Transcriber's Notes: 1. Transcribed from page images published as a serial on page 2 in the Cheshire Observer starting 18 January 1902 (http://newspapers.library.wales/view/4281236/4281238) and ending with 26 April 1902 as provided on the internet by Welsh Newspapers Online.

THE TURNPIKE HOUSE.

By FERGUS HUME,

Author of "The Mystery of a Hansom Cab," "The Crimson Cryptogram," "The Golden Idol," "Aladdin in London," "The Dwarf's Chamber," etc.

[CHAPTER I.]

THE CONVICT'S RETURN.

It stood where four roads met--a square building of two storeys, with white-washed walls and a high slate roof. The fence, and the once trim garden, had vanished with the turnpike gate; and a jungle of gooseberry bushes, interspersed with brambles, shut off the house from the roads. And only by courtesy could these be so-called, for time and neglect had almost obliterated them.

On all sides stretched a flat expanse of reaped fields, bleak-looking and barren in the waning November twilight. Mists gathered thickly over ditch and hedge and stubbled furrow a constant dripping could be heard in the clumps of trees looming here and there in the fog.

Through the kitchen-garden jungle a narrow, crooked path led up to the door where two rough stones ascended to a broken threshold. Indeed, the whole house appeared ragged in its poverty. Many of the windows were stuffed up with rags; walls, cracked and askew, exuded green slime; moss interspersed with lichen, filled in the crevices of the slates upon the roof. A dog would scarcely have sought such a kennel, yet a dim light in the left-hand window of the lower storey shewed that this kennel was inhabited. There sat within--a woman and a child.

The outer decay but typified the poverty of the interior. Plaster had fallen from walls and ceiling, and both were cracked in all directions. No carpet covered the warped floor, and the pinched fire in the rusty grate gave but scanty warmth to the small apartment. A deal table, without a cloth, two deal chairs, and a three-legged stool--these formed the sole furniture. On the blistered black mantelshelf a few cups and saucers of thick delf ranged themselves, and their gay pinks and blues were the only cheerful note in the prevailing misery.

The elder of these two outcasts sat by the bare table; a tallow candle of the cheapest description stuck in a bottle shed a feeble tight, by which she sewed furiously at a flannel shirt. Stab, click, click, stab, she toiled in mad haste as though working for a wager. Intent on her labour, she had no looks to spare for the ten-year-old boy who crouched by the fire; not that he heeded her neglect, for a brown toy horse took up all his attention, and he was perfectly happy in managing what was, to him, an unruly steed.

From the likeness between these two, the most casual observer would have pronounced them mother and son. She had once been beautiful, this slender woman, with her fair hair and blue eyes, but trouble and destitution had robbed her of a delicate loveliness which could have thriven only under congenial circumstances. In those faded eyes, now feverishly glittering, there lurked and expression of dread telling of a mind ill at ease. Dainty garments would have well become her fairness, but she was clothed, rather than dressed, in a black stuff gown without even a linen collar to relieve its lustreless aspect. Poverty had made her careless of her appearance, heedless of the respect due to herself, and her sole aim, apparently, was the speedy completion of the shirt at which she incessantly wrought.

The boy was a small copy of his mother, with the same fair hair and blue eyes but his face had more colour, his figure was more rounded, and he was clothed with a care which shewed the forethought and the love of a mother even in the direst poverty.

After some twenty minutes of silence, broken only by the clicking of the needle and the low chatter of the child, signs of exhaustion began to show themselves in the worker. Before long, big, hot tears fell on the grey flannel, and she opened her mouth with an hysterical gasp. Slowly and more slowly did the seamstress ply her needle, until at last, with a strangled sob, she flung back her head. "Oh, Heavens!" was her moan, and it seemed to be wrung from the very depths of her suffering heart. The child, with a nervous cry, looked up, trembling violently.

"What is it mother? Is father coming?"

"No, thank Heaven!" said the mother, fiercely. "Do you want him?"

So white did the boy's face become that his eyes shewed black as pitch balls. The question seemed to strike him like a blow, and he hurled himself forward to bury his head in the woman's lap. "Don't--don't let him come!" he sobbed, with unrestrained passion.

"Why do you speak of him, then?" cried the mother, angrily, just as she might have addressed a person of her own age. "Never mention your father, Gilbert. He has gone out of your life--out of mine. He is dead to you--and to me."

"I am glad," sobbed the boy, shaking with nervous excitement. "Are you sure, quite sure, mother, he will never come back again?"

"Who is sure of anything?" muttered the woman, gloomily. "He is out of prison now; at any time he may track us down. But he shall not I get you, my boy," and she strained the child to her breast. "I would kill him first!"

"I would kill him, too--kill him, too!" panted Gilbert, brokenly. "Oh, mother, mother! I hate him! I hate him!" and he burst into tears.

"Hush, hush, my baby!" soothed the mother. "Never think of him. He will not get you. No, no."

But the boy continued to sob convulsively, and it required all her arts to pacify him. She knew from experience what the end of this outbreak would be if it continued beyond a point. The lad was precocious and neurotic, quite undisciplined, taking colour from his surroundings, tone from the atmosphere in which he chanced to be; and as the fit took him, could be angel or demon. But in ten minutes the mother had succeeded in soothing him sufficiently to send him back to his play. Then she recommenced her work, and as the needle flew through the coarse stuff she thought of her husband.

"The brute! The hound!" so ran her thoughts. "It is his work. If Gilbert should see him again he would die or go mad, or fall into one of his trances. In any case he would be lost to me. Ah!" she broke out aloud, pushing the hair from her lined forehead. "How long will it last?"

There was no answer to the despairing question, and she went on sewing, listening the while to the prattle of her lad.

"Stand still. Brownie!" the child was saying. "You aren't galloping over the big green of Bedford-park. Do you remember your nice stable by this there, Brownie, and the pretty rooms? I don't like this house any more than you do. Mother was happy in our pretty cottage, so was I, so was my Brownie."

"Mother will never be happy again," murmured the woman, savagely stabbing the flannel as though she were stabbing the man of whom she was thinking. "Ruin and disaster. Disaster and ruin! Why are such men created?"

Gilbert took no notice. "Do you remember the red houses, Brownie, and the railway? I took you there often for a trot. It was just three years ago. Trot now!"

"Aye, just three years!" cried the woman. "Years of agony, pain, shame and disgrace. Why doesn't he die!" and she bit off the end of a thread viciously.

"Mother," said the boy, unexpectedly, "I'm hungry. Give me something to eat."

The woman opened a cupboard and brought out a small loaf, a bundle of victuals, and a tiny packet of tea, precious as gold to her poverty. In silence she boiled the kettle and brewed a cup; in silence she set the food before the hungry child. But when he began to eat her feelings proved too much for her. She burst into fierce words.

"Eat the bread of charity, Gilbert!" she said in a loud, hard voice, and still speaking as though to a person of her own age. "The loaf only is paid for by our own money. I got the bones and the meat from Miss Cass at the Hall. She took me for a beggar in spite of the work I have done for her. And she is right, I am a beggar--so are you--and your father---- There, there! Don't look so scared. We will not speak of him."

Then the boy did a strange thing. With a sudden pounce he seized a sharp-pointed, buck-handled knife used for cutting the bread, and, raising it in the air, looked at his mother with fierce eyes.

"If my father takes me away from you," he said, shrilly, "I'll stick this into him. I will, mother!"

With an ejaculation of terror she snatched the knife out of his small hands, clenched now so wickedly. "Heaven forgive me," she thought, laying it down on the table. "My hatred comes out in him. I may lead him into danger. Heaven keep his father out of his way. I should see a doctor." She glanced round the room and laughed bitterly. "Oh, Heavens'" she broke out aloud. "See a doctor. I can't pay, and ask him in this hovel! Charity? No, no. I'll earn my bread, if I die in the earning." And she fell as fiercely as before to her sewing.

Gilbert, now himself again, ate slowly and with much enjoyment. At intervals he fed the horse which he had brought to the table with him. His mother watched him, pondering over his late outburst so terribly suggestive of the latent instincts in the child. She knew well the reason of it, though she would not acknowledge so much even to herself. Her husband had treated her brutally, and the high-spirited creature had resented his behaviour with passionate hatred. She had taught her child to detest his father.

It was a wild night. The wind beat against the crazy building till it creaked in all its loosened joints. Still the woman went on sewing, and the boy continued to eat. A miserable silence settled down upon them.

Suddenly the mother raised her hand, and the child stopped eating with an expression of terror on his white face.

The woman listened, wild eyed--not in vain. From some distance came the sound of a dragging footstep. There was a drag, a halt, and then again a drag, as though some wounded animal were writhing its way to a place of safety. The outcast knew the sound of that halting gait only two well. So did the boy.

"It's father!" he cried, shrilly. A look of mingled terror, repulsion, hatred, took possession of his white face.

"Hush!" said the woman, imperatively, and left the room. For a moment Gilbert sat quietly listening; then his small hand slipped along the table to grasp the buck-handled knife. Trembling with excitement, he watched the door; he could hear without his mother's taunting voice.

"Come in, Mark Jenner. I know you are standing there in the darkness. Enter, and see the state to which your wickedness has reduced your wife and child. Come in, you lying scoundrel, you brute, you thief!"

In answer to this invitation came a growl as of an angry animal. Then the footsteps dragged themselves nearer and halted at the door. There ensued the sound of taunts and curses. And almost immediately after this exchange of courtesies between husband and wife, who had been parted for three years, the door opened to admit a thick-set man, whose face, in spite of its cunning, was not devoid of refinement. He was in rags and soaking with the wet.

Gilbert stared at this half-forgotten father who had been so long a stranger. Then the fierce inherited hatred woke suddenly within him. In deadly silence he launched himself forward, knife in hand, and struck at his father. Though taken by surprise, the man had about him some of the swiftness of the wild beast which is always prepared for danger, and he warded off the blow with one hand. But the keen blade had cut him across the knuckles, and as the blood spurted he uttered an oath of terror and of pain. For a moment he made as if to fling himself on his small assailant; then he paused, with a look of fear. For the child, passing suddenly from motion to stillness, stood, apparently in a cataleptic trance, with rigid limbs and eyes widely staring. His mother swept down on him with the swoop of a striking falcon, and had him in her arms before her husband could recover himself.

"You have seen him like this before," she said, "so you know he will remain in the trance for some time. I will take him to bed."

"It is you who have put him up to this," cried the man in a shaking voice.

Mrs. Jenner laughed. "Heaven put him up to it," she said, hysterically. "This hatred of you dates too far back. You had better ask a doctor to explain. I cannot; but I know what I know. Wait till I have put him to bed, then I will come back to hear how you have hunted me down, and why. I thought I was free from gaol-birds," she finished, bitterly, and passed out of the room and up the stairs.

Mr. Jenner gave a savage ejaculation. Then he shuffled forward to the fire, warmed himself, and proceeded to attack the food. In an incredibly short space of time there was not a crumb left on the table, and he was still hungry.

"If I only had a smoke!" he growled, squeezing his hands together. "But I have nothing, not even a welcome. Ah, well, there are those who will pay for this!" He took a well-worn pocket-book out of his breast-pocket. "My fortune lies in here; but it is not safe while he is about."

The reflection seemed to make him uneasy, and he glanced round the poor room, looking for a place where he might hide his treasure. His eyes fell on the brown horse, and he chuckled.

"She'll always keep that for Gilbert," he said, "and it's not likely to be lost. I'll put it in there."

Having assured himself that his wife was upstairs, he proceeded to carry out his plan. The toy was made of rags, painted and moulded to the shape of a horse. So he made an incision in the belly, and, thrusting in his finger, formed a hole. Then, with a hasty glance round, he opened the red pocket-book and produced therefrom a Bill of Exchange, which he folded up into a compass as small as possible. This he thrust into the hole, pulled the interior stuffing over it, and using his wife's needle, sewed up the hole with considerable despatch and dexterity. A few white threads were still sufficiently noticeable to arouse suspicion, so he rubbed his hand on the sooty grate and blackened the rent. So neatly was all this done that no one would have guessed that the toy had been opened.

Jenner laughed, and tossed the horse on to the table where the child had left it. "That's all right," he said. "She'll never part with anything belonging to the boy."

He looked over the table to see if any food remained. Finding none, he swore a little and sat down by the fire, upon which he had heaped all the fuel he could find. There he brooded, chin in hand, thinking of his past, dreading the days to come.

[CHAPTER II.]

THE STILL FORM IN THE HOUSE.

In a quarter of an hour Mrs. Jenner returned. She looked at the empty table, at the heaped up fuel in the grate, and finally her gaze of loathing and of scorn fell upon the figure by the fire.

"Still the same selfish brute," she said, resuming her seat and her work. "My child and I are almost starving, almost without a fire; yet you devour our small portion and burn our sticks. And why not? What do our pains matter to you, so long as you are comfortable?"

"I have had more discomfort than you," grumbled her husband, avoiding her contemptuous eyes. "Had you been in prison----"

"I would never have come near those whom I had disgraced," she finished swiftly, and went on with her stitching.

The culprit writhed.

"Lizzie," he said, "do not be too hard on me. I have sinned, but I have been punished. You might forgive me now."

"Never!" said the wife, curtly, and the expression of her eyes told him that she fully meant what she said.

"How hard women can be."

"Women," remarked Mrs. Jenner, shifting the work on her knee, "are what men make them. You behaved to me like the brute that you are; you cannot blame me, then, if I treat you according to your nature. I live for our child--to make amends for what you have done. Therefore, I have an object in life. Had I not, I would gladly die; and I would gain death--a shameful death--by killing you."

The terrible intensity of her gaze made the guilty wretch shiver. "I will make it up to you," he said, feebly.

"Not you. You will go on just the same--that is if I will let you--and that I don't intend to do."

"I shall have money soon--plenty of money."

"What! Are you going to steal again? I want none of your ill-gotten gains. This house is poor, but it is honest. I earn the food my child and I eat, or I beg it; but stealing? No, I leave that to you. Why have you come here?"

"I thought we might come together again and live a new life."

Mrs. Jenner threw aside her work and sprang up. "I would rather die," she said, in a voice of intense hatred. "You treated me like a dog; you struck me; you starved me; you were unfaithful to me. I would rather die."

"It was the drink," Jenner pleaded. "I was all right when I was sober."

"And were you ever sober?" demanded the woman, bitterly. "Not you. In spite of all my care you lay in the mire and wallowed like the pig you are."

"This is a nice welcome," grumbled the man, beginning to lose his temper.

"What did you expect? Tears and kisses, and the killing of the fatted calf? No, my man; I have been a fool too long. I am no fool now. You have hunted me down; how, I know not. But you don't stay here. You go. And, this time you go--for ever."

"My rights as a husband and a father----"

"A criminal has no rights," interrupted his wife. "Think of the past," she went on in a loud, hard voice. "Think of it, and then wonder at your audacity in coming here to face me--me whom you have ruined."

"I don't want to think of the past--and I won't. Leave it alone. It's dead and done with."

"Yes, but the consequences remain. Look at this house--your work. See my withered looks--your work. Think of the child and his mysterious illness--your work. You forget all that you have done. I do not; and I intend to refresh your memory."

Jenner turned sullen. There was no chance of escaping from this, save by going out again into the storm, and he was much too comfortable where he was. So of the two evils he chose the lesser; and even in this his selfish regard for his own comfort shewed itself. "Go on, then," he growled, sullenly.

The woman returned to her seat, and averting her eyes she began to speak in a low, monotonous voice, rising ever and growing more excited as she went through the story of shame and sorrow.

"Let me begin at the beginning, when I was governess to Mr. Cass's little girl; then I was happy and respected. I was pretty, too, and admired. Mr. Cass was a merchant in the city, trading in Spanish wines----"

"What's the use of telling me all this?" broke in Jenner, impatiently. "It is all state. I was a clerk in Cass's office; I met you at his house when I was there on business, and I married you----"

"Yes, you married me," she cried, fiercely. "The more fool I for being taken by your good looks and your plausible tongue. For my sake it was that Mr. Cass raised you to a higher position and gave you a larger salary. We lived in Bloomsbury, and there, ten years ago, Gilbert was born; but not until you had broken my heart and ruined my life."

"Come now, I was kind to you when I was sober."

"And were you ever sober? No; you poor, weak fool. Because you had a good voice and musical talents you were led away by pleasure, and for months before Gilbert was born you behaved towards me in a way no woman could forgive. I was high-spirited, and I resented your conduct--your dissipation and your unfaithfulness."

"You were always on your high horse, if that is what you mean."

"I had every reason to be on my high horse, you brute. Remember the birth of Gilbert--how I suffered--how you were drunk the whole time. And when I got better I found that Mr. Cass had dismissed you for appropriating money."

Jenner sneered. "Cass made a great fuss about nothing."

"You know as well as I do what Mr. Cass is. His mother was Spanish, and he had a fiery temper. He had treated you well, and you repaid him by taking what belonged to him. He dismissed you, but for my sake, because I had been his child's governess, he did not prosecute you."

"Ah! I always thought you and Mr. Cass were great friends."

"That was your own foul mind," cried the woman, contemptuously. "Mr. Cass was an honourable man. If it had been his partner, Marshall, now, then perhaps--yes."

"I know all about Marshall, thank you, Lizzie," he said, chuckling, and his eyes wandered to the brown horse on the table.

"Thinking of your association with him, I suppose?" she sneered. "He took you up simply on account of your voice, and then dropped you when he found out what a drunkard you were."

"Yes, he did," said Jenner, between his teeth. "And I swore to be revenged on him; and some day I will. If you care to listen, I'll tell----"

"I wish to hear nothing," she interrupted. "Mr. Marshall is not a man I admire--a dissipated rake, that's what he is. Still, he is Mr. Cass's partner, and for the sake of Mr. Cass I wish to hear nothing against him. Besides, he is going to marry Miss Cass."

"What--Inez Cass-the sister of my old master?" cried Jenner, looking up.

"Yes. Do you know of any reason why he should not?"

"No," said the man, slowly; "but I wish I had known that two hours ago."

"Why two hours?"

"Oh, you don't want to hear anything against Marshall, so I won't tell."

His wife glanced contemptuously at him. "I suppose you mean blackmail," she said. "Blackmail Miss Cass and Mr. Marshall, if you like, and go back to gaol if it pleases you. I have done with you and your wickedness."

"We'll see about that," he cried.

"Don't interrupt me, please," his wife said, with an imperative wave of her hand. "I want to go on with my story."

"I don't want to hear any more."

