Turnpike House — Chapters 9-10
CHAPTER IX. THE EMBASSY OF GEOFFREY HERON.
Within that week the house party at Hollyoaks broke up.
Mr. and Mrs. Marshall returned to their own house, which was only four miles away;
Jennie Brawn went back to Bedford-park and the family of nine; and Geoffrey Heron took his way to his London Chambers.
So Ruth was left to the society of her father, and she made up her mind that she would say no more about Neil.
Indeed, she half intimated to Mr. Cass that she might, after all, marry her other lover--an intimation which delighted the worthy merchant beyond words.
"You are a sensible girl after all, Ruth," he said.
"Believe me, you would do wisely.
You see my love, you could not have been really in love with Webster, since you have so soon forgotten him."
She answered him meekly enough.
"I daresay you are right, papa, Neil has behaved very badly to me, and I think no more of him."
"Poor fellow," sighed Mr. Cass!
"Really, papa," exclaimed the girl, "you are difficult to please.
At your desire I have given him up: now you think I have treated him badly."
"My dear, I said nothing of the sort," protested the embarrassed Mr. Cass.
"All the same, I wish he had not set his heart on you."
"Oh, he has not done that, or he would not have been so ready to give me up."
"My dear, you do not understand."
Ruth went away thinking over this last speech.
"No," she murmured to herself, "I do not understand, but I shall soon.
I ought to hear from Geoffrey in a few days.
After all, I am really beginning to think I like him better than Neil.
What Jennie said was quite right, although I would not for the world acknowledge it to her.
I am not the wife for a man like him.
I want to be considered, and I am sure Geoffrey would do all in his power to please me and to make me happy.
Neil?
Well, I think he might have been rather a trial."
A week after Neil's departure, Mr. Cass received a letter from him which caused the worthy merchant much perplexity.
He shut himself up in his library to think it over.
Webster had gone away with the fullest intention of proving his mother's innocence, yet this short letter intimated that he had abandoned the idea.
"I have seen my mother," he wrote, "and I see it is best to take your advice and let sleeping dogs lie.
I am going abroad shortly, and it is not likely that I shall see you for many months.
Never again will I come to your house; and I only hope that you will impress upon Ruth the necessity of forgetting me as speedily as possible.
I cannot trust myself to see her again, so I must leave this task to you."
"Poor lad!"
sighed Mr. Cass, as he finished the letter.
"It is bitter for him that he should have to suffer for the sins of his parents.
But I wonder why he has stopped short in his endeavour to prove Mrs. Jenner's innocence?
What can she have said to him?
I have a good mind to see him--or her," he added as an after-thought; then changed his mind.
"No, it would only revive sad memories.
The matter is settled by this letter, and it is best to let sleeping dogs lie.
I will think no more of it."
So he said, but so he did not do.
His conscience frequently took pleasure in reminding him of the whole story, and despite all his philosophical resolves to "let sleeping dogs lie," he knew very well that he ought to rouse them.
But this he could not bring himself to do.
Too much was at stake, and a bolder man than Mr. Cass would have shrank from the consequences.
In this frame of mind he did his best to argue that he was right, and--he failed in the attempt.
Meanwhile Geoffrey was in town.
He had learnt from Ruth that Neil occupied rooms in the Waverley Hotel in Cherry-square, a quiet, unpretentious establishment.
Three times Heron called at the hotel, only to be told that Mr. Webster was out of town.
The fourth time he was more lucky and found the young man at home.
Neil Webster looked extremely ill; dark circles under his eyes told of sleepless nights, and his restless movements hinted at a nervous system which had gone to pieces.
Moreover, his lips were dry, his eyes feverishly bright.
The room was luxuriously furnished.
The prevailing colour was a dark red, and on the walls were hung portraits of his favourite composers.
Curiously enough, the furniture was upholstered in a soft shade of grey, the effect of which in the warm-tinted room was, to say the least, of it, somewhat odd.
A revolving bookcase, filled with books--mostly of poems--stood near a Louis Quinze escritoire; but the glory of the room was a magnificent grand piano standing alone at one end of the apartment.
"I suppose you are surprised to see me, Webster?"
said the young squire abruptly.
"Well, I must admit that I am.
