this he said nothing. He resolved to render every assistance. This vile thing was the work of earthly hands, and earthly ingenuity could solve it. Never was there cipher invented that was incapable of solution.
Geoffrey drew Vera to his side and kissed her passionately. For a little time she lay in his arms in absolute content. Her smiling eyes were clear, her features placid. In any case she feared no unseen danger. There must be some great sheltering power behind her, or she had never looked so sweet and placid as that.
“I could not do without you, darling,” Geoffry said.
“And you are not going to do without me,” Vera smiled. “There is much yet to be done, but it is going to be accomplished, dearest. Something tells me that the hour of our freedom is at hand. And something also tells me, Geoff, that you are going to have a great deal to do with it.”
They came at length up the slope leading to the castle. And there Ralph came upon them in his own noiseless mysterious fashion. He clung to them until Vera had entered the house, and then led Geoffrey to the terrace.
“There is nobody within earshot of us?” he demanded.
Geoffrey assured him there was not. He was impressed with the earnestness of his uncle’s manner. He had never seen him so moved before.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked.
“Much,” was the whispered reply. “If you are bold and resolute.”
“I am; I am. I would lay down my life as the martyrs of old did to solve the mystery.”
“Ah!” Ralph said in a dry, croaking whisper. “I felt sure I could trust you. There is a great danger and it is near. In that danger I want a pair of eyes. Lend me yours.”
“Dear uncle, I will do anything you please.”
“Good. I like the ring in your voice. At half-past eleven to-night I will come to your room. There I will confide in you. Till then, absolute silence.”
XI - ANOTHER STROKE IN THE DARKNESS
Contrary to the usual custom, there was almost a marked cheerfulness at Ravenspur the same evening. The dread seemed to have lifted slightly, though nobody could say why, even if they cared to analyse, which they certainly did not. And all this because it had seemed to the doomed race that Vera was marked down for destruction, and that the tragedy, the pitiful, tragedy, had been averted.
It is hardly possible to imagine a state of mind like this. And Vera half-divined the reason for this gentle gaiety. She might have told them differently had she chosen to do so, but for many reasons she refrained.
She did not even tell her mother. Why draw the veil aside when even a few hours’ peace stood between them and the terror which sooner or later must sap the reason of every one there? Besides, Uncle Ralph had pledged her to the utmost secrecy.
For once Rupert Ravenspur had abandoned his stony air. He sat at the head of the long table in the dining room, where the lamplight streamed upon fruit and flowers and crystal, upon priceless china, and silver from the finest workshops in the world.
Grinling Gibbons and Inigo Jones had tolled in that dining-hall as a labor of love; a famous master had painted the loves of the angels on the roof. Between the oak panels were paintings by Van Dyck, Cuyp, and the rest of them. And over the floor servants in livery moved swiftly. Rupert Ravenspur might have been a monarch entertaining some of his favored subjects. It was almost impossible to believe that a great sorrow could be brooding here. There was everything that the heart of the most luxurious could demand. Strangers might have looked on and envied. But the stately old man who called all this his own would gladly have changed lots with the humblest hind on the estate.
Now and then Rupert came out of his reverie and smiled. But his tenderest smile and his warmest word were for Vera, whom he had placed on his right hand. Now and again he stroked her hair or touched her fingers gently. Marion watched the scene with a tender smile on her lips.
Only Ralph Ravenspur was silent. He sat with his sightless eyes fixed on space; he seemed to be listening intently, listening to something far away that could be heard by his ears alone. Geoffrey touched him.
“A penny for your thoughts, uncle,” he said.
“They are worth nothing,” Ralph replied. “And if I sold them to you for a penny you would give all Ravenspur Castle and your coming fortune to be rid of them.”
He croaked this out in a fierce whisper. There was a ring of pain in his voice, that pain which is the suffering of the soul rather than the body. Yet he did not relax his rigid listening attitude. He might have been waiting for the unseen foe.
The conversation proceeded fitfully, sometimes almost lively, anon lapsing into silence. It was hard for these people to speak. They had no interests outside the castle; they found it impossible to follow social or political life. Daily papers arrived, but it was seldom that they were looked at.
The dinner came to an end at length, and then the family circle drew round the fire. Ravenspur was one of those big, cold places where fires are always needed. Mrs. Gordon rose and walked to the door. Her husband’s eyes followed her. These two were grey and old before their time, but the flame of love still burned bright and clear.
“You will not be long, dear,” Gordon Ravenspur said. A somewhat sentimental remark in the ordinary way, but not in this place, where the parting might be for all time. Mrs. Gordon smiled back upon her husband.
“I am going to bed,” she said. “Never