As the dusk set in, George Heritage and his young wife drew nearer and nearer to the home they had both quitted under such different circumstances.

For the last half hour of their walk George had been almost silent; but Bess, who was picturing in her mind the meeting with her father, hardly noticed it.

The determination he had made to throw himself upon his father’s generosity, to return like the prodigal and crave forgiveness, was becoming weaker and weaker as the time came for it to be carried into effect.

But for Bess, he would have turned back now at the eleventh hour; yet the thought of the misery which his penniless condition would entail upon her forced him to go on.

He waited a little way off while Bess went on first and saw her father. He fancied there might be a scene, and he didn’t like scenes. He was no longer George Smith, the unknown clerk. Here he was George Heritage, Marks’s young master; and he felt that the position, till explained, would be awkward.

Had Bess risen from the dead, her father would not have been more astonished than he was when she crept into the little lodge and fell at his feet.

‘Father!’ she cried, ‘don’t you know me?’

For a moment the old lodge-keeper struggled for breath. Then his voice came, and with a big sob, he cried, ‘Bess—my own darling! Thank God! Thank God!’

He flung his arms about her, raised her, and clasped her to his breast, the hot tears pouring down his wrinkled cheeks into the flushed, upturned face of his daughter.

Bess cried a little, laughed a little, and then cried again, and at last, when she could speak without doing either, she told her story in a few words.

The old lodge-keeper listened in silence.

‘Ay, I knew it, my darling,’ he said, when she had finished. ‘I got your letters, and I trusted you. I guessed it was for the young master’s sake you were silent.’

‘Yes, father; I would never have kept it secret from you but for George.’

‘No, my lass, I know that. I said to myself many a night, when I sat here alone, looking up at the bright stars, and thinking that might be up in the great city you were looking at them too—I said, “My little lass is an honest lass; she wouldn’t shame her old father for the best gentleman in the land.” I knew you were married to the young master, Bess, my darling. If I hadn’t believed that, I don’t think you would have found me here now.’

Little by little, Bess told her father how they had been living in London, and how good George had been; but how now, for some reason, it was necessary he should see his father and make his peace with him. ‘Would her father let him come to the lodge and wait awhile, till he could go up to the hall and see the squire alone?’

Of course Marks would. ‘Wasn’t he the young master, and wasn’t he Bess’s husband? God bless him!’

Then Bess went out, and George came quietly in and sat down in the little room where no one could see him, and they closed the door and drew down the blind, and talked matters over.

Marks could not imagine himself the father-in-law of the young squire. He touched his hat to him and said, ‘No, Master George,’ and ‘Yes, Master George,’ and wouldn’t sit down in the room where he was; and George began to feel very uncomfortable, and to wish he could see some way of escape even now without speaking to his father.

He must tell him of Mrs. George Heritage—that was a matter of course. Some day he had intended to do so under any circumstances; but some day had always been a very convenient day. This day was a most inconvenient one.

Still matters were desperate. At any time there might be a hue-and-cry after him. He must leave the country at once, unless he wished to run the risk of taking a public trial and having the whole of his past life published in the papers. No; it was better to tell his father all, humiliating as it was, than to have the whole world knowing it.

Again, what was he to do with Bess? He couldn’t drag her about from pillar to post. He could rough it himself, but she was a woman. Besides, he didn’t want her to know everything. He had supposed he was really doing something very good and noble in making her his wife. As long as he could retain that idea, there was still some romance about the affair. But if he had to drag her about with him and let her see that he was a pauper and in terror of the law, she would owe him nothing. She might then be making a sacrifice for him. He didn’t want a lodge-keeper’s daughter to be a sort of benefactress to him.

He was a strange mixture of good and evil, this young Heritage. He was generous and mean, brave and cowardly, large-minded and small-minded, all at the same time. And his besetting sin was vacillation.

Even now, with the road smoothed for him, with everything to gain and nothing to lose, he hesitated at sacrificing his dignity by an ad misericordiam appeal to his father.

He had pictured something so very different. He had hoped for a time when his father, finding he was independent of him, would hold out his arms and beg his son to honour him again with his friendship.

Bess, supremely happy, once more in her father’s presence, sat and chatted pleasantly. Never an idea crossed her mind that it was any serious trouble which had driven them from London. She believed that George, at first fearing his father had found out his address, had determined to leave the Ducks for awhile. Afterwards, when he determined to go to the hall, she thought he had made up his mind, after all, that it would be better to make a clean breast of it and trust to his father’s generosity.

