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."
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."
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?"
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."