"But you shall hear to the end. Listen, Mr. Cass dismissed you for dishonesty, and you took to the stage on the strength of your voice. You know the life you led me. I forgave you over and over again for the child's sake. But it was all of no use. Then at last drink spoilt your voice, and you could get no engagements and Mr. Marshall, although you did not deserve it, got you a situation in that moneylender's office--I forget the name--the----"

"Old Julian Roper."

"Yes, Julian Roper. You got the situation four years ago, and for a time things went well; then you broke out again and stole money from your new employer. He was not so lenient as Mr. Cass, and he had you put in gaol for three years."

"Well; I'm out now."

"You are," said his wife, and there was intense hatred in her voice. "Out to see how I have sunk. After your imprisonment your creditors sold up the house and furniture in Bedford-park; I was turned out on the streets with my child. Mr. Cass got me a place as governess; then it came out that I was the wife of a convict, and I lost the situation. I was driven from one engagement to another. Finally I came down here to ask charity from Mr. Cass. He would have done much for me, but for his sister. Inez is one of your cold, cruel women who kick the fallen. She blamed me for being your wife, and she set her brother against me. All I could get was this tumble-down hovel, where I live rent free. I earn my bread by sewing for the people in the village two miles on. Sometimes Miss Cass insults me by sending me broken victuals--you have just eaten some--and I am so poor that I accept the scraps. Such is my life, but I would rather live it than go with you."

"I don't want you to go with me," said the man, rising. "I want to make you happy by giving you money."

"Have you any? And, if so, where did you get it?"

"I have none just yet, but I soon shall have. At the present moment I am the possessor of two coppers"--he produced them. "But in a week I shall have hundreds."

"And then you will go to gaol again," said his wife. "No, thank you, I don't want to have anything to do with you. I have suffered quite enough at your hands. How could I live with you when the child hates you so?"

"That's all your fault!"

"Not altogether, as I said before. His hatred of you is pre-natal; but I have fostered that hatred until--well, you saw how he received you to-night."

"You are pitiless," he said, hoarsely.

"I am what you have made me. Do you think I would allow my child to love you who have treated his mother so ill? He will never look upon you save with loathing and hate. I would die for the boy; it is the strongest passion of my nature, this love for him. Do you think I would share that love with you? No; Gilbert hates you--he always will--and as I said before, I have done my utmost to foster his hate. Oh, I thought I was sate from you here. Who told you of my hiding-place?"

"Marshall," said Jenner, sulkily.

"Ah you have seen him. And did he speak to you--a gaol-bird?"

"Yes, he did. I made him speak to me."

His wife looked curiously at him and significantly. "It is as I thought," she said. "You know something about him, and you have come down to blackmail him or Miss Cass. Well, go and do it, and get back into gaol if you can. I should be glad to see you in prison again. As it is, out you go--now!"

"I have no money--no shelter."

"I will give you five shillings," she said. "With that you can go to the village inn--it is only two miles away."

Jenner took out his red pocket-book and laid it on the table near the window. "I have a pencil and paper in this," he said. "What you lend me I will give you an I.O.U. for. I don't want your money."

"I decline," said his wife, turning from the open window, out of which she had been leaning. "Once the money passes into your hands it becomes too vile for me to touch again. Wait here, and I will get you the five shillings."

He sprang forward, almost beside himself, and seized her wrist. "You wretch--I'll give you a thrashing for this."

Mrs. Jenner shook off his hand, new to the fireplace and snatched up the poker. "You lay a finger on me, and I'll kill you," she cried, wildly. "You foul beast--your very touch is poison. I am not the woman I was to put up with your brutality. Stand back, you gaol-bird."

He backed towards the open window, and began to whimper. "Don't be such a virago," he said. "I don't want to touch you. If you will give me the money I will go away. But you have lost the chance of a fortune," he boasted, shaking the red pocket-book. "I can get hundreds--hundreds."

"In the usual way," she said, and laid down the poker. "Then you will be locked up again. I hope you will."

"Can I not take leave of the child?"

"No, unless you want him to try and kill you again. Besides, he is in a trance; he will waken as suddenly as he fell into it. But I hope, for your sake, that you will be out of the house before he recovers his senses."

"Do you think--"

"I don't think--I know. All his life Gilbert will hate you. He is highly neurotic, and when he gets besides himself he will do things as mad as would an hysterical woman. He is not to be trusted--no more am I--so beware of us both, and place the sea between yourself and us."

"A very good idea," he said, coolly. "I'll emigrate."

"Do. Go to Sydney--which was formerly Botany Bay. That ought to suit you," she taunted. "Stop there," she snatched up the poker again, "or I will not answer for myself."

Her husband laid down the buck-handled knife and placed it on the table beside the pocket-book. He had taken it up with an oath when his wife goaded him with her tongue. "Get the five, shillings," he said, sulkily.

"It is upstairs." Still carrying the poker, Mrs. Jenner moved towards the inner door. "I can tell you so much, for you will never find my hiding-place. Wait here."

When she had gone her husband remained by the table with his hand on the red pocket-book. His eyes sought the brown horse. "I must take you with me, too," he muttered. "I shall never see her or the child again. It is better so; I hope she won't be long." And he waited in sulky silence.

Suddenly there was the cry of a human being in pain. The light was extinguished, and the mists closed thicker round the ruined building; it might be to hide the sight within the room. Could the wails only have spoken they would have shouted "Murder!" with most miraculous voice. But the age of miracles being past, the walls were dumb, and there was no clamour to greet the horror of this deed done in darkness. But the mists wrapped themselves round the place of death, and a profound silence shut down on the desolate country.

It was broken at last by the sound of light footsteps. Along the disused road a woman carrying a child in her arms tore along at a furious rate. She did not know where she was going; she had no goal. All that she desired was to get away from the thing which lay in the darkness of that poor room. Horror was behind her; danger before. And she ran on, on through the mists and the gloom, pursued by the Furies. Like hounds on the track, they drove her along the lonely roads until the mists swallowed her up; and these, growing ever more dense, blotted out the woman, blotted out the country, blotted out the Turnpike House. But what they could not blot out was that silent room where a dead man lay. Better had they done so; better had they obliterated that evidence of evil from the face of the earth. But what had been done in the darkness had yet to be shewn in the light; and then--but the woman fled on wearied feet, fled, ever fled through the gloom, and the friendly mists covered her escape.

And so did the ruined Turnpike-House become possessed of its legend. For many a long year the horror of it was discussed beside winter fires. The place was haunted, and the ghost had walked first upon that very night, when the woman, bearing the child, had fled away into the darkness.

[CHAPTER III.]

YOUNG LOVE, TRUE LOVE.

It was Christmas-time, many years after the events narrated in the previous chapter, and the snow not only lay thick on the ground but was falling heavily from a leaden sky. A strong wind which rose with the coming of the night drove through the leafless trees of the park and clashed iron music from among their frozen boughs.

Beyond the red brick wall which encircled Hollyoaks Park the frozen road ran straight to the village of Westham, and the one street of that hamlet was crowded with people returning homeward laden with purchases for the next day.

But if it was wintry out of doors, within the mansion of Mr. Cass all was colour and warmth and tropical leafage. The merchant's mother had been an Andalusian, and perhaps some far-off strain of Moorish blood had constrained her son to build his house on Moorish lines. When Mr. Cass, some twenty years ago, had bought Hollyoaks from the decayed county family who then owned it, the manor-house had been but lately destroyed by fire. The purchaser found a pleasant country, a beautiful park, but no place where he and his family could lay their heads. So he proceeded to erect what the countryside called "Cass's Folly"--a true Moorish dwelling-place such as one finds in Seville and Cordova. A series of low buildings clustered round a central court, or, as it would be called in Spain, a patio. This, in deference to the English climate, had been roofed in with glass and turned into a winter garden. The roof was protected against the elements by a close iron frame-work, which was yet sufficiently open to admit the light. But it is rarely that the sun shines with full strength in the Midlands; so it happened that this garden was usually pervaded by a fascinating twilight.

This large space was filled with tropical foliage; palms rose tall and stately from an undergrowth of oddly-shaped plants with serpentine and hairy foliage interspersed with brilliant flowers. What with the diapered pavement, the white marble pillars of the corridor, and all this tropical fecundity, the spectacle was brilliant and strange to English eyes.

This striking interior, however, made a special appeal to the emotions of a tall, slim young man who was seated in a lounging-chair beside the pool. He had arrived from London only two hours before, after an uncomfortable journey in the cold. He remembered his last Christmas spent at Hollyoaks, when he had arrived much about the same time and had been greeted with the same splendour. Then he had been a stranger; now he was well known to the Cass family, best of all to the youngest daughter of the house. But where was she now? Why was she not here to greet him?

His colour came and went now as he thought of the girl he was about to meet, the girl who was all the world to him. He tugged nervously at his small golden moustache, and his blue eyes blinked at the dazzling colours of the flowers. But there was something about the boy--for he was no more than twenty-three--which brought conviction that his spirit was more manly than his looks would have one believe. His air was resolute; his figure, though slim, was athletic; yet withal he was nervous and emotional in the extreme. And, after all, this was how it should be, for Neil Webster's fame as a violinist of rare promise was well known. Already he had made a name for himself both in England and America.

With such a temperament it was not wonderful that he should love Ruth Cass, who also was of a highly sensitive nature. Neil thought of her now with an intensity inspired by the memory of the joy she had been to his appreciative eye when, last Christmas, he had seen her for the first time.

As the young man sat there wrinkling his brows in the effort to recall completely the memory of Ruth's first appearance, a side door opened and she herself appeared. With light steps she stole forward, and laying her gloved hands upon his eyes she laughed out of sheer joy.

"Who is it?" she asked, gaily. "I give you three guesses."

Neil turned, took her hands and kissed them. "As if I needed more than one," he said, with light reproach. "I should not be a true lover did I not guess your presence even without seeing you."

"Yet you didn't, you didn't," sang the girl. "I came upon you unawares."

"But I knew yow were coming, for I felt it in my heart. Come, let me look at my rose of Sharon. It is six long weary weeks since I saw you."

She made a little curtsey, and then stood demurely before him. To a stranger she would have been almost a great a surprise as the house itself. And she was in keeping with it--the beautiful Andalusian Marquise of de Musset's ballad come to life in foggy England. The Quaker name of Ruth suited ill with that rich southern beauty. Had she been called Cleopatra, that Royal name would well have matched her appearance. Although but twenty years of age she was already in the full bloom of womanly loveliness. Of no great height, she possessed one of those perfect figures seen only in Spain. She walked with the swaying, graceful gait of the Andalusian woman. An olive skin, large, liquid eyes of midnight blackness, lips scarlet as a pomegranate blossom, full and a trifle voluptuous.

As became a daughter of the South, Ruth was arrayed in a ravishing dinner-dress of black and gold which suited her swarthy beauty. In the coils of her blue-black hair she wore sparkling diamonds; the same stones blazed on neck and wrists, and in this splendour she seemed to the excited eyes of her lover like some gorgeous tropical flower blossoming beneath ardent skies.

"Come now," she said, sinking into a chair. "We have just a few minutes before the others come in, and they are not to be passed in silence."

"Who are the others?" Neil asked, taking a chair beside her.

She waved a fan of black and yellow feathers from which, true daughter of Spain as she was, she would not part even in winter.

"Oh, all the people you have met here before," she said, smoothing her dainty gloves. "My father, Jennie Brawn, my uncle and aunt, and Geoffrey Heron."

As she pronounced the last name Ruth stole a laughing glance at her lover. And, as she had expected, a shadow came over his face, and his colour went and came like that of a startled girl.

"Oh, is he here?" was his comment. "He is a very good sort of fellow."

"Too good for your taste, Monsieur Othello," laughed Miss Cass, tapping his flushed cheek with her fan. "I see how it is. You think he is a rival."

"I don't think it, I know it. Ruth."

"Well," with a coquettish toss of her head, "perhaps he is. But you think, moreover, that I admire him. I do, as one might admire a picture. He is good-looking and very nice----"

"I can't contradict you," interrupted the young man.

"But," she resumed smoothly, "he is not clever, he is not musical, and he is not the most jealous man in the world."

"Meaning me, I suppose?"

"Of course. Who else should I mean? Come. I won't have your forehead wrinkled." She brushed the lines away with her fan. "Smile, Neil, smile, or I won't speak to you all night."

He could not withstand her charming humour, and he did smile. But, in spite of all, he shook his head ruefully.

"It's all very well making a joke of it," he said. "I know you love me as I love you, but your father--he knows nothing of our attachment."

"My father? Pooh! I can twist him round my finger."

"I am not so sure of that. Remember, I have known him many years. He can be hard when he likes, and in this case he will be hard. He is rich, has a position, while I----"

"While you are Neil Webster, the great violinist."

"Oh that is all right," he said, dismissing his artistic fame with a nod. "But I mean I do not know who my parents are. I never heard of them."

"Perhaps, like Topsy, you growed," Ruth said, for she attached no importance to his speech. "Dear! What does it matter?"

"A great deal to a proud man like your father. Yet he may know my parents since he brought me up. I'll ask him."

"Papa brought you up, Neil? I never knew that. I thought he met you at some house in London, and asked you here because he is so fond of music."

The young man frowned and tugged at his moustache. His colour changed. "I should not have told you," he said, in a low voice, "but my tongue runs away with me. We have often talked of my early life."

"Let me see," said Miss Cass, gravely mischievous. "I think you did say something about having been brought up in the South of England."

"At Bognor," he explained. "An old woman, Mrs. Jent, looked after me there. When it became apparent that I had musical talent your father had me taught on the Continent. I appeared first in America, where I was trained under Durand, the great violinist. I made a success and returned to London; then----"

"Then he brought you down here a year ago, and in six months we fell in love with one another, and----"

"I loved you from the first," he cried.

"How rash!" remarked the girl, pursing her mouth demurely. "But we will say nothing about that. We love now, that is sufficient. But tell me how it was my father first came on the scene of your life? I know much that you have told me: but my father--that is something new."

"I can remember him ever since I was a young child--from the age of ten."

"Oh then he did not come to you before that?"

Webster paused, then turning towards her made an extraordinary speech. "I don't know. I can't recollect my life before that."

"Oh, dear me!" cried Miss Cass, not quite taking in the meaning of his words. "What a stupid child you must have been! Why, I recollect all sorts of things which happened when I was five."

"I don't mean that exactly," said Webster, "but my first recollection is my recovery from a long illness, and all my memories date from that time. What came before--where I was born, where brought up--is a blank."

"What did Mrs. Jent tell you?" cried the girl, now anxious to solve the mystery. "She told me I was born in America, somewhere near New York, that my father had played in an orchestra, and that my mother had been a singer. I fell ill somewhere about my tenth year, and since then I have seen your father frequently, but I have never questioned him closely. However, I will speak to him to-morrow, and at the same time I will tell him that I love you.

"Then he will consent to our engagement," Miss Cass said, promptly.

"I wonder!" Again Neil drew his hand across his face. "It does not seem a satisfactory past. I always feel there is some mystery about it."

"Mystery! What nonsense!" cried Ruth, with pretty disbelief. "I am certain that what Mrs. Jent has told you is true, and the illness made you forget your childish days. My father has been good to you for reasons which he will no doubt tell me. And, since he has always helped you, and has, so to speak, been a father to you, he will not forbid our marriage. Why did you not tell me all this before?"

Webster looked puzzled. "I hardly know," he murmured. "Something always kept me silent, and I talked, as you remember, more about my career as an artist than anything else."

"But you never said that my father paid for your studies," persisted Ruth.

"No, that is quite true. But I kept silent on that point because he asked me to. He is a man who likes to do good by stealth, but he did not ask me to be silent on any other point, so I might have told you all that I have said to-night long ago. I tell you now about your father in spite of his prohibition, as I want you to know everything concerning me. Should we be fortunate enough to gain his consent, I don't want you to remain in ignorance of his kindness. But shall we ever marry?" he sighed.

"Of course we shall," said Ruth, imperiously. "I have made up my mind."

"Ah! but your father has not made up his, Ruth," he seized her hands, "do you really love me? If you do not----"

"Don't get excited, Neil. If I did not love you I should tell you so. But I do love you, how, dearly you will never know."

"But it may be--my music you love," he urged.

"Conceited boy," laughed Miss Cass. "Of course I love your music, but I love you for yourself as well. Speak to my father. We will not keep our engagement secret any longer."

"I feel that we should not have kept it secret at all," murmured the young man. "After your father's kindness to me I feel somewhat of a traitor."

"You can lay the blame on me," announced the girl, calmly. "I wished it to be kept quiet on account of Aunt Inez. You know what she is--a jealous woman always putting her finger into everyone's pie. I'm sure she has quite enough to do in looking after her own husband. He is a wicked, gay old man, is uncle Marshall."

"I don't think Mrs. Marshall likes me."

"That is why I kept our secret. She does not like you; why, I do not know. And had she discovered our engagement she would have told my father and put an end to it long ago."

"Well, perhaps Mr. Cass will put an end to it even now."

Ruth looked round to see that no one was &bout, and then dropped a butterfly kiss on his forehead.

"Darling, nothing shall part us. I love you, and you only, you foolish fellow."

"And are you sure, quite sure, you care nothing about Heron?"

"No, no, of course I don't. But I will if you insist on putting your arm round my waist. Gracious! Here is Aunt Inez!"

And at this moment an elderly double of Ruth sailed into the winter garden.

[CHAPTER IV.]

A STRANGE EPISODE.

Mrs. Marshall had reached the mature age of forty-five, but she was still beautiful. Dark women with hard natures always wear well, and Ruth's aunt was no exception to the rule. She need not be described here, for she resembled her niece in all particulars save those of youth and the exuberant spirits, which rendered the younger woman so charming. Tall and dignified in her black velvet dress, she advanced to greet Neil, and her greeting was that of the Ice Queen.

"You must have had an unpleasant journey," she said, in freezing tones.

"Thank you," said Webster, with a certain reserve. "I had not a very pleasant time. But this makes amends," and his eyes wandered to Ruth.

Mrs. Marshall drew her thick eyebrows together, for she had long suspected that the two young people were more to each other than ordinary friends. But at that moment Ruth was equal to the occasion. Her attitude towards Neil was one of genial hospitality.

Neither of the young people attempted to carry on the conversation, and Mrs. Marshall was somewhat at a loss. Turning at last to Ruth, she asked sharply where the remainder of the guests were.

"Dinner will be ready in a quarter of an hour," she went on, consulting a jewelled watch that hung at her girdle. "I hope we shall sit down punctually, for I detest waiting."

"So do I," assented her niece, cheerfully. "I am hungry."

