 CHAPTER 1 The convict's return. It stood were four roads met, a square building of two stories with white-washed walls and a high-slay roof. The fence and the one-stream garden had vanished with a turnpike gate, and a jungle of gooseberry bushes interspersed with rambles shut off the house from the roads. And only by courtesy could these be so called, for time and a 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 edge 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 assented 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 a skew exuded green slime. Glass 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 story shooed 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 mantle-shelf 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 light 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 labor she had no looks to spare for the ten-year-old boy who crouched by the fire. Not that heeded her neglect, for a brown toy horse took up all his attention, and she 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 driven only under congenial circumstances. In those faded eyes, now feverishly glittering, there lurked an 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 color, his figure was more rounded, and he was clothed with the 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 gray flannel, and she opened her mouth with a 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 get you, my boy. And she strained the child to her breast. I would kill him first. I would kill him. Two. 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 color 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 recommended 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 table by 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. I, 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 Gass 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 us farther 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 Hubble. 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 outbursts 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 behavior 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 loosen 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 while died, 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 gate only too 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 buckhandled 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 spurred it he uttered an oath of terror and of pain. For a moment he made as if to fling himself on his smaller salient. 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 a 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 jailbirds.' 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 only I 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 molded 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. Jill never part with anything belonging to the boy. He looked over to 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. After two, 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? Or 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. "'Lazy,' 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 behave 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. But 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 for 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 saved 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 shooed 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.' Cass made a great fuss about nothing. "'You know as well as I do what Mr. Cass is. His mother was Spanish and she 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, Lizzy,' 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? In S. 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, can go back to jail 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 drinks spoiled 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—' "'Oh, 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 jail 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 my 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. Ines is one of your cold, cruel women who kicked the fallen. She blamed me for being your wife, and she said her brother against me. All I could get was this tumbled-down hovel where I lived rent free. I earned my bread by sewing for the people in the village two miles on. Sometimes Mr. 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 corpers. He produced them. But in a week I shall have hundreds. And then you will go to jail 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 all together, as I said before. His hatred of you is freed natal. But I have fostered that hatred until—well, you saw how he received you tonight. 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 safe from you here. Who told you of my hiding place? Marshal, said Jenner, sulkily. Ah, you have seen him. And did he speak to you, a jailbird? 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 miscast. Well, go and do it, and get back into jail 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 in. It is only two miles away. Jenner took out his red pocketbook 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 IOU for. I don't want your money. I decline, said his wife, turning from the open window out of which he 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 a wrist. You wretch, I'll give you a thrashing for this. Mrs. Jenner shook off his hand, moved 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 jailbird. He backed towards the open window and began to whimper. Don't be such a verago, 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 pocketbook. I can get hundreds, hundreds. In the usual way, she said, and laid down the poker. Then he 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 us 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 beside 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 a cry of a human being in pain. The light was extinguished and the mist closed thick around the ruined building. It might be to hide the sight within the room. Could the walls only have spoken they would have shouted, murder, with most miraculous voice. But the age of miracles being passed the walls were dumb and there was no clamor 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 mist 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 shone in the light and then. But the woman fled on wearied feet, fled, ever fled through the gloom and the friendly mist 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 her child had fled away into the darkness. End of chapters one and two. Chapters three and four of the turnpike house by Fergus Hume. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter three. 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 laden 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 Hollyoak's park the frozen road ran straight to the village of West Ham 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 color and warmth and tropical leafage. The merchant's mother had been in and illusion and perhaps some far off strain of Moorish blood had constrained her son to build his house on Moorish lines. When Mr. Cass, some 20 years ago had bought Hollyoaks from the Decade 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 framework 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 the 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 splendor. 