We could hardly be called the best of friends at any time, I think."
"Still, we have not been enemies, Webster.
Because two men may happen to be rivals they need not have a bad opinion of each other."
"You are very good," Neil said, faintly.
"Don't be sarcastic; there is no need, I assure you."
The remark made Webster laugh.
"Why do you laugh?"
asked the other, sharply.
"I was wondering whether I could make a friend of you, and the thought of our relative positions with Miss Cass made me scout the possibility.
We can never be friends."
"Why not?
I like you very well.
I don't see why you should be so bitter to me."
"I am not bitter.
In fact, you would be my friend, I think, if it were not for Miss Cass."
"I am ready to be your friend in any case," said Heron, quickly.
"And don't think me a mean brute to hate a man because he is more lucky than I."
"Lucky!"
sighed Neil, sitting up.
"Heaven help you if you are not a luckier man than I. Well, when we know one another better we may be friends.
I need one badly enough, Heaven knows.
But, first of all, to pave the way to our better acquaintance, why have you come here?"
"I will answer you frankly.
Miss Cass has informed me that you have broken off your engagement to her.
Now, you know that I am very much in love with her, and that I wish her to be my wife.
She loves you, I think----" "No, pardon me," Webster said, lifting one thin hand.
"She does not really care for me.
I have come to that conclusion after much thought.
She admires my talents, but you possess what wins a woman's eyes and her heart in the long run--strength."
"You are complimentary," Heron said, good-humouredly, "but I think most women would admire you.
All I want to know is whether your engagement with Miss Cass is really at an end, because in that case I'll sail in and try my luck."
Webster leant back.
It was hard to give up this girl, and although he had really done so, yet there was the official announcement to be made.
But it had to be done, for, knowing what he knew, he felt that no truly honest man in his place would hold her to her promise.
So Neil braced himself up to make the sacrifice, and spoke out with decision: "My engagement to Miss Cass is at an end," he said.
"She will never be my wife, nor is it probable that I shall ever see her again.
She is free to marry you, indeed, I hope she will, and"--here his voice quivered--"I wish you joy."
"Well," Heron said, thoughtfully, "I can't deny that I am glad to hear this, for Ruth Cass is all the world and more to me.
At the same time time I am sorry, for I can see that you feel this very deeply.
Is it of your own free will that you do this?"
and he eyed Webster curiously.
"In one way it is, in another it is not.
A few weeks ago I had a right to marry her, now I have none."
"Can I help you?"
Heron asked.
"No, no. Impossible!"
The man was so shaken and ill that Geoffrey asked no more questions.
He went over and shook hands.
"As you have withdrawn I will try my luck.
But, I also may fail; and if I do I hope I shall bear the disappointment as well as you do.
If you will allow me I will come and see you again."
"I shall be glad to see you.
But are you not going back to Hollyoaks?
"No," replied Geoffrey.
"I shall be in town for a week or so, and if I can see you again so much the better."
"Come by all means, then.
I am usually at home during the evening.
I'm afraid I can't ask you to dine just now.
I really do not feel well enough."
"That's all right," Heron said, brightly.
"I know you feel bad, but you have behaved like a Briton."
Than which Geoffrey thought there could not be higher praise.
"And if I can help you in any way I will.
I have an idea, you know, that we shall be friends, after all."
"We have made a good start, anyhow," said Neil.
"Good-bye."
When Geoffrey had gone, the unhappy man buried his face in the sofa cushions and wept bitterly.
He had crushed down his feelings throughout the interview; but now Nature would have her way.
"Oh, Heavens!"
he wailed.
"Shall I ever know peace again?"
CHAPTER X. THE GREAT SECRET.
It was small wonder that Neil had decided to give Ruth up.
For the first time he saw what he was--a miserable creature, who, in marrying, would be committing a deadly sin.
It was not to be thought of; and he thanked Heaven that he had self-command sufficient to put temptation away from him.
His renunciation of her was, to him, the least of his sorrows.
He found some comfort in the visits of Geoffrey Heron, who came almost every day and sat long with the unfortunate man, although he could not in the least understand his sufferings.
But he strove to talk of general subjects which would draw his mind away from the one on which he was brooding.