The elder lady took no notice of the flippant reply. "Have you been giving any concerts lately?" she asked, with the supercilious patronage of a rich society woman.

"No, madam," replied the young man. His frequent contact with foreign artists had accustomed him to this form of address. "The season in London is hardly propitious just now. I am resting."

"When do you begin again?"

"After the new year. It is possible I may give some concerts in Paris."

"It might be advisable for you to leave England for a time," the lady said, drily, looking at Ruth.

"My aunt is thinking of your delicate appearance, Mr. Webster," interposed the girl, trying to parry the stroke. "This foggy climate does not suit you in her opinion. Is that not so, Aunt Inez?"

"Well, it is not quite what I meant, Ruth." And she turned to Neil. "Have you any relatives in England. Mr. Webster?" she asked.

The suddenness of the question took away the young man's breath. It was evident that her brother had not confided in Mrs. Marshall.

"I have no relatives in the world, madam," he said.

"You remind me of someone," she went on, fixing her black eyes on him somewhat fiercely. "Do you sing?"

"Not at all," he answered, wondering more than ever at the oddity of this second question. "I have no voice."

"Humph!" muttered the lady, and turned away. "I must be mistaken."

"You are certainly mistaken, madam, in crediting me with any relatives. I am an orphan, a waif, a stranger in the land----"

"And a great violinist," finished Ruth, glancing defiantly at her aunt. "That surely ought to cover all deficiencies, Mr. Webster."

"No doubt it does--to musical people," said the elder lady, coldly.

The young man felt nettled, and more puzzled than ever at her manner, and he was about to ask a leading question when Miss Jennie Brawn, accompanied by Mr. Heron, entered.

"Oh, here you are," cried Ruth, including both in one gay greeting. "You are late."

"The sacred mysteries of the toilet have taken up Miss Brawn's time," laughed Heron, looking mischievously at the homely face of the girl beside him.

"One must do honour to the season," replied Jennie. She was dumpy and sandy and wore a pince-nez on her turned-up nose. "How are you, Master?" For she always spoke to Neil Webster in that style. "I am glad to see you. Your lovely and exquisite music never fails to inspire my muse."

Put into plain prose this speech meant that Miss Brawn wrote poems for drawing-room ballad composers, and that she trusted to music for inspiration. Miss Brawn further occupied herself with writing short stories for children's Christmas books, and she figured in a popular magazine as "Aunt Dilly." She had come to regard herself as a literary personage.

"I hope I may be able to inspire you to some I purpose to-night," Webster said, quietly.

Young Heron turned away in disdain. He was a handsome country squire, possessed of no nerves, and no artistic cravings. He came of an old family, and had an income of four thousand a year. His time was spent in hunting, polo, shooting, fishing, and tearing round the country in a motor-car: and he had not much opinion of the "fiddler-fellow," as he called Webster. But this was due to the fact that he had noticed Ruth's predilection for him, not to any fault in the man himself. For Geoffrey loved the girl. He treated Webster with a coldness almost equal to that of Mrs. Marshall. That lady was his firm friend, and was most anxious that he should marry her niece. Seeing now his look of disdain, she was about to speak, when a cheerful voice was heard above the others.

"Oh, here is my husband," Mrs. Marshall cried, her dark face lighting up. "I was wondering where he had got to."

"I am here, my dear Inez, here," and a brisk, stout man darted forward. "Ruth, my dear, you look charming! Miss Brawn, allow me to congratulate you upon your toilet. Mr. Webster, good evening." His manner was colder but with renewed geniality he shook hands with Geoffrey Heron. "Ha, ha, my boy! a merry Christmas to you!"

The voluble, active little man rattled on, cutting jokes, laughing at his own wit, and paying compliments all round, while his tall, dark wife stood near him listening with a smile on her face. Why Mrs. Marshall should love her husband so much remained ever a mystery to her friends. For he was a fat, beer-barrel of a creature, and possessed neither the looks nor the brains which would be likely to attract as refined and clever a woman as his wife undoubtedly was. Yet Inez adored him, although Mr. Robert Marshall was an elderly Don Juan, fond of the society of pretty girls, and he prided himself no little on his conquests. There was undoubtedly some charm about him which raptured the hearts of women. And Mrs. Marshall, as the lawful proprietor of this universal heart-breaker, took a pride in her proprietorship.

"I hope you will give us some music to-night," Mr. Marshall said, turning to the musician, and again his manner was freezing. "Your playing is delightful--delightful!"

"I am glad you like it," Neil said, quietly. "Of course, I am always ready to play here, although, as a rule, I never do so in private houses."

"Ha! The exclusiveness of a musician."

"Or the dignity of an artist, Uncle Robert."

"Quite so, my dear," said Uncle Robert, turning towards his niece. "But, of course, Mr. Webster will not wrap his talents up in a napkin here."

"The Master is always willing to oblige his friends," put in Jennie.

"His friends are much honoured," added Aunt Inez, with an iron smile.

Mr. Heron made no remark. In shaking hands with Webster he had done his duty. In his own heart the young squire wished the fellow well out of the way, for Ruth looked at him too often and much too kindly.

A diversion was made at this moment by the entrance of the host, a tall, slightly-made man, dark and solemn--a typical Spaniard both in complexion and bearing. To-night he was in a genial mood, and unbent more than usual. Nevertheless, although he shook hands with Neil, he was decidedly colder to him than to the rest of his guests. Indeed, it was apparent that Neil was not a favourite.

"A merry Christmas to all," Mr. Cass said, bowing. "Perhaps I am rather premature; still, it is better to be early than late."

"So long as you adopt that plan with your presents, papa, I shall not quarrel with you."

"You see what a bold daughter I have," he remarked to Heron. "How would you like to be her father?"

"Not at all, not at all," replied the young man with a very significant glance in the direction of Ruth--a glance which made Neil's blood boil.

"Ha, ha!" cackled Marshall. "We know all about that Heron," and he slapped him on the back. "But come! Dinner--dinner!"

And, indeed, at that moment dinner was announced. Mr. Cass gave his arm to his sister, and to his delight Geoffrey found himself seated beside Ruth; poor Neil had Mrs. Marshall for his companion. Neither of the two relished their juxtaposition. Jennie and Don Juan-in-his-Dotage were happy in the congenial company of each other, and kept the table merry.

The conversation only flickered feebly with Mr. Marshall's aimless merriment. Neil, annoyed by the coldness of his reception, was considering the advisability of a return to town the next day; he thought he recognised Mrs. Marshall's hand in the chilly reception of Mr. Cass. For hitherto the merchant had treated him with uniform kindness, and he was puzzled by this new departure.

When the ladies had retired to the winter garden Mr. Cass was more amiable to his guest, the violinist. And the young man, anxious to please, did his best to make himself agreeable. Heron and Marshall were discussing county affairs; so the merchant and young Webster had a quiet talk.

"I am making a good deal of money now," Neil said. He was recounting his artistic triumphs. "In a few years I shall be a wealthy man."

"You must let me invest your capital for you. You artistic folks know little about business."

"I should be more than grateful if you would. I daresay, in time, there will be enough for me to marry on."

Mr. Cass looked keenly at the speaker from under his thick black brows. "Are you thinking of marrying?" he asked, carelessly. Then, without waiting for an answer: "I would not if I were you."

"Why not? I am young, strong----"

"And nervous," finished his host abruptly. "I have peculiar views about marriage, and I do not think you are fitted for it. Take my advice, and keep single. Come," he started to his feet before the other could reply, "let us join the ladies."

Webster was annoyed. He had fully intended there and then--since the opportunity seemed to offer itself--to ask Mr. Cass for his daughter's hand. Plunged in meditation, he did not see that the object of it was beckoning to him with her very useful fan, and Heron, taking advantage of his absorption, secured the vacant seat. Before he could recover himself, Mr. Cass appeared to carry him off to the drawing-room.

"You must play to me," he said. "Miss Brawn will accompany you; she plays well."

Jennie did, indeed, play more like a professional than an amateur; and Webster, anxious as ever to please, got his violin. The sounds of the exquisite music which he drew from the wailing strings brought everyone to the drawing-room.

Then Geoffrey Heron sang, and sang well. He chose a typical drawing-room ballad, flat and insipid. The music, of a lilting order, suited the words--Miss Jennie Brawn's--which were full of mawkish sentiment.

The song was not yet finished when Mr. Marshall suddenly rose and hurriedly left the room. His wife looked after him with an uneasy smile, and shortly afterwards followed, to find him in the winter garden.

"What is the matter?" she asked, sharply, though she knew quite well what it was that had stirred him.

"Jenner," stammered her husband, lifting up a white face. "Heron's voice reminds me of his. I have never heard him sing before."

"Nor will you again if you make such a fool of yourself. What do you mean by rushing out of the room and provoking remark? Jenner is dead and buried these twelve years."

"Yes; but think how he died," moaned her husband. "And I was so intimate with him."

"You were--to your shame and disgrace. Don't behave so foolishly, Robert. I don't know what put him into your head in the first place."

"Heron's voice is so like his--and the looks of Webster."

Mrs. Marshall turned as pale as her swarthy skin permitted, and the fan in her hand shook. "What about him?" she asked.

"He is like----"

"I know who he is like," she interrupted, sharply. "A mere chance resemblance. Come back with me."

"I am going to bed," was the only response, and, turning abruptly, Mr. Marshall fled up the stairs, leaving his wife gazing after him with a black frown on her face.

"I wonder if that young man--but no; it's impossible. Sebastian," she spoke of her brother, "would not go so far." And after composing herself with a glass of water she returned to the drawing-room.

By this time Webster was seated beside Ruth, who was shewing him a book of photographs. Geoffrey Heron was talking to Mr. Cass, and casting glances at the two young people who were getting on much too well for his liking.

Suddenly the whole room was startled by a cry. It came from Neil, who, with a white face, was staring at a photograph.

"What's the matter?" asked his host, hurrying towards him. "Are you ill?"

"Who-who-is this?" stammered young Webster, pointing to the portrait of a thick-set man who figured in a group.

"An old clerk of mine," replied Mr. Cass, trying hard to steady his voice. "That is a photograph of the clerks in my office some twenty years ago. Why should that face disturb you?"

"I--I--don't know," was the stammering reply. "Have I seen him in a dream? His face is quite familiar to me."

"Pooh! Nonsense!" Mr. Cass had by this time recovered his self-command. "The man died long ago you never saw him."

"But I have seen him," persisted Neil. "I have seen him in a dream, and"--his voice leaped an octave--"I hate him," he exclaimed with passion. "I hate him."

They all stared in amazement. Suddenly Ruth cried "Neil--you are ill--you----"

"Stop!" cried her father, sharply. "He has fainted."

And as he spoke Neil fell back insensible on the cushions.

[CHAPTER V.]

A SHADOW OF THE PAST.

Webster recovered from his fainting-fit, but he was weak and ill. It seemed extraordinary that the sight of a pictured face should have had such an influence upon him. He himself could give no explanation save that he had been overcome by a feeling of nausea. So, after an apology, he went at once to bed. The party broke up, and Ruth retired, wondering greatly at her lover's strange indisposition.

Half an-hour later she was seated before her bedroom fire in dressing-gown and slippers. Having dismissed her maid, she indulged herself in a reverie with which Neil Webster and her chances of obtaining her father's consent to her marriage with him were mainly concerned.

She was aroused by a knock at the door, and in reply to her invitation Mrs. Marshall entered the room. At the first glimpse of that iron face the girl remembered a slip she had made in addressing her lover by his Christian name.

"You are in love with that violinist," said the elder woman, sitting down and fixing her niece with a piercing gaze.

"How do you know that?" asked the girl, coolly. She had been half-prepared for the question in spite of Mrs. Marshall's abrupt entry. In fact, for that very reason she kept on her guard.

"Pshaw!" ejaculated Aunt Inez, with scorn. "Cannot one woman divine the feelings of another? Your eyes were never off the creature to-night."

"Mr. Webster is not a creature," interrupted the girl, angrily.

"Mr. Webster!" sneered the other. "Why not Neil? You called him so to-night."

"Yes," said Ruth, defiantly, throwing off her mask. "And I shall call him so again. You are right; I do love him. And he loves me."

"I thought as much. And the end of this mutual passion?"

"Marriage?"

"Humph! I think your father will have something to say to that."

"My father will deny me nothing that he thinks will conduce to my happiness."

"No doubt. But marriage with this violinist creature hardly comes under that heading. You know nothing about him."

"I dare say my father does," retorted Ruth.

"Very probably," said the elder lady, with venom. "In fact, he may know sufficient to forbid you entertaining the preposterous idea of becoming Mrs. Webster. You are a fool, Ruth! Because the man is handsome and a great musician--I deny neither his looks nor his talents--you have developed a romantic passion for him. I should not be doing my duty did I fail to warn your father of this folly. To-morrow Mr. Webster will leave this house for ever."

"Oh!" cried Ruth with scorn. "And I, no doubt, will marry Geoffrey Heron. I know your plans, Aunt Inez. But I'm not for sale, thank you."

"Don't be insolent," cried Mrs. Marshall, with cold fury. "Mr. Heron loves you."

"Very probably," rejoined Miss Cass, carelessly. "But then, you see, I do not love him."

"Nevertheless, you will become his wife."

"I would die first."

"We shall see," and walked to the door. "I am going to tell your father of this infatuation."

The girl uttered an exclamation of dismay and sprang forward. But Mrs. Marshall had already closed the door.

"I don't care," cried Ruth, clenching her hands. "My love is strong enough to stand against my father's anger. I love Neil, and I intend to marry him. All the fathers and aunts in the world shall not prevent me." And in this determined frame of mind she went to bed. Her hot Spanish blood was aflame at the idea of contradiction and dictation. Nor for nothing was Ruth Cass the granddaughter of an Andalusian spit-fire, and as such was her father's mother traditionally referred to in the family.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Marshall, equally hot-blooded and determined, took her way to the library where she knew her brother frequently remained long after the rest of the household had retired. He was there, sure enough, sitting before the fire and staring into it with an anxious expression. At his sister's entrance he started from his seat. For Inez was the stormy petrel of the Cass family, and he guessed that her appearance at this unwonted hour indicated an approaching tempest.

"What is it?" he asked, irritably. "Why are you not in bed?"

"Because I have something to say which must be said to-night."

"Well, what is is?" He dropped back into his chair with a look of resignation.

"Who is that man Webster?"

Her brother's face grow black. "Always the same woman," he said, angrily. "You will never leave well alone. Webster is a violinist, and he comes here, at my request, because I admire his talents."

"I know all that. But who is he?"

"I refuse to tell you."

"Will you refuse to tell your daughter?" sneered his sister.

Cass looked up quickly, and something of dismay came over his face. "Ruth--what has Ruth to do with him?"

"This much. They are in love with one another; they are secretly engaged. Is that a sufficient excuse for my seeing you to-night?"

"I don't believe it. Webster would not----"

"Oh, as to that, I don't know what hold you have over him."

"Hold!" repeated Mr. Cass, rising and beginning to pace the room in an agitated manner. "What do you mean? I have no hold."

"In that case you should not have thrown him into the society of an impressionable fool like Ruth. I got the truth out of her to-night, though I had long suspected it. She loves him; and what's more she will defy you and marry him."

"That she shall never do:" he said vehemently.

"I tell you she will, and without your consent, unless you can talk her out of this infatuation and marry her to Heron."

"There will be no need to talk her out of it." Mr. Cass said, coldly. "Webster will not marry her."

"Do you mean that he will refuse?"

"I mean that he will refuse," he replied with decision.

"And under your influence?"

"Under my influence. Yes."

"Ah!" Aunt Inez drew a long breath, for her suspicions as to the identity of Webster were now confirmed. "Then you intend to use the knowledge of his father's murder to influence this so-called Webster?"

"What do you mean?" Mr. Cass asked angrily.

"Exactly what I say," retorted his sister. "I am not a fool, if you are Sebastian, Webster is the son of Jenner, who was murdered at the Turnpike House. I remember how his mother used to bring him here to beg for food. He is just the same nervous creature now as he was then. I could not recollect where I had seen him before until he recognised his father in that photograph----"

"He did not recognize his father."

"Perhaps he did not knew that the face, the sight of which made him faint, was that of his father," replied Mrs. Marshall. "But his fainting was quite enough for me. I remember Mrs. Jenner; he resembles her in every way. He is her son. Deny it if you can."

"I do not deny it," Cass said sullenly. "But, for Heaven's sake, Inez, leave things alone, or harm will come of it."

"Why, in Heaven's name, did you bring him down here?"

"I never thought he would fall in love with Ruth. I brought him out of sheer kindness, because I was sorry for the poor, lonely young fellow. I will arrange the matter. Rest assured he never marry Ruth."

"I hope not," said Mrs. Marshall, preparing to go. "I have done my duty."

"No doubt, but I wonder you dare speak as you do."

Her face grew hard as stone. "I am never afraid to speak," she said, haughtily, "or to act. I have set my heart on a marriage between Ruth and Geoffrey Heron. Webster--as you call him--must go."

"He shall go," assented Mr. Cass and, satisfied that all was well, his sister left him. Then he dropped back into his chair with a sigh and gazed a again into the fire. He foresaw trouble, which there appeared no means of averting. It was three o'clock before he got to bed. And by that time he had determined how to act.

"Webster shall refuse to marry her," he said, "and he shall go away. She will soon forget him, and end by becoming Mrs. Heron. With Webster away all will be well."

Having made his plans, Mr. Cass proceeded to act upon them. He wished to see for himself if Ruth was really in love with Neil, and to learn, if possible, the depth and extent of her feelings. With this scheme in his mind, he was excessively genial to the young man, and at the breakfast-table on the following morning placed him next his daughter--a piece of folly which made Mrs. Marshall open her eyes. Ruth saw her aunt's look, and, in sheer defiance, allowed herself to behave towards Neil with a somewhat ostentatious friendliness. Naturally enough, Geoffrey Heron became sulky, while Miss Brawn and Mr. Marshall kept up a continuous chatter.

"Well?" Inez said to her brother as they were preparing for church.

"You are right," he said. "I have no doubt now of her feeling for him."

"And you will deal with the matter?"

"You can trust me. I know what to do."

She was satisfied with this assurance, and set off in a devout frame of mind, and, taking Geoffrey with her, shewed him very clearly that she was on his side. Indeed, as they returned to the house after the Christmas service, he opened his heart to her. Mrs. Marshall told him that she had seen it all along, and that nothing on her part should remain undone that would aid in bringing about the marriage.

"But she is in love with that fiddler-fellow," the disconsolate young man said.