She believed, poor little woman, that George had taken the best course he could, and that happy days were in store for them.

As to the squire refusing to be reconciled to his son, or to receive the wanderer, such an idea never entered her head.

Who could refuse George anything?

Besides, if he had married her, she couldn’t see that was such a very great crime. She looked in the glass and saw every excuse for a young man doing such a thing.

Her father was not a menial; he was an old and valued retainer, and had been the old squire’s companion in many a long walk and in many an evening chat under the great wide-spreading trees of the park. She had been born on the estate, and the squire had always been kind to her and treated her like a lady. She had had quite as good an education as many of the gentry’s children round about, for it had been a whim of the squire’s lady to send her to school, and some day she had thought of going out for a governess. But her mother died, and, instead of going out into the great world, she stayed at home with her father and fell in love with Master George.

And now they were married. Well, perhaps the squire would have chosen some one higher in rank for his son, but his son might have done much worse. Bess had a spirit of her own and a fair amount of pride. She was quite sure the squire need not be very angry with George for marrying her.

George sat and listened to Bess’s busy tongue, but he hardly heard a word she said. He was absorbed in his own thoughts, and they were not nearly so pleasant as Bess’s.

Towards nine he drew Marks on one side.

‘He’s alone in the library about this time, isn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ answered the old lodge-keeper; ‘he sits there all the evening after dinner now, writing and reading and talking to himself.’

‘How can I get in without the servants seeing me?’

‘The outer hall-door is not closed; the inner door opens if you turn the handle. But, lor’, Master George, as if you didn’t know the ways of the house as well as me!’

‘What about the dog? If he recognises me he’ll bark and bring the servants up.’

‘I’ll go up and let him out, and take him for a run while you go in,’ said Marks. ‘But what can it matter if the servants do see you, Master George?’

‘I don’t want them to, Marks. You’d understand why if you were in my position.’

George and Marks had walked to the door talking. Before they went out George turned back suddenly into the inner room, where Bess was instinctively doing a little tidying up.

He went across to where she stood and took her hands in his.

‘Bess,’ he said, almost solemnly, ‘I love you very dearly, and you know it. What I am going to do to-night I am doing for your sake. If I fail, your love may have a rude shock. Wish me God speed.’

She threw her arms about his neck and kissed him.

‘God speed you, my darling,’ she murmured. ‘But happy days are coming now.’

‘Pray God you may be right!’ he cried. Then he clasped her to his breast for a moment and was gone.

Outside he took Marks by the arm.

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I am going on a desperate errand to-night, I can’t tell you everything, and Bess has no idea how much depends on this interview. If I fail, it will be necessary for me to get away for awhile. I can’t drag her through the perils I shall have to encounter.’

The young man s manner was so solemn, that old Marks was alarmed.

‘Oh, Master George, what do you mean?’ he exclaimed nervously.

‘I can’t tell you. I only want you to promise me this. If I fail, I shall leave the place at once, for a time. I want you to guard my poor girl for a time, till I can make a home for her elsewhere. Promise me!’

‘I promise. But you are exaggerating, Master George. The squire won’t be cruel. I am sure he will forgive you.’

‘I don’t know; he may not. If he doesn’t, I am a penniless beggar. I can starve, but she can’t. You won’t turn her out?’

‘Turn her out? I’m her father, Master George.’

The young man pointed to the hall.

‘The man who lives there is mine, but he drove me out of my home.’

‘You went of your own accord.’

‘No, he drove me out, I tell you; and now I am coming back to him like a whipped cur to plead for mercy.’

The struggle between pride and necessity was raging in the young man’s breast.

‘Go and get the dog away, Marks,’ he exclaimed passionately, ‘and let me go, or I shall turn tail even now.’

Marks walked up to the hall, loosed the dog, and, holding him by the collar, led him away across the grounds some distance from the house. At the same moment there was a movement in the shrubbery on the other side of the house, and a big, burly man came creeping round in the shadow and stole noiselessly up the stairs.

At the same time another man, much thinner and shorter, came from the same place, and, keeping along by the walls of the house, went round to where a short garden ladder stood against the side of the house where & creeper was being trained.

It was immediately under the library window.

When Marks had been gone some little time, and George knew that the dog would be beyond hearing distance, he came up through the trees towards the house.

Marks was to lead the dog round and take him back to the lodge, and wait there with Bess till George returned.

The moment had arrived.

