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 indisposition.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Marriage?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nevertheless, you will become his wife."

"I would die first."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who is that man Webster?"

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

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

"I refuse to tell you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you mean that he will refuse?"

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

"And under your influence?"

"Under my influence. Yes."

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

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

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

"He did not recognize his father."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And you will deal with the matter?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs. Marshall brushed the suggestion aside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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