"Oh, my dear Mr. Heron," and Mrs. Marshall smiled, "that is only a girl's love for the arts. She admires his music, as we all do, and perhaps she shews her appreciation in rather a foolish way. But I cannot believe she loves him."

"At all events she does not care for me."

"Don't be too sure of that. The more she cares for you the more likely she is to try and conceal her feelings."

"Why, in Heaven's name?" asked Geoffrey.

Mrs. Marshall laughed. "Because it is the way of women," she said.

"Do you think, then, that I ought to speak to her?"

"Not just now. Wait till Mr. Webster and his too fascinating violin have taken their departure. Then she will forget this--this Bohemian."

"Webster isn't a bad sort of fellow," Heron said, apologetically. "In spite of his long hair, he is something of a sportsman. He has seen a good deal of the world, too, and he is plucky in his own way. I like him well enough but, of course, I can't help feeling jealous. You see, I love Ruth--I may call her Ruth to you--so much."

"There is no need for jealousy. Ruth will be your wife. I promise you that; you have me on your side."

"I won't have her forced into the marriage," he said, sturdily.

Mrs. Marshall brushed the suggestion aside.

Neil's unhappy state of mind had taken him out into the cold. The quiet thoughts of the morning had given way to perfect torture, and he could in no way account for the change. So far, indeed, as his nerves were concerned, he never could account for anything in connection with them any more than could the physicians whom he had consulted. He was the prey of a highly neurotic temperament which tortured his life, and he had a vivid imagination which made him exaggerate the slightest worries into catastrophes.

An hour's brisk walking over the crisp snow brought him to a solitary place far from every human habitation. The village had vanished, and Neil found himself in the centre--as it seemed--of a lonely white world arched over by a blue sky. All around the landscape was buried in drifts of snow, which, dazzling white in the sunlight, were painful to look upon. He walked along some disused roads, guiding himself by the hedges which ran along the sides. Shortly the sky began to cloud over rapidly, to assume a leaden aspect; and finally down came the snow.

He turned his face homewards, anxious to get back before the night came on. But as the snow fell thicker he grew bewildered, and began to take the situation seriously. Suddenly, as he trudged along, a building loomed up before him through the fallen flakes; it stood where four roads met, and he guessed at once that it was an old turnpike house. On a nearer approach he saw that it was empty; the windows were broken, the door was half open, and it was fenced in by a jungle of bushes like the palace of the Sleeping Beauty.

"At any rate it will be a shelter," he thought; "and when the storm clears off I can get home. Only three o'clock," he added, looking at his watch. "I'll rest a bit."

He broke his way through the drifts which were piled up before the door, and stumbled in. The moment his foot touched the threshold a vague feeling of fear seized upon him; the place was quite empty, thick with dust and festooned with cobwebs. There was not a stick of furniture; yet it seemed to him that there should have been a bare deal table, two deal chairs, and a fire in the grate. "Had he ever been here before?" he asked himself. But he could find no answer to the question. Finally, shaking off the feeling of depression which the influence of this house had brought upon him, he lay down on the bare boards and tried to sleep away the time. In this way, by the degree of some mysterious Power, the man was brought back to the room where his father had been murdered twelve or thirteen years before. And he was ignorant of the terrible truth.

The snow continued to fall steadily, but there was no wind. The absolute quiet was soothing to the tired man, and after a time his eyes closed. For a while he slept peacefully as a child then his face grew dark, his teeth and hands clenched themselves, and he groaned in agony. He dreamt--and this was the manner of his dream:

He was still in the bare room, but a fire burnt in the grate. A table and two chairs furnished the apartment, and made apparent the frightful poverty. The dreamer was no longer a man, but a child playing with a toy horse by the fire. Near the table sat a woman sewing. Then a man entered--the man whose face he had seen in the photograph. A quarrel ensued between him and the woman; the child--the dreamer himself--became suddenly possessed of a blind rage against the man. Then all faded in darkness. He was in bed still a child--again in darkness. Then once more he was in the room. The window was open; near it lay the dead body of the man, the blood welling from his heart. At the door stood the woman, a knife in her hand, a look of terror on her face. Then came rain, and mist, and cold, and the dreamer felt that he was falling into a gulf of darkness, never again to emerge into the light of day. But the woman's face, with blue eyes looking from under a crown of fair hair, still shone like a star in the gloom. It smiled on the dreamer, then it vanished as he awoke with a cry.

Neil Webster sprang to his feet with the perspiration beading his forehead and shaking in every limb. The dream had been so vivid! Was it but a dream? Here was the room, here the open window, and here, where he had seen the dead body of the man, black stains of blood marked the floor. He started back with a cry as he saw it all, and flung himself out into the snow which still kept falling in thick flakes. Away from that house he ran, feeling that he had recovered the memory of his childhood. His father had been murdered. By whom? That was the question he asked himself as he sped onwards through the snow.

"Oh Heavens!" he kept murmuring. "What does it all mean? Why was I sent to that house to learn this terrible truth? Why? Why?"

But the snow fell ever more thickly, and the young man fled along the road. In the same way had his mother fled with him in her arms, fled through the mists to escape the horror of the Turnpike House.

[CHAPTER VI.]

MR. CASS SPEAKS.

Jennie Brawn sat in her bedroom with an agonised took on her face, with inky fingers and tumbled hair. Miss Brawn was courting the Muse.

As yet she had had but ill success, for the Muse was not in a kindly mood.

"If, dear, thou should'st unhappy be, Remember me, Remember me!" murmured the poetess. "I think that will do for a refrain. But how am I to begin? Ah!" with a sudden inspiration. "Spring in the first verse, summer and roses in the second, then winter and dying for an effective finish." And she began to thresh out the first lines.

"The spring is flowering all the world----"

"Humph!" she broke off. "That sounds as though spring were a baker! I must try again."

But before she could think of an alternative line the door burst open and Ruth rushed in violently, all on fire with excitement. "Jennie! Jennie! she cried, plumping down on the bed. I've had a proposal!"

"Oh!" Jennie, quite phlegmatic, laid down her pen. "Geoffrey Heron has you to be his wife?"

"That is the plain English of it, I suppose," Ruth said, impatiently. "Of course I said 'No.'"

"Of course you did," remarked the prosaic Miss Brawn. For prosaic she was in ordinary matters, in spite of her poetic gift. "You are in love with the Master?" She put this in the form of a query.

"Haven't I told you a thousand times!" cried Miss Cass. "I love him as dearly as he loves me."

"That's a pity."

"Why is it a pity?" asked the girl, her face flushing.

"Oh. I know you don't like the truth," Jennie went on, calmly. "But I always tell it, even when it is disagreeable. I don't think you are the kind of wife to suit the Master. You are too impetuous, too fond of admiration. You would never be content to take a back seat."

"I should think not!" cried Miss Cass, indignantly. "Catch me taking a back seat! I want to admired, to have an ample income and a big position. I am an individual, not a piece of furniture."

"Marry Mr. Heron, then," advised Jennie, "and you will have all you wish for. He belongs to a good county family, and can give you a position in society. He has a handsome income, and with your own dowry as well you would be rich."

"But I love Neil," persisted Ruth, piteously.

"Oh, no, you don't. You think you love him, but you are only attracted by his charm of manner."

"I believe you want to marry him yourself," cried Ruth, pettishly.

Jennie flushed, for, unknown to herself, Ruth had touched upon Miss Brawn's romance. She did love Webster, and she would have given many years of her life had that love been returned. But she saw no chance of this, and, like a sensible girl, crushed the passion in its birth.

"I never cry for the moon," she said, quietly "and there is no chance that the Master, who loves beautiful things, will ever fall in love with plain me. But if I were to marry him I should be prepared to make myself his echo--the piece of furniture you so scornfully allude to. Believe me, my dear, it is better in every way that you should reconsider your answer to Mr. Heron."

"I won't! I don't deny that I like Geoffrey very much indeed, and he took his rejection, so kindly, poor fellow, that I did feel very like changing my mind. But Neil--Neil!" Ruth clasped her hands and raised her expressive eyes. "Oh, I can't give him up."

"Perhaps your father will make you."

"No, my father can make me do nothing I have not set my heart on. And when it comes to the point, I'll defy my father."

"That is wrong."

"No, it isn't. I have to live with my husband, whoever he may be, and I have a right to choose him for myself. I choose Neil."

"Humph!" murmured Jennie, shaking her rough head. "You say that now while all is smooth; but if trouble came, and the Master was proved to be an ineligible parti, you would your mind."

"You shall see. Besides, what trouble could come?"

"I merely suggest it. Trouble might come, you know. Life is not entirely sunshine; clouds will arise. Well, when they do, we shall see if you really love the Master. At present it is merely a girl's fancy."

"Why do you talk to me as if you were a grandmother?" cried Ruth, half offended.

"I am young a years but old in experience," said Miss Brawn, with a sigh. "We are nine in our family, and father, as a Civil Service clerk, has only a small income. I have a lot of trouble to make both ends meet, with no mother to help. They all rely on my brain and my fingers, and the responsibility makes me sober."

"Poor dear," said Ruth, kissing the freckled cheek. "I wonder you write poetry with all your anxieties."

"I have to, and when you have to you do," replied Jennie, somewhat incoherently. "I make a very good income out of my verse, though what I get is not what it ought to be. Why, some of my songs have made thousands of pounds, but of course the publisher and composer share that between them. I only get ten guineas or so."

"What a shame!"

"Yes, isn't it. However, I don't want to talk about myself, except to thank you for giving me such a perfectly lovely Christmas. As to your refusal of Mr. Heron, I am sure you are wrong."

"I don't think so. But if I were it would be perfectly easy to whistle him back. At present I intend to marry Neil, and he is going to ask my father's consent to-night, or to-morrow. If there is trouble you shall see how I stand up for him. You write romances, Jennie, I act them." And with a rustle of silken skirts Ruth vanished.

Jennie sighed as she once more took up her pen. It did seem hard that this girl should have all the money, all the looks, and the chance of becoming the Master's wife. Mis Brawn was not an envious person, as we have said, but she could not help grudging Ruth the favours of Fortune which she seemed to value so little.

The Christmas dinner passed off that night in the orthodox fashion. Mr. Cass made the usual speech; the usual compliments were exchanged, and the usual reminiscences indulged in. It was quite a family gathering, save that Mr. Cass's eldest daughter was absent. She was married, and had elected to stay with her husband in London. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Chisel--such was her name--could not approach her sister in the matter of looks, and being of a jealous nature did not like--to use an expressive, if somewhat vulgar, phrase--to take a back seat. Ruth was always the recipient of all the admiration and all the attention, so her sister preferred to stay in a circle wherein her own looks could ensure her a certain amount of queendom. Mr. Cass referred to her absence, drank her health, and considered that he had done his duty.

But he had yet another duty to perform towards his unmarried daughter. It was his intention to speak to Neil Webster that night, and, once and for all, put an end to any hopes that young man might cherish with regard to Ruth. She was the apple on the topmost bough which he could not hope to gather; and it would be as well to inform him of this fact at once. Mr. Cass was, in the main, a kindly man, and, for reasons best known to himself, was well disposed towards Neil. He hated to make trouble at this season of peace and goodwill. But the imminence of the danger forced him on. Besides, he had given a promise to his sister Inez, and he knew very well she would allow him no rest until he had done what she desired.

"How dull you are to-night," whispered Ruth to Neil in the winter garden after dinner. "What is the matter?"

"Nothing. I went out for a walk to-day and I am rather tired."

"Were you caught in the snow?"

"Yes, but I managed to get home all right, as you see. I sought shelter in the old Turnpike House."

Mrs. Marshall, who had seated herself close at hand, started at the words. "The Turnpike House!" she said, anxiously. "Did you go in there."

"Yes, Mrs. Marshall. It was my refuge from the storm."

"Strange!" she murmured, thinking of the crime which had taken place there so many years before--the crime in which the parents of this young man had been concerned. "It has not a good reputation, that house," she added.

Webster fixed his eyes on her. "How is that?" he said.

"Oh, don't you know?" cried Jennie, who had come up to them. "A dreadful murder was committed there! A man was killed, and the house is said to be haunted."

"A man was killed?" repeated Neil, his breath coming quickly. "And who killed him?"

Before Jennie could make reply Mr. Cass, who had been listening uneasily, interposed sharply: "Don't talk of murders, Miss Brawn. The subject is not fit for Christmas. Come and play for Mr. Webster."

"Thank you," the young man said. "I do not think I can play this evening."

There was a murmur of disappointment, but Neil was firm. "I am not very well," he said, wearily. "My nerves again."

"Ah!" remarked Mrs. Marshal, in a low voice. "That comes of going to the Turnpike House."

"Hush!" rebuked her brother under his breath. "Hold your tongue, Inez, and leave me to deal with this."

As there was to be no music, Jennie and Mr. Marshall set to work to amuse the guests, and even Heron took part in the games. But after a time Ruth declared that she could play no longer and abruptly went away. Perhaps Geoffrey's reproachful looks were too much for her equanimity. At all events she sought the empty drawing-room and sat down at the piano. In a few minutes she was joined by Neil.

"Oh! are you here?" she said, coldly enough. "What is the matter?"

"Nothing. I have come to have a few words with you."

"It is rather late in the day, Neil. You were out ail the afternoon, and I was left to Mr. Heron."

"I did not feel well," he said. "But I daresay you were happy with him."

"Indeed I was not. Oh. Neil!" she murmured, looking up at him with eyes shining like stars. "He proposed to me to-day and I refused him."

"My darling," he cried, and then drew back. He was thinking of his dream and wondering if he had the right to hold this girl to her engagement. Ruth misunderstood him and pouted.

"I thought you would be pleased."

"I am pleased. I want you all to myself. All the same, perhaps, you do well to marry Heron."

"Then you don't love me?" she burst out, with wounded pride.

"Love you?" he repeated, fiercely. "Heaven knows I love you than my own soul. But I am beginning to think that I am not a fit husband for you. My position is so insecure, my nerves are in such a wretched state. Then again, your father may object. Indeed, I think he will."

"Why not ask him before you make so certain?" cried the girl, eagerly.

"I will do so to-night, but I tell you frankly, I am prepared for a refusal."

"Oh, no, there will be no refusal. I am sure he will not put any bar between us. Dear Neil, do you not took so sad. I am certain all will be well, and we shall be married sooner than you think."

"Well, it all depends upon your father."

"Indeed, it al depends upon me." Then she rose from the piano. "If you were a true lover, Neil, you would not make all these objections. If you do not care for me I shall marry Mr. Heron."

"Ah! you like him, then?" cried the young man with a pang.

"I like him, but I--love you!" whispered Ruth, and dropping a kiss on his forehead she fled away before he could stop her.

But when alone again she began to wonder whether she really did love him. He was so cold and strange in manner that he sometimes chilled her, and although he persisted in declaring that he loved her, she could not help feeling that something had come between them. What it was she could not think, and his refusal to explain piqued her. She after all, had a right to share his secrets, and he declined to trust her. She was a very good-hearted girl and affectionate; but she thought a great deal of herself, for flattery and adulation had been her portion all her life. Jennie had divined rightly. What she felt for Webster was not so much love for the man as admiration for the artist.

"Wait till he speaks to my father," she said to herself. "If he should consent, Neil will be once more the affectionate fellow he was."

That night came young Webster's opportunity of speaking to Mr. Cass. They found themselves alone in the smoking-room somewhere after eleven. Mrs. Marshall had whisked her husband off, intimating that she wished to speak to him; and as a matter of fact she desired to tell him of her discovery as to Ned's identity. The communication, she knew, would not be a pleasant one for him to hear from his association with the young man's father. Besides which, it is not always agreeable to remember that you have been the friend of a man who has been murdered.

Heron also had left the smoking-room early, so the two who were so desirous of speaking to each other had their wishes gratified.

"You are not in spirits to-night, Neil," the elder man, who always addressed him thus when they were alone. And why not, seeing that Webster was his protege?

"No," was the gloomy reply. "I do not feel satisfied with my position."

"And why not? You have found fame and money, and----"

"I know all that," interrupted Neil, "but I am thinking of my parents. I do not know who they were."

Mr. Cass was quite prepared for this. Indeed, it was not the first time the young man had asked him! and his answer now was the same as he had always made. "I have told you a dozen times that your parents were Americans and died in the States. I knew them intimately, and so was the means of bringing you to England. There is nothing for you to worry about."

"Why cannot I recollect my childhood?" persisted Neil.

"Because you had a severe illness which affected your memory."

"Then there is nothing in my past that I need to be ashamed of?"

"Nothing," if you mean as regards your parents. "As to yourself, my dear Neil, your life has been most exemplary. I am proud of you."

"Are you sufficiently proud of me to let me be your son-in-law?"

Mr. Cass tugged at his long moustache. "I cannot truthfully say that I should like that," he said. "Does Ruth care for you?"

"Yes; we want to marry--with your consent."

"That you shall never have."

"Why not?"

"I don't approve of the marriage. For your own sake, don't ask the reason."

Neil Webster started to his feet with a look of horror. "Ah!" he cried. "Then the dream was true. My father was murdered!"

Mr. Cass rose also pale and agitated. "In Heaven's name who told you that?" he cried.

"I dreamt it in the Turnpike House----"

"The very place," Mr. Cass said, under his breath.

"It was a dream, and yet not a dream," continued Neil. "Myself I believe it was a recovery of the memories which you say were destroyed by illness. Ah! Now I know why you will not let me marry your daughter. It is because I am the son of a murdered man!"

"No," was the deliberate answer. "You may as well know the truth. Your mother is now in prison for the murder of her husband--of your father!"

[CHAPTER VII.]

WEBSTER'S CHILDHOOD.

Knowing what he did of Neil Webster. Mr. Cass quite prepared to see him faint upon hearing the terrible truth. But to his unconcealed astonishment the young man, beyond losing his colour, remained unmoved.

"I should like to hear the whole story, please," he said, quietly.

Mr. Cass was almost frightened by his calmness. "A glass of wine----"

"No. I want nothing. You have told me the worst. What remains to be said can affect me but little. The whole story, please, from the beginning. When I am in possession of the facts I may be able to see some way of saving my mother from her unjust fate."

"Her unjust fate!" repeated Mr. Cass, with a flush. "Why, man alive, she had all the justice the English law could give."

"Did she admit her guilt?

"She neither admitted nor denied it. Not a word would she say, good or bad, for or against. Throughout the trial she maintained an absolute silence, and went to prison uncomplainingly."

"To my mind that looks likes innocence."

The merchant moved restlessly in his chair. "Do not force me to say unpleasant things," he remarked, irritably.