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 color 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 mustache and his blue eyes blinked at the dazzling colors of the flowers. But there was something about the boy, for he was no more than 23, 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 with all 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 was also 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 a 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, saying the girl, I came upon you unawares. But I knew you were coming for I felt it in my heart. Come, let me look at my rows of Sharon. It is six long, weary weeks since I saw you. She made a little curtsy and then stood demurely before him. To a stranger she would have been almost as great a surprise as the house itself. And she wasn't keeping with it. The beautiful and delusion marquees of Demuset'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 have well matched her appearance. Although but 20 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 gate of the Andalusian woman. In 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 swarly beauty. In the coils of her blue-black hair, she wore sparkling diamonds. The same stones blazed on neck and wrist, and in this splendor 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? Neal 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 before, she said smoothing her dainty gloves. My father, Jenny Braun, my uncle and aunt, and Jeffrey Herron. 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 color went and came like that of a startled girl. Oh, he is here, was his comment. He is a very good sort of fellow. Too good for your taste, Monsieur Othello, laughed Miss Cass, tapping his flush 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 humor, 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? Poo, 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, well, 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 groat, 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 gutter 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. Gent, looked after me there. When it became apparent that I have musical talent, your father had me taught on the continent. I appeared first in America where I was trained under Durant, 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 extra ordinary 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, were brought up, is a blank. What did Mrs. Gent 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. Gent 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 tonight 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 your 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 Adinez. 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 around to see that no one was about 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 Adinez. And at this moment an elderly double of Ruth sailed into the winter garden. Chapter 4 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 search and 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 jeweled watch that hung at her girdle. I hope we shall sit down punctually for I detest waiting. How 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, dryly, looking at Ruth. My aunt is thinking of your delicate appearance, Mr. Webster, in her pose the girl trying to parry the stroke. This foggy climate does not suit you in her opinion. Is that not so, auntie Ness? 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. Ha! 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 codely. The young man felt netdled and more puzzled than ever at her manner, and he was about to ask a leading question when Miss Jenny Bronn, 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 Bronn's time, laughed Heron, looking mischievously at the homely face of the girl beside him. One must do honour to the season, replied Jenny. She was dumpy and sandy and wore a painstony 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 Bronn wrote poems for drawing room-ballad composers, and that she tested to music for inspiration. Miss Bronn 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 purpose tonight, 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. This 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. During 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 Ines, here, and a brisk stout man darted forward. Ruth, my dear, you look charming. Miss Bron, allow me to congratulate you upon your toilet. Mr. Webster, good evening. This manner was colder, but with renewed geniality he shook hands with Geoffrey Heron. Ah-ha, my boy, a merry Christmas to you! The voluble act of 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 Ines 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 heartbreaker, took a pride in her proprietorship. I hope you will give us some music tonight, Mr. Marshall said, turning to the musician and again his manner was freezing. Your playing is delightful, delightful. I am glad you like it, Neo 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 talons up in a napkin here. The master is always willing to oblige his friends, put in Jenny. His friends are much honoured, added Aunt Ines, with an iron smile. Mr. Heron made no remark. Then 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. Tonight 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 presence, Papa, I shall not quarrel with you. You see what a bold daughter I have, he remarked to Heron. Would you like to be her father? No, 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 ducks to position. Jenny 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 recognized 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. John 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 dare say 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 then and there, 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 drying-room. You must play to me, he said. Miss Brown will accompany you, she plays well. Jenny 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 drying-room. Then Jeffrey Heron sang and sang well. She chose a typical drying-room ballad flat and insipid. The music of a lilting order suited the words, Miss Jenny Bronze, which were full of mockish 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 showing him a book of photographs. Jeffrey Heron was talking to Mr. Cass, and casting glasses 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 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. Poo! 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. End of CHAPTER 3 & 4 CHAPTER 5 & 6 OF THE TURNPIK HOUSE by Fergus Hume. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. CHAPTER 5 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 and disposition. Half an hour later she was seated before her bedroom fire in dressing gown and slippers. Being 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. Sha! ejaculated Aunt Ines with scorn. Cannot one woman divine the feelings of another? Her 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. In the end of this mutual passion—marriage—huh, 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 daresay 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. Oh, Mr. Webster will leave this house for ever. Oh! cried Ruth with scorn. And I no doubt will marry Jeffrey Heron. I know your plans, auntiness, 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. You're the less you will become his wife. I would die first. We shall see. As she 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 a flame at the idea of contradiction and dictation. Nor for nothing was Ruth Cass the granddaughter of an Andalusian spitfire, 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 Ines was the stormy petrol of the Cass family, and he guessed that her appearance at this unwanted 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 it? He dropped back into his chair with a look of resignation. Who is that man Webster? Her brother's face grew black. Always the same woman, he said angrily. You will never leave well alone. Here 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 Ines 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 recognized his father in that photograph. He did not recognize his father. Perhaps he did not know 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, Ines, 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 will 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, hotly, or to act. I have set my heart on a marriage between Ruth and Jeffrey Haran. 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 engaged 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. Haran. 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 to his daughter, a piece of folly which made Mrs. Marshall open her eyes. Ruth saw her aunt's look and insured a fiance, allowed herself to behave towards Neil with somewhat ostentatious friendliness. Naturally enough, Jeffrey Haran became sulky, while Miss Brown and Mr. Marshall kept up a continuous chatter. Well, he now 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 Jeffrey with her showed 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. Haran, 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 shows 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 to Jeffrey. 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 two fascinating violin have taken their departure. Then she will forget this, this Bohemian. Mr. isn't a bad sort of fellow, Haran said apologetically. In spite of his long hair he is something of a sportsman. He has seen a good deal of the world too when 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 make all 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 center, 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 planks. 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. Suddenly 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 a parent that frightful poverty. The dreamer was no longer a man, but a child playing with the 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, and 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, nearly 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 beating 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 murdering. 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 mist to escape the horror of the turnpike house. Chapter 6 Mr. Cass Speaks Jenny Braun sat in her bedroom with an agonized look on her face with inky fingers and tumbled hair. Miss Braun was courting the muse. As yet she had had but ill success for the muse was not in a kindly mood. If, dear, thou shouldst 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. Huh! 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. Jenny, Jenny! She cried, plumping down on the bed. I've had a proposal. Oh! Jenny, quite pragmatic, laid down her pen. Jeffrey 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 Braun. 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, Jenny 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 be admired to have an ample income and a big position. I am an individual, not a piece of furniture. Mary, Mr. Heron then, advised Jenny, 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. Jenny flushed, for unknown to herself, Ruth had touched upon Miss Brown'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 cried 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 Jeffrey 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. Hum! murmured Jenny, 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 party you would change 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 in years, but old in experience, said Miss Braun 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 Jenny 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. Herron, I am sure you are wrong. I don't think so. But if I were it would be perfectly easy to whistle him back. But present I intend to marry Neil, and he is going to ask my father's consent tonight or tomorrow. If there is trouble you shall see how I stand up for him. You write romances, Jenny. I act them. And with a rustle of silken skirts, Ruth vanished. Jenny 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. Ms. Bronn was not an envious person, as we have said, but she could not help grudging Ruth the favors 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 she 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 help, 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 bow which she 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 to. 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 tonight, 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 saw 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 is 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 Jenny, 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 Jenny could make reply, Mr. Cass, who had been listening uneasily, interposed sharply, don't talk of murders, Miss Braun. This 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. Marshall in a low voice. That comes of going to the Turnpike House. Hush, rebuked her brother under his breath. Hold your tongue, Inés, and leave me to deal with this. As there was to be no music, Jenny 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 Jeffrey's reproachful looks were too much for her equanimity. At all events she sought the empty drying 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 all 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 Mary Heron. Then you don't love me? She burst out with wounded pride. Love you? He repeated fiercely. Heaven knows I love you more 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 tonight, 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 not look 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 all 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 and mannered 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 peaked 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. He 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 high spirits tonight, Neil, said the elder man, who always addressed him thus when they were alone. And why not, seeing that Webster was his protégé? 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 always had 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.