And in the main he succeeded, though when he had gone, Neil always relapsed into the torture of thought whence he had been drawn for the moment.
During these visits Neil observed his visitor closely, and very soon came to the conclusion that he was a right good fellow with vastly more heart than the general mass of humanity.
Once or twice he found himself on the point of confiding in him and asking his advice: but a feeling of dread withheld him.
He liked Heron he enjoyed his company;
and he was afraid of losing him.
So he tried to put himself aside, and insisted that he was not as ill as he looked.
But the crisis came one evening when Geoffrey was with him.
Neil had been very ill all day; and when the young squire entered shortly after eight o'clock, he found him lying on the sofa almost in a fainting condition.
Geoffrey was alarmed.
"I tell you what, old chap, you should see a doctor," he said.
Neil shook his head.
"Doctors can do no good; all their drugs cannot cure me.
What is it Macbeth says, 'Thou canst not minister to a mind diseased.'
" "But your mind is not diseased."
"How do you know that?"
He clenched his hands.
"I have not told you my secret."
"No and I don't want to know it."
"What!
You don't want to know why I gave Miss Cass up?"
"No; for then I should have to tell her--she would get it out of me in some way.
You know what women are."
"I know what one woman is, at least; and she is a mother," murmured Neil.
"No, you must not tell Ruth; it could do no good, and might do much harm."
"Then speak of something else.
You are exciting yourself unnecessarily."
Even as he spoke, the nerve storm came on with unusual violence; the wretched man seemed possessed by seven demons which tore him in pieces;
he rose from his seat and strode furiously about the room, trying to prevent himself from crying out.
Finally, he dropped exhausted into a chair and sobbed violently.
Geoffrey Heron, quite astonished at this outburst, hastily got a glass of water, but in seizing it, Webster broke it with the strength of his grasp.
"I must tell you--I must!"
he panted.
"I must tell someone, or die.
My mother is in prison--on a charge of murder; she was accused of killing--killing, I say--my father!"
And he fell back weeping, trembling, completely crushed.
"Good Heavens cried Heron, stepping back.
His pity for the poor young fellow was sincere; and now he felt he could understand in some degree what a torture his life had been to him.
He could understand, moreover, why Neil had surrendered all claim to the hand of Ruth.
"You--you--won't tell her?"
"No; on my honour, I won't," said Geoffrey.
"I wish you had not told me; but now that I do know, your secret is, at any rate, safe with me."
"The valerian," said Neil, nodding towards the sideboard, and while Heron got it, he loosened his collar and drenched himself with cold water.
Then he mixed a stiff dose of the drug, and drank it it with a sigh of relief.
Heron looked at him anxiously.
"I had better go now, hadn't I?"
he said.
"You must go to bed.
To-morrow morning----" "No--no. I shall be all right soon; the valerian will soothe me.
I have told you so much that I must tell you all.
I should have said nothing about it but for the nervous fit which came over me just now.
Sit down."
Accordingly, Geoffrey waited, lighting a cigar the while.
Now that the information had been imparted to him almost against Webster's will, he was anxious to hear the whole story; he determined that Ruth, at least, should never know it.
Try as she might, she would never get it out of him.
He made up his mind, too, that he would be a friend to the unfortunate creature who was so cruelly afflicted.
Not only that, but he would give what advice and aid lay in his power to ameliorate the situation.
But he doubted whether the position could be amended.
Neil thanked him by a look, and returned to his sofa in a quieter frame of mind; the fury of the attack had left him weak and faint, but he insisted on speaking, and as he did so, his strength gradually came back.
To Geoffrey this sudden recuperation seemed little short of miraculous, for he was quite unaware of the power of the nerves to recover themselves.
"I had better begin by asking you a few questions," he began.
"But are you sure you are strong enough?"
"I shall be all right directly.
The truth has to be told now; and, moreover, I want your advice."
"I'll do anything in my power," Heron said.
"You are a good fellow.
How I have misunderstood you!
Well, I will repay you by giving up Ruth to you; I shall never marry her, nor, indeed, anyone.
Heaven help me!"
"Why not?"
Geoffrey, asked.
"You have seen what I am.
What sort of husband or father should I make?
But this is beside the point.
Hear what I have to tell, and advise me what to do.
In the first place, do you know the Turnpike House?"