"I want you to say exactly what you feel," retorted Neil. "I am here to hear the truth, however disagreeable. It is only by knowing all that I can help my mother. If you will not tell me, then I must see the lawyers who were concerned in the case. I don't think they will mind giving me pain. But if you are the friend I take you to be, you will speak out."

His self-possession was so much at variance with his usual demeanour that Mr. Cass stared.

"If you will have it, then," he said roughly, "I believe your mother was guilty. Had there been the slightest chance of proving her innocence, she would have done so for your sake."

"Ah! my poor mother!" Nell's face grew soft and tender, and a look of deep affection came into his eyes. "My mother--how she loved me!"

"Can you remember her love?" asked Mr. Cass, doubtfully.

"Now I can." He raised his hand to his forehead. "It all comes back to me--all. That dream has given me the key to the past, and the memories of my childhood rush back upon me. I know how I hated my father"--his face grew dark--"and I know, also, how badly he treated my mother. If she killed him, she did right."

Mr. Cass shuddered. "I quite believe all that," he said, drily. "You were born hating your father, and your mother taught you to look upon him as your worst enemy. That you should deem her action in killing him a right one is exactly what you would believe, having regard to your childish feelings towards him. Indeed, I believe that had you grown up while your father was still in existence you would have killed him yourself."

"Very probably," remarked Neil, just as drily. "Indeed. I did try!"

"What? I don't understand!"

"I daresay not, seeing my mother kept silence from the time of her arrest. But I remember that on the night my father was murdered at the Turnpike House I flew at him with a knife. I forgot all that took place after that, except that I was in the room and saw his dead body lying under the open window--the open window," he repeated, quietly, and with significance. "Do not forget that, Mr. Cass."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that someone else might have killed him. The window was open. Why should it have been open unless the true murderer had gained entrance by it, and had fled through it when his deed was accomplished? I do not believe that my mother is guilty, in spite of her silence. She has some reason for holding her tongue."

"I can't think what the reason can be," replied Mr. Cass, wearily, leaning his head on his hands. "For love of you she would have chosen to remain free; yet when a word--according to you--might have saved her, she held her tongue and risked the gallows."

For the first time Neil Webster shuddered. "How was it she escaped that?" he asked, in a low voice.

"The case was so extraordinary that a petition to the Home Secretary was got up, and he commuted the sentence to one of imprisonment for life. Yet I must tell you the general opinion was that she was guilty. She was pitied for all that when the story of her husband's brutality came out in the evidence."

"And my father?" said Neil, impatiently raising his head. "Tell me more."

Mr. Cass hesitated a moment.

"Jenner deserved his fate. He treated his wife abominably; she had been left to starve. After having been put to many shifts----"

Webster raised his hand with a cry of pain. "I remember; don't!" he said. "My poor mother! I can recall in some degree--that is, so far as a child could have understood--our terrible life in London. Then we came down here."

"Yes, I did what I could for your mother, for I had always respected her very much. But she was a difficult person to manage; and she refused my help on the ground that it was charity."

"So it was," Neil said between his teeth. "And I have lived on your charity ever since!"

"My dear lad"--Mr. Cass laid his hand on the young man's arm--"don't be so thin-skinned. Whatever I have done, you have more than repaid me by your success. And if you feel that you cannot bring yourself to accept the money I have spent upon your education, why, then, pay me a sum to be agreed upon between us. Surely that will set your mind at rest."

Neil shook his head. "The obligation remains the same," he said, gloomily. "I shall ever remain grateful to you, and I will repay the money. I know that whosoever else may be a scoundrel--and the world is full of them--you, at least, are a good man."

Mr. Cass winced as Neil held out his hand. But the feeling passed away in a moment, and he did not refuse the proffer of friendship.

"The best of us are bad," he said, with a sigh, "but I do my best to behave as a man should. However," he added, glancing at the clock, "it is growing late. Will you hear the rest of this story to-morrow morning?"

"No," and Neil settled himself resolutely in his chair. "Now that I have heard so much I want to know all. My mother lived in the Turnpike House, did she not?"

"Yes; it was a tumble-down old place, and belonged to Heron's father."

"To Heron's father?" Neil made a wry face, for he did not like the idea.

"She paid no rent for it," continued Mr. Cass, taking no notice of the interruption. "Heron refused to accept any. Then she did sewing for several people in the village. My sister, Mrs. Marshall, who was then unmarried, gave her work, and sometimes food--when she would accept it, which was not often. In this way, then, she lived, and found all her joy in you!"

"I have a faint memory of that terrible life," said Neil, musingly. "My poor mother, with her bright hair and blue eyes, always so kind and tender to me. Then that night--ah! how it all comes back to me! The dream--the dream!" and in his agitation he rose to his feet. "It was a shadow of the past--that dream. I was playing with a toy horse by the fire; my mother was sewing. Then he came--my father. I remember running at him with a knife, and afterwards--nothing."

"Is that the very last of your memories?" asked Mr. Cass, watching him keenly, and with an uneasiness he found it hard to disguise.

Neil Webster sat down and passed his hand again across his eyes with a weary gesture. "Yes--no--that is, I remember the dead body with the blood--and afterwards the cold--the mist--the--the----" He made a gesture as though brushing away the past. "I remember nothing more!"

"The cold and the mist are easily explained," Mr. Cass said after a pause. "Your mother, after the murder, took you in her arms and fled from the scene of her crime."

"Don t say that!" cried the young man. "Give her the benefit of the doubt."

Mr. Cass smiled sadly. "Unfortunately, there was no doubt, my dear boy. Your father was killed with a buck-handled knife which had been used to cut bread, and----"

"The knife--the knife!" muttered Neil, straining his memory. "Yes, it was with a buck-handled knife I ran at him!"

"The knife was your mother's, and was found beside the body of the dead man. Undoubtedly your father came back after his release from prison, and insulted the woman he had ruined----"

"I can't bear it--not a word more of that. Only the fact."

"Well, there must have been a quarrel, and your mother--goaded beyond herself, no doubt--struck at your father with the knife which was lying on the table."

"How do you know that?"

"Because the table was spread for supper, and the knife was of the kind that is used to cut bread."

"I remember something about eating," muttered Neil. "Go, on, please."

"The murder was discovered next morning by a woman who had gone to the Turnpike House to get Mrs. Jenner was doing for her. She gave the alarm, and suspicion fell at once upon your mother. The police were informed, and search was made. Your mother was found five miles away, under a hedge, insensible, with you in her arms. She had succumbed to cold and but she still lived."

"Would she had died altogether!" said Neil, sadly.

"You were in a high fever, raving mad."

"What did I rave about?"

"About the dead man and the blood; and you frequently cried out to your mother to kill him. That had something to do with bring the crime home to her."

"Cruel--cruel, to take a child's ravings as evidence!"

"That was not done," said Mr. Cass sharply. "The law treated the prisoner"--Neil winced--"perfectly fairly. But the suspicion was instilled into the hearts of those who had heard your words."

"She didn't deny the charge?"

"She denied nothing--hardly opened her mouth, in fact. I got a lawyer to her--I saw her myself and implored her to speak but she obstinately refused. All she asked was, that I should take charge of you, which I promised I would do."

Neil looked up sharply, and asked the pointed question "Why?"

"I don't think you should ask me that," Mr. Cass said, somewhat pained. "Have I not proved myself a friend to you? Was it not natural that I should feel sympathy for a girl who had been a member of my household. Your mother, remember, had been governess to my eldest daughter? And your father had been in my employment. Why should you suspect me of any motive save that of sorrow for the ruin of a woman--whom I had liked as a bright girl--and pity for a helpless child?"

"Forgive me if I am wrong." Neil shook hands with much penitence. "But I am suspicious now of all the world. Heaven help me! Go on."

"There is very little more to tell. I took charge of you as I had promised, and I placed you with Mrs. Jent, who is an old servant of mine. You were seriously ill, and were not expected to live. Seeing that your mother was in gaol and your father dead by her hand, I used to think sometimes that it would have been better for you to have died."

"I'm glad I did not," cried Neil with vehemence. "I have lived to vindicate my mother's innocence."

"You are not likely to where others have failed," Mr. Cass said, sadly. "However, although I thought it would better for yourself and for all concerned that you should not recover, I did not feel justified in letting you slip through my fingers. I got the best doctors to see you, and they managed to pull you round after months of suspense. But the memory of your childhood, up to the time of your illness, was gone from you for ever. It was just as well, seeing how terrible that childhood had been. I made no attempt to revive your dormant memory, and I warned Mrs. Jent not to say anything either. We supplied you with a fictitious past."

"I know," said Neil, with a faint smile. "The American parents! I believed in them until I went to New York. Then I made enquiries; but as I could find no trace of them, and could hear nothing about them, I began to doubt their existence. If it had not been for my relating that dream, you would not have informed me of the truth."

"No," Mr. Cass said, honestly. "I would not, seeing what pain it must have inflicted upon you. I should have simply requested you to forget Ruth, and go away; the rest I would have spared you."

"I thank you for your forbearance," Neil said, politely, but coldly. "But Providence knew that I had a duty to perform, and so gave me back the past. Oh, it was no miracle!" he went on, with a shrug. "I am not a believer in the supernatural, as you know. I can see how it all came about. Can't you?"

"No; I confess that I am amazed that the dream should have been so accurate, or, indeed, that it should have come to you at all."

"Dreams, I have heard, are only the impressions of our waking hours in more confused forms," said Webster, quietly. "And as I had received no injury to the brain itself, my memory was only dormant, not destroyed. It was awakened by the sight of the face in that photograph."

"Ah! so it was," Mr. Cass said. "And the sight recalled your instinctive hatred for the man. That was why you fainted."

"Exactly; and no doubt, all that night, my brain was busily running back through the years. Then I found the Turnpike House."

"What took you there?"

Neil shrugged his shoulders. "It might have been accident; but I do not think it was. My own belief is that the awakening of memory drew me there, and when I got into that room all came back to me in my sleep. However, I know the truth now, so nothing else matters. Henceforth I devote myself to proving the innocence of my mother."

"You will never do that," Mr. Cass said, decisively.

"You think so because you believe her guilty."

"I believe her wrongs drove her mad, and that it was in a fit of madness she killed her husband. Yes."

"Well, I don't agree with you," Neil said. "The first thing I intend to do is to see her. Where is she?"

Cass wrote down the information on a slip of paper, and threw it across the table to the young man. "But I think you are starting on a wild-goose chase," he said. "Take my advice, and leave the matter alone. You are Neil Webster, the violinist. You have no connection with crime!"

"No, I am Gilbert Jenner, the son of a murdered man and of a woman wrongfully accused. I loved your daughter, Mr. Cass--I love her still--but I give her up. I will not see her again. To-morrow morning I leave this house for ever!"

"No," said his host, with decision. "If you intend to make an attempt to prove your mother's innocence, I have a right to help you, and to know your plans. So be it. Do your appointed work." He offered his hand. "As to Ruth----"

Neil interrupted him. "She is a dream of the past. My new life has nothing to do with love--but with revenge."

[CHAPTER VIII.]

HERCULES AND OMPHALE.

The next morning Neil Webster was conspicuous by his absence. His excuse was that he had been suddenly recalled to town on business. Mrs. Marshall was not deceived, and on the first available opportunity she drew her brother aside.

"You have got rid of him, I see," she remarked, with evident satisfaction. "But Ruth will not submit quietly to all this. In the first place, she will refuse to believe that he has given her up; such a sacrifice is beyond the conception of a pretty girl. In the second----"

"Wait a bit, Inez. Let us dispose of Number One first of all. Ruth will be convinced that Webster has given her up, for the simple reason that he has left a letter telling her so."

"Ah! Then that is wily she has not come down to breakfast. I daresay she is weeping and storming in her room. I'll go and----"

"No, no. Leave her alone. If you go and annoy her, there is no knowing what she will do. You know how headstrong-----"

"You should have trained her better," said his sister.

"All the training in the world will not tame our mother's blood in her--or in you, for the matter of that!"

"I know I am strong-minded, if that is what you mean."

"Well, if you like to call obstinacy strongmindedness, there is no need to argue. No doubt we both mean the same thing----"

"With a difference," finished Mrs. Marshall.

Jennie Brawn was loud in her lamentations when she came to hear of the Master's departure. She went at once to Ruth, and found that young lady far from tearful, pacing her bedroom in a towering rage. Jennie paused at the door; she saw that Ruth had a pencil-scribbled note in her hand.

"What is the matter?" asked Miss Brawn, amazed at this exhibition of temper. Ruth pounced upon her.

"Matter enough!" she cried, flourishing the letter. "Here is Neil gone to town in the most unexpected manner--without even an excuse to me! Read this, Jennie."

"He says he is called away on business," said that young lady, when she had mastered the contents of the note. "Well, that is, no doubt, the truth!"

"The truth! Pshaw! You don't know men, my dear. They tell lies in the most plausible manner. But Neil cannot deceive me! All I want to know is who the woman is!"

Miss Brawn's freckled face grew crimson. "You have no right to say such a thing as that! It is not like a lady!"

"I am a woman before I am a lady," cried Ruth. "And a jealous woman at that. Don't I know how all the creatures swarm after him just because he is handsome and famous! He has told me all sorts of things about the notes and the presents they send him, and----"

"It was not nice of him to do that," remarked Jennie, for once blaming her idol.

"Well,"--Ruth dropped into a chair fairly worn cut by her rage--"it was not his fault. I worried him into telling me everything. He did not want to--I must do him that justice."

"How did you worry him into betraying others?"

"You are a woman and ask that? Oh, I forgot--you are not in love--or rather, no man is in love with you. Why, you stupid little creature if a man loves a woman, he'll do anything she tells him. Besides, he did not mention names; he only told me that he got heaps of presents and letters. But I want to know who the woman is he has gone up to meet."

"I daresay there is no woman."

"My dear Jennie, you don't know men."

"Mr. Webster is devoted to you."

"So he says. Humph!"

"Ruth! Why, he shews it in every way."

"All put on!" cried Miss Cass, determined not to be pacified. "But I'll get the truth out of my father. I hear from the servants that Neil was with him in the library for three hours last night."

"Then that is the explanation. Your father has refused his consent to the marriage, and the Master has gone away."

"Nonsense! Do you think he would give me up like that, and leave me so cold a letter? No. There is something else--a woman, I am sure. But I'll get the truth out of my father. I have as wild a temper as Aunt Inez when I am roused. I can be nice enough, Jennie, as you know, but, oh, how nasty I can be when I make up my mind!"

"You have evidently made up your mind now," said Miss Brawn, who had known all about Ruth's temper when they were at school together. And at this juncture, judging from previous experience, she considered it prudent to retire, before she herself could be brought under the harrow.

Ruth, left alone, did not rage any more. She put on her prettiest dress, bathed her eyes, which were reddened with tears, and went down to try and cajole her father.

Mr. Cass was in the library; and one look at her face was enough to tell him why she had come. He argued, however, from her studied amiability, that she was in a particularly aggravating mood. But long experience of his mother and sister had taught him how to deal with this sinister sweetness. He was immediately on his guard; for, as he well knew, if the truth was to be got out of him, his daughter was the one to get it.

"Dear papa," she said, sinking into a chair beside the desk and patting his hand. "I am in great trouble."

"I know,"--determined that he would carry the war into the enemy's camp. "Mr. Webster was with me last night."

Ruth started to her feet with a tragic expression on her face. "And you have forbidden our marriage!" she cried, and her air was that of a Siddons.

"What else did you expect?" her father asked. "Neil is a good fellow, but he is not the son-in-law I want. And, indeed, I should be sorry, for his own sake, to see him marry you. He is too gentle and kind. What you want, my young lady, is a master."

"No man shall ever master me," his daughter said, calmly. "And has he given me up without a word?"

"No; he said a good many words. But I am adamant, so far as this ridiculous marriage is concerned. He accepted the inevitable after some fighting, and took his departure this morning before you were up. I see," he added, glancing at the note in her hands, "that he has written to you."

"Yes." Ruth gave it to him. "But it explains nothing."

"It explains all there is to explain," said Mr. Cass. "Let the matter drop now. Neil has gone away on business; so we will say nothing about his love for you. You'll soon get over it."

"Indeed I shan't!" sobbed the girl, now on the tearful tack. "It is cruel of you to send him away when I love him so. I don't believe he gave me up because you refused. There is something else."

"There is nothing else." Mr. Cass's tone was decisive.

But Ruth's fine ear caught something of hesitation in his voice, and she dropped her handkerchief from her eyes with a triumphant air. "I knew there was something else. What is it--something about his parents?"

Mr. Cass started and changed colour at this chance shot. "Good Heavens, child! Who told you anything about his parents?" he said; and no sooner had he said it than he repented his rashness. For thereby she had gained an advantage which she would not be slow to seize.

"Why," she said, very slowly, with her eyes fixed on her father's perturbed face, "it was just this way. Neil told me all about his parents having died in America, and how you had brought him up at Bognor."

"Did he tell you nothing else?" Mr. Cass was beginning to feel that she was too much for him.

This was an opportunity which the girl was too clever to lose. "Well, he did not tell me everything," she said. "He couldn't, you know."

"I'm glad he had that much sense," Mr. Cass said, with relief.

"Ah, papa, now I have caught you!" cried Miss Cass, clapping her hands. "I know nothing, then, except that you brought him up. But you admit there is something else which has stopped the marriage?"

He saw that he had been over-reached. "I can tell you nothing," he said.

"Very well, papa," she said, turning to go, "I'll write to Neil and ask him to tell me the truth."

"He won't tell you."

"Oh, yes, he will. He loves me, and I can get any thing out of him."

"Girl! Ruth,"--her father seized her arm--"if you can be sensible, do not write to Webster. He has gone out of your life of his own free will."

"I will never--never believe that!" and she flushed angrily. "Do you think I don't know when a man loves me or not? I will see him and learn the truth."

"I forbid it, and Ruth saw that her father was very angry. With the cunning of a woman who is determined to get her way, she suddenly yielded, feeling that she could best gain her ends under the mask of peace.

"Very well, papa," she said, with a few tears; "but it is very hard on me. I love him, and you have sent him away--for no fault of his own, I'm sure."

"He is not in fault--he is unfortunate----"

"In his parents?" she asked.

"Amongst other things," was the reply. "My dear child"--he took her hand--"if you are wise, you will leave things as they are. I should like you to marry Heron; but if you do not wish it. I will not press the matter. As to Neil, put him out of your head, once and for all. He can never be your husband! Now go." And he pushed her gently outside the library door.

"What on earth can it be?" thought the girl, as she took her way to the winter garden. "Has Neil committed some crime, or has----"

She had reached this point in her meditations when she suddenly came upon Mr. Marshall. He was pale, and had a look of alarm on his face. When he saw her he gave a startled cry. "Why, good gracious, uncle, what is the matter?" asked Ruth.

"Oh, it's you!" replied Marshall. "I thought--never mind what I thought. I'm upset."

"Oh, Aunt Inez has been giving you a bad time," said the girl, with some amusement. She knew very well what a tight hand that lady kept over her elderly Don Juan; and when her uncle nodded, she continued: "I am upset myself, uncle. He has gone away!"

"Are you talking of Neil Webster?" he asked, with an obvious effort.

"Yes; did you know how much I cared for him, uncle--and--what's the matter?"

For Mr. Marshall, with an ejaculation, had jumped up and was looking at her with an expression of dismay. "Nothing is the matter," he gasped, and it was quite evident that he was not speaking the truth. "But I must confess I did not know that you cared for him. Ridiculous! Why, he can never marry you."

"So papa says," replied Ruth, somewhat disconsolately. "He has refused his consent."

"Quite right--quite right. Ruth, put the ocean between yourself and that man; but never have anything to do with him. It is"--he looked--round and approached his lips to her ear--"it is dangerous. Don't say I told you!" And before she could recover from her astonishment he had slipped away with an alacrity surprising in so heavy a man.

Ruth remained standing, utterly perplexed by the manner of her usually careless and good-natured uncle. "I wonder if he knows why Neil has gone away?" she thought. "I will find out the reason," she went on to herself "I am as obstinate as they are. Since they won't tell me I will write to Neil."

This she proceeded to do, demanding to know the cause of his departure. "If you love me as you say, you will not give me up at my father's bidding. I am ready to brave his anger for your sake. Can you not be as brave as I?"

The reply came, as she had expected, by return, and it was with a violently beating heart that she tore it open. "I must give you up," he wrote. It is in vain to fight against the destiny that parts us. I love you still; but it is my duty to forget you. Do the same, for only in that way can you be happy.

"Oh, he is mad!" cried Ruth, angrily. "And if he thinks he can put me off in this way he will find his mistake. I will know!" She stamped her foot. "I will--I will!"

Notwithstanding Ruth's refusal of him, Geoffrey Heron had not gone away; he was too deeply in love with her for that, and remained like a moth fluttering round a candle. Sometimes he felt annoyed with himself; but he was no longer his own master. Then, much to his surprise, the girl sought him of her own free will. He was delighted, though he wisely strove not to shew it. She suggested a walk, in order that they might not be interrupted.

After some preliminary skirmishing, she led the conversation up to the departure of Neil Webster.

"I am sorry," she said, with a sigh.

"You need hardly tell me that," replied Geoffrey, not very amiably, for he was annoyed by the speech and the sigh. "I know he is the lucky man."

"If he is lucky, he does not value his luck."

"What do you mean? I understood from Miss Brawn that you were engaged to marry him."

"Ah! that's just it. I was engaged, but now--he has gone away without a word. I don't believe he cares one bit about me."

"What a fool! Oh, Ruth, if you only knew!"

"I do know," she said, kindly; "you want me to be your wife. Well, I refused, because I could not really love you; but you know that I do like you extremely."

"Even that is something."

"And if it were not for Neil--well, I might bring myself to marry you."

"No," he said, firmly. "I also have my pride. Much as I want you to be my wife, I will not consent to that unless you can tell me that you love me."

"Won't liking do?"

"No,"--gruffly--"liking will certainly not do."

"I might grow to love you in time."

"I wish you could--but--what does all this mean?"

She thought for a moment; then she said: "I hope you won't think me bold for speaking openly. But the fact is--well, I was engaged to Neil, and he--he has broken our engagement."

"Ah!" exclaimed the young man. "And how can I remedy the situation?"

"Go to him and ask why he went away."

"I cannot. Do you expect me to bring my rival back to you?"

"If you loved me and wished me to be happy, you would."

"I don't want to see you happy with another fellow," and his manner was eminently human. "I want you to myself."

"Well, you will not get me by behaving in this way!" cried Ruth, now thoroughly exasperated. "This is the very first time I have ever asked you to do anything for me, and you refuse!"

Geoffrey temporised. "Supposing Webster were to persist in his refusal to come back to you, would there be a chance for me?"

Miss Cass looked straight before her, with her nose in the air.

"I really don't know," she said coldly. "I make no bargains."

"Very well," said Geoffrey, most unexpectedly, "I'll do it."

[CHAPTER IX.]

THE EMBASSY OF GEOFFREY HERON.

Within that week the house party at Hollyoaks broke up. Mr. and Mrs. Marshall returned to their own house, which was only four miles away; Jennie Brawn went back to Bedford-park and the family of nine; and Geoffrey Heron took his way to his London Chambers. So Ruth was left to the society of her father, and she made up her mind that she would say no more about Neil. Indeed, she half intimated to Mr. Cass that she might, after all, marry her other lover--an intimation which delighted the worthy merchant beyond words.

"You are a sensible girl after all, Ruth," he said. "Believe me, you would do wisely. You see my love, you could not have been really in love with Webster, since you have so soon forgotten him."

She answered him meekly enough.

"I daresay you are right, papa, Neil has behaved very badly to me, and I think no more of him."

"Poor fellow," sighed Mr. Cass!

"Really, papa," exclaimed the girl, "you are difficult to please. At your desire I have given him up: now you think I have treated him badly."

"My dear, I said nothing of the sort," protested the embarrassed Mr. Cass. "All the same, I wish he had not set his heart on you."

"Oh, he has not done that, or he would not have been so ready to give me up."

"My dear, you do not understand."

Ruth went away thinking over this last speech. "No," she murmured to herself, "I do not understand, but I shall soon. I ought to hear from Geoffrey in a few days. After all, I am really beginning to think I like him better than Neil. What Jennie said was quite right, although I would not for the world acknowledge it to her. I am not the wife for a man like him. I want to be considered, and I am sure Geoffrey would do all in his power to please me and to make me happy. Neil? Well, I think he might have been rather a trial."

A week after Neil's departure, Mr. Cass received a letter from him which caused the worthy merchant much perplexity. He shut himself up in his library to think it over. Webster had gone away with the fullest intention of proving his mother's innocence, yet this short letter intimated that he had abandoned the idea. "I have seen my mother," he wrote, "and I see it is best to take your advice and let sleeping dogs lie. I am going abroad shortly, and it is not likely that I shall see you for many months. Never again will I come to your house; and I only hope that you will impress upon Ruth the necessity of forgetting me as speedily as possible. I cannot trust myself to see her again, so I must leave this task to you."

"Poor lad!" sighed Mr. Cass, as he finished the letter. "It is bitter for him that he should have to suffer for the sins of his parents. But I wonder why he has stopped short in his endeavour to prove Mrs. Jenner's innocence? What can she have said to him? I have a good mind to see him--or her," he added as an after-thought; then changed his mind. "No, it would only revive sad memories. The matter is settled by this letter, and it is best to let sleeping dogs lie. I will think no more of it."

So he said, but so he did not do. His conscience frequently took pleasure in reminding him of the whole story, and despite all his philosophical resolves to "let sleeping dogs lie," he knew very well that he ought to rouse them. But this he could not bring himself to do. Too much was at stake, and a bolder man than Mr. Cass would have shrank from the consequences. In this frame of mind he did his best to argue that he was right, and--he failed in the attempt.

Meanwhile Geoffrey was in town. He had learnt from Ruth that Neil occupied rooms in the Waverley Hotel in Cherry-square, a quiet, unpretentious establishment.

Three times Heron called at the hotel, only to be told that Mr. Webster was out of town. The fourth time he was more lucky and found the young man at home.

Neil Webster looked extremely ill; dark circles under his eyes told of sleepless nights, and his restless movements hinted at a nervous system which had gone to pieces. Moreover, his lips were dry, his eyes feverishly bright.

The room was luxuriously furnished. The prevailing colour was a dark red, and on the walls were hung portraits of his favourite composers. Curiously enough, the furniture was upholstered in a soft shade of grey, the effect of which in the warm-tinted room was, to say the least, of it, somewhat odd. A revolving bookcase, filled with books--mostly of poems--stood near a Louis Quinze escritoire; but the glory of the room was a magnificent grand piano standing alone at one end of the apartment.

"I suppose you are surprised to see me, Webster?" said the young squire abruptly.

"Well, I must admit that I am. We could hardly be called the best of friends at any time, I think."

"Still, we have not been enemies, Webster. Because two men may happen to be rivals they need not have a bad opinion of each other."

"You are very good," Neil said, faintly.

"Don't be sarcastic; there is no need, I assure you."

The remark made Webster laugh.

"Why do you laugh?" asked the other, sharply.

"I was wondering whether I could make a friend of you, and the thought of our relative positions with Miss Cass made me scout the possibility. We can never be friends."

"Why not? I like you very well. I don't see why you should be so bitter to me."

"I am not bitter. In fact, you would be my friend, I think, if it were not for Miss Cass."

"I am ready to be your friend in any case," said Heron, quickly. "And don't think me a mean brute to hate a man because he is more lucky than I."

"Lucky!" sighed Neil, sitting up. "Heaven help you if you are not a luckier man than I. Well, when we know one another better we may be friends. I need one badly enough, Heaven knows. But, first of all, to pave the way to our better acquaintance, why have you come here?"

"I will answer you frankly. Miss Cass has informed me that you have broken off your engagement to her. Now, you know that I am very much in love with her, and that I wish her to be my wife. She loves you, I think----"

"No, pardon me," Webster said, lifting one thin hand. "She does not really care for me. I have come to that conclusion after much thought. She admires my talents, but you possess what wins a woman's eyes and her heart in the long run--strength."

"You are complimentary," Heron said, good-humouredly, "but I think most women would admire you. All I want to know is whether your engagement with Miss Cass is really at an end, because in that case I'll sail in and try my luck."

Webster leant back. It was hard to give up this girl, and although he had really done so, yet there was the official announcement to be made. But it had to be done, for, knowing what he knew, he felt that no truly honest man in his place would hold her to her promise. So Neil braced himself up to make the sacrifice, and spoke out with decision:

"My engagement to Miss Cass is at an end," he said. "She will never be my wife, nor is it probable that I shall ever see her again. She is free to marry you, indeed, I hope she will, and"--here his voice quivered--"I wish you joy."

"Well," Heron said, thoughtfully, "I can't deny that I am glad to hear this, for Ruth Cass is all the world and more to me. At the same time time I am sorry, for I can see that you feel this very deeply. Is it of your own free will that you do this?" and he eyed Webster curiously.

"In one way it is, in another it is not. A few weeks ago I had a right to marry her, now I have none."

"Can I help you?" Heron asked.

"No, no. Impossible!"

The man was so shaken and ill that Geoffrey asked no more questions. He went over and shook hands. "As you have withdrawn I will try my luck. But, I also may fail; and if I do I hope I shall bear the disappointment as well as you do. If you will allow me I will come and see you again."

"I shall be glad to see you. But are you not going back to Hollyoaks?

"No," replied Geoffrey. "I shall be in town for a week or so, and if I can see you again so much the better."

"Come by all means, then. I am usually at home during the evening. I'm afraid I can't ask you to dine just now. I really do not feel well enough."

"That's all right," Heron said, brightly. "I know you feel bad, but you have behaved like a Briton." Than which Geoffrey thought there could not be higher praise. "And if I can help you in any way I will. I have an idea, you know, that we shall be friends, after all."

"We have made a good start, anyhow," said Neil. "Good-bye."

When Geoffrey had gone, the unhappy man buried his face in the sofa cushions and wept bitterly. He had crushed down his feelings throughout the interview; but now Nature would have her way.

"Oh, Heavens!" he wailed. "Shall I ever know peace again?"

[CHAPTER X.]

THE GREAT SECRET.

It was small wonder that Neil had decided to give Ruth up. For the first time he saw what he was--a miserable creature, who, in marrying, would be committing a deadly sin. It was not to be thought of; and he thanked Heaven that he had self-command sufficient to put temptation away from him. His renunciation of her was, to him, the least of his sorrows.

He found some comfort in the visits of Geoffrey Heron, who came almost every day and sat long with the unfortunate man, although he could not in the least understand his sufferings. But he strove to talk of general subjects which would draw his mind away from the one on which he was brooding. And in the main he succeeded, though when he had gone, Neil always relapsed into the torture of thought whence he had been drawn for the moment.

During these visits Neil observed his visitor closely, and very soon came to the conclusion that he was a right good fellow with vastly more heart than the general mass of humanity. Once or twice he found himself on the point of confiding in him and asking his advice: but a feeling of dread withheld him. He liked Heron he enjoyed his company; and he was afraid of losing him. So he tried to put himself aside, and insisted that he was not as ill as he looked. But the crisis came one evening when Geoffrey was with him. Neil had been very ill all day; and when the young squire entered shortly after eight o'clock, he found him lying on the sofa almost in a fainting condition. Geoffrey was alarmed.

"I tell you what, old chap, you should see a doctor," he said.

Neil shook his head. "Doctors can do no good; all their drugs cannot cure me. What is it Macbeth says, 'Thou canst not minister to a mind diseased.'"

"But your mind is not diseased."

"How do you know that?" He clenched his hands. "I have not told you my secret."

"No and I don't want to know it."

"What! You don't want to know why I gave Miss Cass up?"

"No; for then I should have to tell her--she would get it out of me in some way. You know what women are."

"I know what one woman is, at least; and she is a mother," murmured Neil. "No, you must not tell Ruth; it could do no good, and might do much harm."

"Then speak of something else. You are exciting yourself unnecessarily."

Even as he spoke, the nerve storm came on with unusual violence; the wretched man seemed possessed by seven demons which tore him in pieces; he rose from his seat and strode furiously about the room, trying to prevent himself from crying out. Finally, he dropped exhausted into a chair and sobbed violently. Geoffrey Heron, quite astonished at this outburst, hastily got a glass of water, but in seizing it, Webster broke it with the strength of his grasp. "I must tell you--I must!" he panted. "I must tell someone, or die. My mother is in prison--on a charge of murder; she was accused of killing--killing, I say--my father!" And he fell back weeping, trembling, completely crushed.

"Good Heavens cried Heron, stepping back. His pity for the poor young fellow was sincere; and now he felt he could understand in some degree what a torture his life had been to him. He could understand, moreover, why Neil had surrendered all claim to the hand of Ruth.

"You--you--won't tell her?"

"No; on my honour, I won't," said Geoffrey. "I wish you had not told me; but now that I do know, your secret is, at any rate, safe with me."

"The valerian," said Neil, nodding towards the sideboard, and while Heron got it, he loosened his collar and drenched himself with cold water. Then he mixed a stiff dose of the drug, and drank it it with a sigh of relief. Heron looked at him anxiously.

"I had better go now, hadn't I?" he said. "You must go to bed. To-morrow morning----"

"No--no. I shall be all right soon; the valerian will soothe me. I have told you so much that I must tell you all. I should have said nothing about it but for the nervous fit which came over me just now. Sit down."

Accordingly, Geoffrey waited, lighting a cigar the while. Now that the information had been imparted to him almost against Webster's will, he was anxious to hear the whole story; he determined that Ruth, at least, should never know it. Try as she might, she would never get it out of him. He made up his mind, too, that he would be a friend to the unfortunate creature who was so cruelly afflicted. Not only that, but he would give what advice and aid lay in his power to ameliorate the situation. But he doubted whether the position could be amended.

Neil thanked him by a look, and returned to his sofa in a quieter frame of mind; the fury of the attack had left him weak and faint, but he insisted on speaking, and as he did so, his strength gradually came back. To Geoffrey this sudden recuperation seemed little short of miraculous, for he was quite unaware of the power of the nerves to recover themselves.

"I had better begin by asking you a few questions," he began.

"But are you sure you are strong enough?"

"I shall be all right directly. The truth has to be told now; and, moreover, I want your advice."

"I'll do anything in my power," Heron said.

"You are a good fellow. How I have misunderstood you! Well, I will repay you by giving up Ruth to you; I shall never marry her, nor, indeed, anyone. Heaven help me!"

"Why not?" Geoffrey, asked.

"You have seen what I am. What sort of husband or father should I make? But this is beside the point. Hear what I have to tell, and advise me what to do. In the first place, do you know the Turnpike House?"

"Great Heavens! Are you talking about that murder?"

"Yes, I daresay you remember it."

"Remember it! I should think so. Why, nothing was talked about at Westham for months but that crime. A man was found in the house stabbed to the heart; his wife was accused of the murder; she was taken, with her child, while trying to escape."

"Yes," was the calm reply. "My father was the murdered man, my mother was the woman accused of the crime, and I the child."

"Then your name is Jenner?"

"Yes a name to be proud of, is it not? But I have not the courage to take it. Ugh!" He shuddered. "Think, if all that were known! How could I appear in public? People would come, not to hear me play, but to see a man who had been connected with a mysterious crime--whose mother was suffering punishment for that crime! I should kill myself if it were known."

"There will be no need to kill yourself. You are absolutely safe with me."

"But if Ruth should ask you?"

"Ruth shall never hear it from me. When I said just now that she might cajole we, I was thinking of trivial things; but this terrible story shall remain a secret for ever. You can speak to me as you would to a confessor. There are some things, Webster, which a man does not do; and this is one of them. I am glad you have told me."

"I am glad you know," sighed Neil. "It will ease my mind to tell you all. Now listen," and he recounted all the circumstances--his dream, and the causes which had led up to his identification as the son of the accused woman. Geoffrey was more startled than ever, especially when Mr. Cass's name was mentioned.

"And does he know all this?" he asked. Then, in reply to Neil's nod, he added: "No wonder he would not let you marry his daughter!"

"No wonder," said the young man, bitterly. "Touch pitch and defile yourself; but it was not he who stopped the marriage--it was myself. I would rather die than marry. See what I am--a mass of nerves; think of the terrible history of my parents. Then imagine me asking any woman to share my misery! Well, now that you know all, what do you say?"

Heron looked rather helplessly at him. "What can I say?" he remarked, hesitatingly. "It seems that your mother murdered your father under great provocation, and is now in prison. Well, I think it would be best for you to put the matter out of your head, and go abroad. It is not the slightest use you seeing her."

"I have already done so," Neil said, quietly.

Geoffrey started from his seat. "You visited her in prison?" he asked

"Yes; I learnt where she was from Mr. Cass, and I went to see her at once. For I loved my mother, as much as I hated my father. Poor mother! Her hair is white now, and her fact lined; but she was mad with joy at first on seeing me, and then very angry."