"Great Heavens!
Are you talking about that murder?"
"Yes, I daresay you remember it."
"Remember it!
I should think so.
Why, nothing was talked about at Westham for months but that crime.
A man was found in the house stabbed to the heart; his wife was accused of the murder; she was taken, with her child, while trying to escape."
"Yes," was the calm reply.
"My father was the murdered man, my mother was the woman accused of the crime, and I the child."
"Then your name is Jenner?"
"Yes a name to be proud of, is it not?
But I have not the courage to take it.
Ugh!"
He shuddered.
"Think, if all that were known!
How could I appear in public?
People would come, not to hear me play, but to see a man who had been connected with a mysterious crime--whose mother was suffering punishment for that crime!
I should kill myself if it were known."
"There will be no need to kill yourself.
You are absolutely safe with me."
"But if Ruth should ask you?"
"Ruth shall never hear it from me.
When I said just now that she might cajole we, I was thinking of trivial things; but this terrible story shall remain a secret for ever.
You can speak to me as you would to a confessor.
There are some things, Webster, which a man does not do; and this is one of them.
I am glad you have told me."
"I am glad you know," sighed Neil.
"It will ease my mind to tell you all.
Now listen," and he recounted all the circumstances--his dream, and the causes which had led up to his identification as the son of the accused woman.
Geoffrey was more startled than ever, especially when Mr. Cass's name was mentioned.
"And does he know all this?"
he asked.
Then, in reply to Neil's nod, he added: "No wonder he would not let you marry his daughter!"
"No wonder," said the young man, bitterly.
"Touch pitch and defile yourself; but it was not he who stopped the marriage--it was myself.
I
would rather die than marry.
See what I am--a mass of nerves; think of the terrible history of my parents.
Then imagine me asking any woman to share my misery!
Well, now that you know all, what do you say?"
Heron looked rather helplessly at him.
"What can I say?"
he remarked, hesitatingly.
"It seems that your mother murdered your father under great provocation, and is now in prison.
Well, I think it would be best for you to put the matter out of your head, and go abroad.
It is not the slightest use you seeing her."
"I have already done so," Neil said, quietly.
Geoffrey started from his seat.
"You visited her in prison?"
he asked "Yes; I learnt where she was from Mr. Cass, and I went to see her at once.
For I loved my mother, as much as I hated my father.
Poor mother!
Her hair is white now, and her fact lined; but she was mad with joy at first on seeing me, and then very angry."
"Why was she angry?"
"Ah, that is the strangest part of the whole affair!
I am now going to tell you something that no one else knows--not even Mr. Cass."
"Fire ahead!"
"When I went to the prison," Neil continued, "I did not believe that my mother was guilty.
Cass had told me she was but I did not agree with him.
Only from her own lips would I learn the truth, and to the prison I went in order to learn it.
I saw the governor, and asked to see Mrs. Jenner, but did not give my real name; I merely said that I was a distant relative of hers, and wanted an interview.
Well, I saw her--alone."
"Were you allowed to do that?
I thought----" "That a woman warder would be present?
Well, one was, but she stayed outside the door, where she could hear little, if anything.
We were practically alone."
"Did she recognise you?"
"At once.
Ah Heron, you don't know what a mother's love is.
Yes; she knew me, for I am the very image of what she was in youth.
I have her fair hair and blue eyes; but not her good looks.
She knew me, but she would only half admit it."
"Why was that?"
"Well, for one reason, because the warder was outside, and she did not wish our relationship known.
Another was that she feared to give way altogether if she once said that I was her son.
So all the time she addressed me as Mr. Webster; and she talked of her son to me."
"She must be a woman of wonderful self-command," said Geoffrey, now thoroughly interested.
"A woman in a thousand, as you will admit before I have done.
Ah, what a mother!
Was there ever such a noble creature?
Well, addressing me always as I have said, she said that her son had been taken away to be brought up by Mr. Cass in ignorance of his parentage; and that this had been done at her own special request.
She did not want her son ever to know of her existence, or of her history, nor did she wish ever to see him.
She was dead to him, and desired that he should regard her as dead also."
"A painful position for you."
"Heaven knows how painful!"
He was sitting up now, and speaking rapidly.