"Why was she angry?"

"Ah, that is the strangest part of the whole affair! I am now going to tell you something that no one else knows--not even Mr. Cass."

"Fire ahead!"

"When I went to the prison," Neil continued, "I did not believe that my mother was guilty. Cass had told me she was but I did not agree with him. Only from her own lips would I learn the truth, and to the prison I went in order to learn it. I saw the governor, and asked to see Mrs. Jenner, but did not give my real name; I merely said that I was a distant relative of hers, and wanted an interview. Well, I saw her--alone."

"Were you allowed to do that? I thought----"

"That a woman warder would be present? Well, one was, but she stayed outside the door, where she could hear little, if anything. We were practically alone."

"Did she recognise you?"

"At once. Ah Heron, you don't know what a mother's love is. Yes; she knew me, for I am the very image of what she was in youth. I have her fair hair and blue eyes; but not her good looks. She knew me, but she would only half admit it."

"Why was that?"

"Well, for one reason, because the warder was outside, and she did not wish our relationship known. Another was that she feared to give way altogether if she once said that I was her son. So all the time she addressed me as Mr. Webster; and she talked of her son to me."

"She must be a woman of wonderful self-command," said Geoffrey, now thoroughly interested. "A woman in a thousand, as you will admit before I have done. Ah, what a mother! Was there ever such a noble creature? Well, addressing me always as I have said, she said that her son had been taken away to be brought up by Mr. Cass in ignorance of his parentage; and that this had been done at her own special request. She did not want her son ever to know of her existence, or of her history, nor did she wish ever to see him. She was dead to him, and desired that he should regard her as dead also."

"A painful position for you."

"Heaven knows how painful!" He was sitting up now, and speaking rapidly. "I fell into her humour, for her eyes warned me to do that. Besides, she stood aloof, and refused to respond to my feelings. I accepted the situation, and told her that her son was a violinist and famous. I am afraid I talked a great deal too much about myself, and in a boastful vein too. But you will understand that, Heron. I wanted to give her all the joy I could. I wanted to prove to her that her sacrifice had not been in vain."

"Sacrifice? What on earth do you mean by that?"

"Ah! Now comes the most painful part of the story. I asked her if she were truly guilty, but she refused to answer. And I knew in my heart that she was innocent. I saw a look in her eyes which asked how I--her own son--could dare to doubt her innocence. But not a word did she say."

"And you--what did you say?"

"I told her--still in the character of a relative--that I did not believe she killed Jenner--for by that name I spoke of him--and I declared that I intended to devote my life to proving her innocence, and that I was about to re-open the case."

"What happened then?" asked Geoffrey, seeing, from the growing agitation of the young man, that he was coming to the crisis of his painful tale.

"She became angry, and was violently moved. After glancing at the door, she abandoned the attitude she had taken up, of treating me as a stranger, and forbade me to re-open the case; she commanded me to leave things as they were. I refused I swore that I would set her free. In a low voice she implored me to let the matter rest; again I refused, and in spite of all that she could say, I held to my purpose. By this time, as you will understand, we had abandoned our masks. At last she clapped her hands, and said that there was no help for it."

"No help for what?"

"I am about to tell you. She caught me by the hand, and bent forward to speak in a whisper; and these are her very words: 'Do nothing; I suffer for your sake.'"

"Great Heavens! Do you mean to say that she hinted that it was you who killed him?"

"She did more than hint. She said that I did. She told me that on that night she had gone away to get some money for my father; that while she was in another part of the house she heard a cry, and came back to the room to find me there standing beside the dead body of my father--the knife still in my hand. She was certain that I had done it, for earlier in the evening I had rushed at him with the same knife. Seeing that my hatred for him was in part her work, she determined to save me, and rushed away into the night and the mist with me in her arms. She was taken, and accused of the crime; for my sake, she held her tongue and suffered. No one knows this--not even Mr. Cass, to whom she gave me that I might be brought up by a good man. All this she told me in a low, hurried voice. Then she bade me leave matters as they were, or her curse would be upon me! I promised to do nothing-she made me promise--then I left her. Since then--oh, what a life mine has been!" and he flung himself on the sofa to bury his face in the cushions.

Heron pitied him sincerely. "Are you sure that this is true?" he asked. "For it seems to me that if you had really been guilty of killing your father, you would have remembered something about it."

"No, I do not think so; I am subject to trances; and on that night, agitated as I was by the sight of my father, I fell into one. I must have done the thing as in a dream; then passed at once into the fever which robbed me of my memory until it was revived by the dream. I can remember my childhood now, but I certainly remember nothing about the murder. My last memory is that of rushing at my father with the knife with which I afterwards killed him. It must be true; yes, I am a criminal!

"Nonsense! A boy of ten, and mad for the time being! You are not a criminal; no one could say so. If your mother had been wise, she would have told the truth so as to save herself."

"She preferred to save me; and if she had explained all this, who would have believed her? No one. She would simply have been accused of trying to prove me guilty in order to hide her own sin. But now that you know all, I want to have your advice. How am I to act?"

"Leave things as they are," Geoffrey said, promptly.

"But my mother is innocent."

"I know--if what she says is true."

"I believe it!" Neil cried. "I really believe it."

"Ah but will anyone else? To me, I confess, it seems a trifle far-fetched. Even if you came forward and accused yourself, the whole story rests on her evidence, and you will not be believed. No, Webster; leave the matter as it stands, and stick to the name you are known by. Your mother wishes it; and since she has done so much for you, it is only right you should obey her."

"I don't know what to do." Neil clasped his hands. "Shall I remain silent?"

"Take my advice, and remain silent," Heron replied, and he meant what he said. "And remember," he added, "that I am always your friend friend."

[CHAPTER XI.]

RUTH'S DIPLOMACY.

Whatever might have been Neil Webster's intentions as to saving his mother by proving himself guilty, they were frustrated by a severe illness. His body could no longer bear the strain of constant worry and mental torture, and he was seized with an attack of brain fever. Then it was that Heron proved himself indeed a friend; he attended to the sick man and procured for him the very best advice. No brother could have done more for the poor fellow than did Geoffrey. Putting entirely aside his desire to be near Ruth and to prosecute his courtship, he devoted himself to restoring Neil to health.

Furthermore, at his friend's special request in the early stages of his illness, Geoffrey took all measures to prevent Mr. Cass hearing of the precarious state in which he lay. For Neil considered that the merchant had done quite enough for him and did not wish to give him any more trouble; so Geoffrey informed Mr. Cass that the young violinist had gone abroad for a rest by the advice of his doctor. Then he had him removed to Bognor and placed under the charge of Mrs. Jent, impressing upon her the necessity for secrecy. Thus it came about that for nearly two months he lay ill in bed at Bognor without any suspicion being aroused in Mr. Cass's mind.

To Ruth young Heron wrote and explained that Neil had given her up, but that he refused to say why he had done so. He added that he himself was going to Paris for a month or so, but that if she wanted him back he would return at the end of that time. Having thus sacrificed himself on the shrine of friendship, he went down to watch Neil through his dangerous illness. For he was quite determined that he should not die if human means could save him. So, with Mrs. Jent, he nursed his friend with the greatest tenderness.

Another friendly act he performed. He visited Mrs. Jenner and learned from her all the particulars of the case. At first she sternly refused to tell him anything, but when he informed her that her son was ill and that his only chance of recovery--this was a little embroidery of his own--lay in the hope of her innocence being established, she gave way. He had already succeeded in impressing upon her the fact that Neil could not have killed his father, notwithstanding all appearances to the contrary.

"From what you say, Mrs. Jenner," he remarked, "your husband was a strong man. Neil--I must still call him Neil--was a puny child. It is impossible that he could have struck such a blow. At best his strength could not have been equal to it, and Jenner could have brushed him aside as easily as he could a fly."

"That is true," said the woman, thoughtfully. "I found him with a knife in his hand standing beside the body."

"He might have entered the room and picked up the knife."

"But if this is go-and I begin to see things from your point of view--who killed my husband? I can swear that I did not, and if my child is innocent, who is guilty?"

"That is just what we must find out, both to release you from an unjust imprisonment and to set his mind at rest. Now tell me the whole story and especially the events of that night. Then I may be in a position to account for the crime."

Cheered somewhat by the view he took, Mrs. Jenner told him all she knew with full details. Two points struck Mr. Heron--one that the window had been open and that Mrs. Jenner had left her husband standing near it; the other that he had had in his possession a red pocket-book which had afterwards disappeared. Beyond this he gathered that her account of the boasts her husband had made on that night that he had had somebody in his power, somebody from whom he intended to extort money.

"And I quite believe that is true," finished the unhappy woman, bitterly. "He had the instincts of a blackmailer."

"Well, said Geoffrey, preparing to take his departure. I think the motive for the crime will be found in that pocket-book. Whoever took it murdered your husband. The window was open, the book, as you say, on the table, and near the window your husband was standing. Also," he added with emphasis, "you say the knife was lying beside the pocket-book. Now, if your son had used it he would have had to pass his father to get it and so would have put him on his guard, even if he had not been prevented from taking it. No, Mrs. Jenner, your son is innocent, as innocent as yourself. The assassin seized that knife through the open window and struck the blow in order to get possession of that pocket-book, which contained--of that I am sure--some document which would have been used as a lever to extort money. That is my theory, and I will make it my business to prove that it is the right one. Meanwhile, I must nurse Neil."

"You are a good man," said Mrs. Jenner shewing emotion for the first time, "and what you say seems feasible enough. Go, and do the best you can. Heaven will reward you. But my son, my darling boy--he may die!"

"Not if I can help it. I'll pull him round somehow. Keep up your spirits. You have had a long night, but I believe the dawn is at hand."

"Heaven bless you!" she said. Then Geoffrey took his leave, to return to the bedside of Neil Webster.

While all this was taking place Ruth had not been idle. She had been annoyed by Heron's letter, and much alarmed at his determination to stay away. She was beginning to find out that her feeling for him was stronger than anything the young violinist had inspired in her; but a streak of obstinacy, inherited from her Spanish grandmother, kept her, in a manner, true to the man for whom she cared least. Besides this she was possessed of more than her share of feminine curiosity, and never faltered in her determination to learn the real cause of Webster's mysterious departure. She was well aware that her love for him was not genuine, that it had been founded--as Jennie had very truly told her--on admiration for the artist, not on love for the man and she was equally certain that she would never marry him. But all the same she was resolved to learn his secret, and for many a weary week she plotted for the achievement of her ends. As far as she knew, both Neil and Geoffrey were abroad, so she had a fair field.

After much thought she concluded that her best plan was to make the attempt through Mrs. Jent, who had been her nurse, and who had always retained an affection, almost motherly, for her. And the old woman was a trustful soul, easy enough to manage by the exercise of a little diplomacy. Ruth's plan was to act as she had done with her father--to assume that she knew more than she would admit. In this way, taking into account the simplicity of Mrs. Jent, it was likely that the old woman would let something slip which would put her on the track. And Ruth considered that if she had succeeded with a man like her father she would certainly have no difficulty with a person of Mrs. Jent's calibre. So she made up her mind as to her best course of action.

To see Mrs. Jent without arousing suspicion it was necessary that she should go down to Bognor without her father's knowledge. He would think it odd that she should, at this juncture, wish to see one who was so closely connected with her former lover. To avert suspicion, the girl wrote to an old schoolfellow at Brighton asking her for an invitation. "I am tired of a dull country life," wrote Miss Cass, "and I should be so glad of a little amusement. Do ask me down for a week or so."

Mrs. Prosser fell into the trap. It seemed natural enough to her that Ruth should want a little gaiety, and she was glad to have a pretty girl in her house. The presence of beauty would attract a good many men and, being not averse to an occasional flirtation herself. Mrs. Prosser judged that she would share in the pleasure to be derived from the visit. So the desired invitation was promptly despatched, and Mr. Cass, quite unsuspicious, permitted his daughter's acceptance of it.

"Perhaps it will put this nonsense about Webster out of your head," he said as he bade her good-bye. To which remark he received no answer.

For quite a week Ruth enjoyed herself thoroughly. Mrs. Prosser's house was a bright one. She entertained a great deal, more especially now that she had such a charming friend to amuse and to amuse her. That young lady made amends for Neil's desertion of her, and for Geoffrey's absence, by flirting to her heart's content, and consigning many youths to various stages of despair at what they were pleased to call her fickleness. But she never lost sight of her main object, which was to drop down on Mrs. Jent without giving that old lady warning of her coming. She would take her entirely by surprise.

Accordingly, on the plea that she was going to see her old nurse, Ruth took the train to _Bognor_, and Mrs. Jent welcomed her visitor with open arms. Nor indeed--not having been warned--did she conceal the fact that Mr. Webster was ill in the house and that Geoffrey was nursing him.

"My dear, how pleased I am to see you!" she cried, settling her spectacles on her nose. "And quite the young lady, too! How good of you, my lovey, not to forget your old nurse."

"As if I ever could," Ruth said, graciously. "And tell me what you are doing with yourself?"

"Just living, my dear, just living. What with a boarder or two and the money your dear papa allows me I rub along."

"Have you any boarders now?" asked the girl, more for the sake of saying something than because she felt any interest in the subject.

"Well, not what you would call boarders, perhaps," said the old lady, rubbing one withered hand over the other. "At least, one of them isn't, he is my dear boy Neil."

"Neil!" with unbounded astonishment, "Neil Webster! Why, he is abroad."

"No such thing. He is here, my lovey, and has been for two months. Abroad? Why, the poor darling has been at death's door! Aye, and he would have entered it, too, if Mr. Heron had not----"

"Heron? Geoffrey Heron?"

"Yes, dear, that is him, Heaven bless him. Do you----"

"Geoffrey Heron here?" interrupted the girl rather to herself than to the old woman. "Why, he wrote to tell me that he was on the Continent. What does all this mean, I wonder?"

"It's not hard to tell the meaning," said Mrs. Jent. "My boy Neil fell ill, had brain fever, poor lad, and Mr. Heron brought him here from London that I might nurse him, and he stayed with me. He is almost as fond of my dear boy as I am."

"Is he?" said Ruth, blankly. Considering that the two men were, or had been, rivals for her hand, she could not quite take all this in.

"Of course he is," said the old woman, with great energy. "A better gentleman I never wish to see."

"And is Mr. Webster here?"

"In the next room, in the most beautiful sleep. I daresay you would like to see him, my dear, for he has often talked of you. But I daren't wake him, it would be dangerous. Mr. Heron has gone to Worthing. Will you wait till he comes back?"

"I might," replied Ruth, thinking that she would like to prove to Heron that she was no fool. "Has he also spoken of me?"

"Often and often, my dear. Why, he loves you; he has told me so a dozen times."

The girl stuck her pretty chin in the air and looked supercilious. "Well, he is nothing to me," she said, crossly. "I don't like deceitful people. Oh, now, don't defend him," she added, seeing that Mrs. Jent was about to deliver herself of an indignant speech. "I know more than you do. As to Mr. Webster, well, he was good enough to say that he cared for me too."

"I know. He has often spoken of you to me; but he has got over his fancy."

"Oh, indeed!" cried Ruth, more angry than ever. "He calls his love for me a fancy, does he? Just like a man." Then she suddenly recollected her errand and resolved to make the best use of her time before Geoffrey could come back and interfere. "Poor Mr. Webster! No doubt he is grieving for his parents."

The old lady started. "What do you know of them?" she asked, sternly.

"All that he could tell me," was the reply. "He was engaged to me, and he told me all about himself and his people."

"How foolish of him," Mrs. Jent said under her breath. "But I hope you don't think any the less of him, my dear. After all, he is not responsible for the wickedness of his father and mother."

Ruth nearly jumped out of her seat. So Neil's father and mother had been what this old woman called "wicked people." And, moreover, he was suffering for what they had done in not being allowed to marry her; that was the way she put it. But she said nothing, and Mrs. Jent went on talking in the firm belief that her listener knew all the facts of the case.

"Of course, it was a long time before he knew anything about his parents neither Mr. Cass nor I would tell him, you know. But last Christmas, when he was staying with you, my dear, he found it all out."

"It was at Christmas that he told me about them," put in Ruth.

But she did not add that it was of the American parents he had spoken. Indeed, she could not make out whether Mrs. Jent was alluding to them or to some other persons of whom she knew nothing. She felt confused.

"Ah, well," went on the old lady, with a sigh, "I suppose the discovery was too much for him and he had to tell someone. And why not you? But, my dear," she laid a withered hand on the girl's arm, "if he had loved you he would never have told you about that nasty Turnpike House murder. Did he tell you his name was Jenner, my dear?"

"No," said the girl, faintly. She knew the truth now. "Only that his parents--oh, I can't speak of it!"

"It is terrible." The old lady shook her head. "To think of his mother having murdered her husband and being in gaol."

"He never told me that!" shrieked Ruth, for she could play her part no longer. "Oh, great Heavens, what a horrible thing! No wonder my father would not let the marriage take place."

"The marriage!" stammered Mrs. Jent, rising with an expression of alarm on her face.

"Yes, I was engaged to him and suddenly he gave me up. My father said he would never allow me to marry him. I could not make out the reason. Now I know it, and, oh, how horrible it is!"

"Then you did not know the truth?"

"No, no. Neil told me about his American parents----"

"That was the story we made up to keep him quiet," put in the old woman. "Yes, Mr. Cass and I thought it best he should not know. He found out the truth for himself, and--now--I have told it to you."

"I am glad you have," said Ruth, taking her hand. "Dear nurse, I have behaved so badly. I wanted to find out why Neil had given me up, and as father would not tell me I came to you. But I have been punished for my curiosity. Still, I'm glad--I'm glad. I must give him up now."

"Indeed, miss," said Mrs. Jent, bristling with indignation. "I think you ought to stand by the poor boy more than ever. Oh, miss, how could you play me such a trick? I do hope you'll keep all this to yourself."

"Of course I will. All the effect it will have upon me is that I shall think no more of Neil."

"Ah!" Mrs. Jent shook her head. "I thought I better of you."

"Good gracious! How can you expect me to marry a man whose mother is in gaol?"

"That is not his fault. But take your own way, miss. I think you have behaved badly in tricking me into speaking secrets. I shall tell your father at once."

"I shall tell him myself; you shan't be blamed, nurse. I am a wicked girl to have done what I have done. There, don't cry, I'm not worth it. I'll go away and not bother you." And before Mrs. Jent could say another word Ruth was out of the house and walking swiftly along the parade.

Then the unexpected happened, for the first person she met was Geoffrey Heron!

[CHAPTER XII.]

THE TOY HORSE.

Geoffrey Heron would as soon have expected to see the sea-serpent off shore as to meet Ruth Cass walking along the _Bognor_ Parade. However, there she was, and he had to meet her, to explain himself as best he could, and to put himself right in her eyes.

"Miss Cass!" he stammered, taking off his hat and exhibiting a very red face and confusion of manner usually absent from his demeanour. "I am astonished to meet you here."

"I daresay," replied the girl, her nose in the air. "There can be no doubt about that after all the stones you told me. But I am not astonished. I have been to see Mrs. Jent."

"What! Have you seen Webster?" I said Mrs. Jent. "No, Mr. Webster does not know that I am here. He was asleep, and Mrs. Jent refused to disturb him even for me. Now what have you to say for yourself?"

"It is a long story," he said uneasily.

"In that case we had better sit down."

"But I must go back to the cottage."

"In that case I'll go with you. We don't part, Mr. Heron until I have an explanation of all this. Part of it I understand already."

"What do you understand?" he asked, startled.

"For one thing I know now why Neil left me."

"Impossible!"

"Nothing is impossible to a woman who has set her heart on finding out what she wants to know. Neil refused to tell me, papa refused, you refused in the meanest manner. Well, I have found out--from Mrs. Jent."

"She never told you!" cried Heron, agitated.

"Not of her own free will. I got it out of her. But I know now what is the matter. Ah, I see you don't believe me; you are still incredulous. Just listen, then. Neil's real name is Jenner; his mother killed his father, and is now in gaol. Am I right?"

"Perfectly." He was relieved to find that she did not know the worst. "I congratulate you on your diplomacy."

"I thought you were going to use a nastier word. I am sure you were tempted to."

"No, believe me----"

"How can I believe you when you behave as you have done? Why are you here instead of in Paris?"

"Because when I saw Webster I found he was very ill. Someone had to look after him, and I seemed to be the right person just then. You would not have had me leave the poor fellow to die?"

"No." Ruth held out her hand, which he seized eagerly. "On the whole I think you are a very good man, Mr. Heron. But why did you tell me that you were in Paris, and that Neil also was abroad?"

"I did so at his request. He considered that he had given your father enough trouble, and knowing that in all probability he would have a long illness, he asked me to conceal his whereabouts, so that Mr. Cass should not come down."

"Oh, I understand. But about yourself, why did you hide?"

"In the first place I wanted to look after him. In the second, I did not wish to see you."

"Oh, thank you!" cried Ruth, highly indignant.

"Don t misunderstand me, he said, anxious Neil told me his story--the story you have got out of Mrs. Jent--and I did not feel justified in allowing anything so terrible to reach your ears. I knew that I was as wax in your hands, and that you would probably force me to tell; so I judged discretion to be the better part of valour, and kept away."

"I see. But I don't think your discretion will serve you in the long run. Here is a seat, and there are few people about. Now, Mr. Heron, sit down and tell me everything from the beginning."

"Oh, but----"

"I won't have any 'buts' about it," said Ruth, peremptorily. "I know the worst, but I know it only in fragments. I want to know the whole."

"Why?" asked Heron, taking his seat beside her.

"Can't you guess? Oh, you are stupid. Why, to help poor Neil, of course."

"Ah! You are still in love with him!" said Heron, with a jealous pang.

"No, I am not. I found out long since that I loved someone else better. Oh, I am not going to tell you his name. I have my secrets as well as you. But I still like and admire Neil in spite of his misfortunes, and I want to help him. You are doing that already, and I admire you for it. Well, we will work together."

"I should like nothing better. But," Geoffrey hesitated, "can I trust you? The secret isn't mine, you know."

"No, it is mine," said Miss Cass, very coolly. "I share it with you and Mrs. Jent. Whether I know all or not I am not prepared to say, but you are going to tell me all. Now then!"

He hesitated. "Very good," he said at length. "I will tell you all I know, and we will work together to get this poor woman restored to freedom."

"What? Is she innocent?"

"I am certain of that. Whosoever murdered Jenner, it was not his wife."

"But she was found guilty."

"She is not the first innocent person who has been found guilty. Wait till you have heard the whole story, then you shall judge."

"I certainly should not think of judging beforehand," she said, disdainfully. "You must not think me silly. Now go on from the very beginning."

Seated on the iron bench with his gaze fixed seaward, Heron employed the best part of an hour in telling the story. Ruth, for the most part, listened quietly, only now and again putting a question so much to the point as to amaze her companion. And as he neared the end, and these questions and comments became more frequent, Geoffrey congratulated himself on having taken her into his confidence.

"Poor Neil!" she sighed at last. "How he must have suffered!"

"And how he does suffer," Heron said, gloomily. "He loves his mother beyond any created being, and he will never be at peace until he sees her rescued from the fate to which she has been so unjustly condemned."

"That shall be our task," responded Ruth, with alacrity. "Neil is too weak a man to take this burden upon him. Now I know why I could never love him altogether, why I was never satisfied."

"What do you mean?" asked Heron, anxiously.

"Well, it is this way," said Miss Cass, drawing figures on the gravel with the tip of her umbrella. "I fell in love with him when I heard him play, he looked so handsome and so noble--so inspired; but when we were together something always seemed to be wanting. I know now what it was--strength, the strength of a man. I believe, Geoffrey," she went on without noticing that she was using his Christian name, that what a woman wants in a husband is a master. "I wonder if I shall ever get what I want? I don't know. Are there such men?" She looked sideways at Heron, not in a coquettish way, but rather wistfully.

Geoffrey felt that embarrassment which every honest man feels at the thought of having an egotistical speech forced upon him. He loved this girl, and he was sure that she loved him.

"Well, Geoffrey," she said, after waiting in vain for a reply, "I will be your wife."

"You will My dearest!"

"Hush! Don't take my hands; don't speak so loud. We are in a public place, remember, and many eyes are on us. Yes, I will marry you, for you are--a man!"

"But I can never be your master, dearest," he said, filled with delight; "for who would rule a dove?"

"Ah! but that is where you are mistaken. I am not a dove by any manner of means. I am a very self-willed girl; my presence here proves that. I know you won't be a tyrant and thwart me in little things; but when I am your wife I know that you, not I, will have the last word; and that is what I wish it to be."

"Well, perhaps there is some truth in what you say," he admitted, "but you shall have your own way, dear--always."

"Yes, always, that is when it fits in with your own ideas; but I am quite willing to take you on those terms. You are as strong as Neil, poor fellow! is weak; and that reminds me," she added, hastily, "that we must not waste time in talking about ourselves. I must get back to Brighton."

"Are you staying there? May I----"

"Yes, I am staying with an old schoolfellow." She gave him her address. "And you may come over when you can, but don't neglect poor Neil for me. We must settle this business first. Let us talk of it."

"I would rather talk of you," he said, ruefully. "However, duty before pleasure. What were you going to say?"

"This. I believe that Mrs. Jenner is not guilty. If she were, she would have asserted her innocence. The mere fact that she held her tongue is so wonderful for a woman that I am sure she did not kill her husband."

"Oh, she is innocent enough; let us accept that as a foregone conclusion," said Geoffrey, hastily. He would not reveal the real reason why Mrs. Jenner had not spoken lest Neil's secret should come to light; so he let Ruth make what she liked out of the woman's silence.

"Very good; we have decided that she is innocent. Now we must find out who is guilty. I agree with you, Geoffrey, that the murder was committed by some stranger. Jenner was near the window, and the crime was committed in order to get possession of that red pocket-book which had the materials for blackmailing in it. Now, what we have to learn is what manner of life he led in the past; find out with whom he associated, and who there was he would have been likely to blackmail--then we shall know who killed him. Now, how are we to obtain all that information? From Mrs. Jenner. I will see her again. She told me all about the murder, but nothing relating to her past life."

"There is another person who can tell," Ruth said, thoughtfully. "My father. Oh, I know--I found out--how, it doesn't matter--that Jenner was a clerk in papa's office, that Mrs. Jenner was my sister Amy's governess. I'll ask her. She may know something about Mrs. Jenner and her husband likely to throw light on all this. And I must go to the Turnpike House, for there I may find some evidence--I don't know what--but something." Ruth sighed. "I will go to the Turnpike House if only out of curiosity. Now, this is what we have to do: You must see Mrs. Jenner, and find out all you can, setting it down in writing. I will question papa and Amy, and write down all that they tell me. And I will go to the Turnpike House, then we will meet and compare notes. Is it agreed?"

She rose to her feet.

"Yes, it is agreed. But do not go yet."

"I must, or I shall not catch my train, and, besides, I am hungry and thirsty. I want to go back to Mrs. Jent's and get a cup of tea. Come."

"Will you see Neil?" he asked as they walked towards the cottage.

She shook her head. "I think not; the sight of me will only agitate him. You need not say anything about my having been until he is quite better.

"It is odd that you should have spoken of your sister," Heron said, abruptly, "for Neil has been worrying about her, or, at least, about her eldest boy, George."

"Ah, George is a great friend of his and adores him; but what is he worrying about George for?"

"Well, he got it into his head some little time ago that he was going to die, and he wanted to leave George some gift or another."

"Why didn't he do that in his will?"

"Well, I expect because it was hardly worth setting down in a legal document, for the gift is only a toy horse, a brown animal of but little beauty. Neil has had it all his life, and has an extraordinary affection for it. Nothing would do but that I should take it to George. So now, as you will no doubt be going up to your sister's in town, you might save me the journey by taking it for me. Will you, dear? It is wrapped up and all ready to go."

Ruth laughed. "Oh, I will take it with pleasure, and I'm quite sure George will be delighted. He is five now, and just the age for such a toy. By the way, I suppose you know that Amy has engaged Jennie Brawn to teach him?"

"Has she really? And what may she be going to teach him--how to write poetry?"

"Geoffrey, I really can't have you making fun of Jennie, for she is the dearest girl in all the world. Now, I know what you are going to say, and you may just save yourself the trouble. It was I who asked Amy to engage her. Her family are all so poor, and she makes next to nothing out of her poetry besides, her sister is old enough to look after the house. Amy is paying her very well, too. I will say that for Amy, she is not shabby over money."

Geoffrey laughed and held open the gate. Ruth was received by her old nurse with some stiffness, for Mrs. Jent had not yet forgiven the trick which had been played upon her. But the girl apologised so charmingly that the heart of the old dame was softened, and when she heard from Mr. Heron that Miss Cass was going to help him prove Mrs. Jenner's innocence and so restore Neil's peace of mind she became quite herself again.

"Though I don't see, sir, how you are going to help Mrs. Jenner," she said. "She killed him sure enough; she killed him."

"No, she didn't," Ruth said, decidedly. "I am certain she is innocent."

"If she was, why didn't she say so?" Mrs. Jent asked.

"That Mr. Heron is going to find out from her."

"I shall ask her, of course," Heron said, in some confusion.

Ruth's eyes were on him like a flash, and Ruth's eyes saw more than they were intended to see.

"You know why she did not speak, Geoffrey?"

"Yes, I do," he confessed, "but I cannot tell you why. Don't ask me."

"Has it to do with Neil?"

"Don't ask me," he repeated, with a frown. "I decline to tell you."

Meanwhile Mrs. Jent had prepared the table, observing betweenwhiles that Neil still slept. Geoffrey had already been to see him, having seized the opportunity while Ruth and her old nurse were making up their tiff; and he reported that the invalid looked much better for the rest. He had brought with him a paper parcel.

"Here is the horse, Ruth," he said.

"The horse!" cried Mrs. Jent, who was pouring out the tea. "Is that my dear boy's horse--the one he wants to give to little Master Chisel?"

"Yes, I should have sent it long ago, but now Miss Ruth will take it."

"Don't you, miss, don't you!" said the old woman. "It will bring no good luck to the child. That was the toy with which my dear boy was playing when his father was murdered!"

"Ugh!" exclaimed the girl, dropping the parcel with horror.

"Ah, you may well say that." And Mrs. Jent nodded her head. "I don't know what possesses Mr. Neil to give it to Master George. It is true my dear boy loves it. But think of the history! He has forgotten it. He carried that toy with him when his poor mother ran away into the night. All through his illness he held to it, and when we took it away he cried so much that we had to give it back. The nasty thing!" finished Mrs. Jent with energy. "Throw it into the fire."

"No, no," cried Geoffrey, picking it up. "Neil would never forgive us if we did that. I'll keep it here and not give it to George at all."

"Give it to me," and Ruth took the parcel from him. "I won't let George have it, but I'll take it down with me to Hollyoaks."

"What for?" asked Geoffrey, uneasily. "It has disagreeable associations."

"For that very reason," said Ruth. "There is a clairvoyant near our place, a lady I know very well. If you put a thing into her hands she can tell you all about it."

"Nonsense!" cried Geoffrey, laughing, while Mrs. Jent held up her hands and muttered something about the Witch of Endor.

"It is not nonsense," Ruth said, energetically. "Mrs. Garvey tells the most wonderful things. At all events I'll try her with this. Who knows but she may see in her vision--which this will bring to her"--said Ruth in parenthesis--"the face of the murderer looking through the window."

"I don't believe a word of it," laughed Geoffrey, with the scepticism of a man of the world. "It is ridiculous. However, if you like you can try, but don't ask me to be present at your hanky-panky."

"I won't," laughed Ruth. "But I'll make a convert of convert of you by getting Mrs. Garvey to say who killed Neil's father."

"Hush!" murmured Mrs. Jent, glancing nervously at the inner door. "He will hear, Make no mistake, Miss, Mrs. Jenner did it."

"I am certain she did not. However, I trust Mrs. Garvey to put us on the right track. I take the horse down with me." And take it she did, with results quite unexpected to herself, to Heron, and to Mrs. Jent.

Then she had a cup of tea and was escorted by Geoffrey to the station. Needless to say she teased him the whole way.

[CHAPTER XIII.]

JOB, THE SAPENGRO.

In another week Ruth took leave of the delights of Brighton, much to the regret of Mrs. Presser. A letter from Hollyoaks had advised her that Mrs. Chisel and her three children were down on a visit, and that Jennie Brawn, in the capacity of governess, was with them. Mr. Cass, it appeared, had gone to Bordeaux on business, so Ruth was wanted to represent him at the paternal mansion. And anxious to start hunting for evidence likely to reveal the truth about the Jenner case, she willingly returned.

Mrs. Chisel was a tall and somewhat stout woman of the Junoesque type, with a high opinion of herself, her children, her position, her money, and, indeed, of everything which belonged to her, with the one exception of her husband. When Mrs. Marshall heard that Amy Chisel was at Hollyoaks she sent word that she would not enter her brother's house until it was purged of the presence of his elder daughter. In reply to this amiable message Mrs. Chisel hoped her aunt Inez would not spoil her visit by coming over. Upon which Mrs. Marshall made a point of calling every other day and remarking openly and unfavourably upon her niece's management of her children.

These comments were really quite undeserved; for the three children whom Mrs. Chisel--on sufficiently obvious authority--called "her jewels" were nice little people, pretty and well-behaved. The two girls, aged respectively seven and ten, were demure and even a trifle prim. They were always smartly dressed and never made a mess of their clothes. And, moreover, they stood in great awe of their mother, who, as she frequently told them, was a woman in a thousand. It was as well, perhaps, for the peace of the world that such was the case.

Needless to say, Ruth did not present Neil's gift to her little nephew. Mrs. Garvey must see it; and meanwhile she kept it stowed away; for had her sister known that it was intended for George, she would have had it out of her at all costs.

It was on the morning after her arrival that Ruth and Amy had their first little encounter; the subject of it being Mr. Geoffrey Heron.

"What a fool you have made of yourself falling in love with that violin creature!" cried Mrs. Chisel in her high rasping voice. "He is no fit husband for you!"

"He would, after all, make a more sensible husband than Julian," retorted Ruth, who shared her sister's opinion of the unhappy Chisel. "And, thank you, Amy, I have a right to choose a husband for myself.

"You are not fit to do so," remarked Mrs. Chisel, with her customary tact. "If you were a sensible girl you would marry Geoffrey Heron, and take a good position in the county."

"I would not marry Mr. Heron if there were not another man in the world" cried the girl, mendaciously. "Why are you so disagreeable, Amy?"

"Disagreeable?" echoed the matron. "I am the most agreeable woman in existence when I am properly treated. No one but my own family thinks me disagreeable."

"Ah! they know you so well," said Ruth.

"That's just it; you none of you know me. If I were like Aunt Inez, now, you might talk; she is disagreeable, if you like."

"Well, Amy," said Ruth, who had more important things to discuss, "do not let us quarrel."

"Do I ever quarrel? I ask you that!"

"No; you never do," replied the girl, knowing well what answer was expected. "But do leave my marriage prospects alone, my dear!"

"I'm the last person in the world to interfere," cried Mrs. Chisel. "I think a girl should settle those things for herself. But I must say I should be happy if I saw you married to Geoffrey Heron."

"In that case you'll live for many a long day yet." And Ruth made a hurried exit.

This was one of many tiffs they had. In spite of Ruth's diplomacy, Amy would make trouble; so, in despair, Miss Cass asked Aunt Inez to come as often as possible--and the amiable lady, knowing Amy did not want her, took good care to come. So Ruth was left in peace; for when the battles were raging, she generally took refuge with Jennie.

One of the first things she did on meeting Miss Brawn was to tell her all about Neil's troubles; that she had promised Geoffrey to say nothing about them did not matter to her. For she was a woman, and found it difficult enough to keep a secret; besides which, she knew that Jennie could be trusted, being a girl who could hold her tongue when necessary. And Ruth wanted someone with whom she could discuss the case, and any new facts which came to light. So there and then she told Jennie everything.

"Isn't it terrible, dear?" she said when Miss Brawn was in possession of the whole sad story. "What do you think of it?"

"I think Mrs. Jenner would be the last person in the world to kill her husband, from what you say of her. But, oh, the poor Master! How he must suffer! Ruth, was it because of this you gave him up?" And she looked volumes of reproach.

"No, my dear, it was not. If I had really loved him this would only have made me cling closer; but I merely admired him--as you said. And I find that I like Geoffrey Heron better."

"But you told your sister----"

"I know what I told her!" snapped Ruth. "I am not going to give her the satisfaction of thinking she has biassed my judgment in any way. You must keep my secret, Jennie, until I have told my father. When he has consented, which I know he will do very willingly, Geoffrey and I can arrange our future. But I do not want our engagement to be known until this mystery has been cleared up.

"It may never be cleared up."