The young man’s idea in entering the house like a thief, and at night, was to avoid recognition by the servants. He wanted to see his father alone and unperceived—to go like the prodigal, and cast himself at his feet, and say, ‘Father, forgive me!’

He didn’t want a servant to go rushing up with, ‘Here’s Master George come back!’ and all that nonsense. He hated a fuss, and he had an idea that he was in a very humiliating position.

Besides, even if his father gave him what he wanted, it was better he should come and go unseen, except by Marks.

The fact remained that he had been connected with a gang of swindlers, and there was no knowing where or how he might be traced when once inquiry was set on foot.

The past, the present, and the future all flashed through his mind, as, with hesitating steps, he walked up towards the hall.

‘But for Bess,’ he thought, ‘I’d have had a desperate try to do without him. But for Bess——’

He stopped suddenly.

His great difficulty all along had been what to do with Bess. But for the present was not that fear removed? Was she not safe beneath her father’s roof? Where better could she be than that?

Swiftly he reviewed the whole situation. Bess being at home might stay there a little while. That would give him time. He need not creep into his father’s house like a thief. Might he not write to him first? He could say what he wanted to say so much better in a letter, and there would be less humiliation.

At that moment his fate trembled in the balance.

If he had gone on boldly and seen his father, all might have been well.

But he hesitated. He put off the doing that which he disliked, and he reaped the penalty.

Instead of going up to the hall, he turned back towards the lodge.

He walked rapidly away from the house.

Suddenly he heard a sound behind him as of heavy footsteps running.

Instantly the thought flashed upon him that he had been trapped; that the police had found out who he was, and, expecting he would come home, had lain in wait for him.

He did not stop to reason, or to think that if this was so he would have been captured at the lodge.

He only heard the rapidly advancing footsteps behind him, and made certain that he was the object of pursuit.

He must not be taken, at any rate, not there, where twenty people would recognize him. The scandal would be magnified tenfold. He ran rapidly in the direction of the lodge, fear lending swiftness to his limbs, weary with his wanderings.

As he darted past the lodge, Marks was at the door.

George shouted to him, ‘Remember your promise!’ and flew on like a madman.

The lodge-gates were closed, but he knew a weak spot in the hedge; he ran up the side, scrambled through, and he was in the roadway.

He paused for a second and listened.

He could hear no footsteps now. His pursuers had not come towards the lodge.

He had gained on them a little.

He ran on still, all along the roadway, as fast as he could, and then walked.

Presently he came to a quiet spot where the trees grew by the roadside.

He crept behind the trunk of one, and stood there to rest awhile, wondering whither he could turn his footsteps to escape the hue-and-cry which he felt sure was now raised.

As George Heritage rushed past him, Marks was so astonished that for the moment he did not move.

He was about to follow him, when suddenly a cry rang across the stillness of the night:

‘Help! help! help!’

There were lights in the lower rooms up at the hall, and the servants were now hurrying about.

With a cry of terror, Marks ran, as well as his aged limbs would let him, up to the house.

A fearful suspicion flashed across his mind.

George had seen his father. There had been a quarrel, and——

He dared not shape his thoughts into words.

Terrified and trembling, he arrived at the hall.

‘What is it?’ he gasped to the old housekeeper, who was on the landing wringing her hands.

‘Thieves and murder’s the matter!’ she screamed. ‘Some villain’s half murdered the master, and carried off all the jewellery and goodness knows what.’

The whole village was gradually aroused by the news of the burglary and the attack on the squire, and every part of the estate was searched for traces of the culprits.

Presently there was a great noise heard as of a crowd coming nearer and nearer.

The servants ran out to the gates, and returned with the news that one of the burglars was caught.

Followed by a crowd came two constables, dragging a man with them. His clothes had been torn to shreds in the struggle, the dirt and dust of the roads were upon him, and the blood from a blow on his head had trickled down his face.

None of the crowd knew him. They thought he was a tramp, and in the dark night his face, disfigured as it was, was almost unrecognisable.

The crowd stopped outside while the constables led their charge into the hall to confront him with the squire.

The prisoner shuddered as he passed the lodge-gates, and looked fearfully at the doorway.

There was no one there.

Up the broad walk he went, preserving the same dogged silence which had been unbroken since his capture.

The officers led him into the library, where the squire sat, still trembling and exhausted from his recent encounter, Marks standing near him. They pushed him into the middle of the room, and then the man raised his eyes.

For a moment the squire looked at him wonderingly. Marks, who had turned white and trembled violently as the group entered, gave one agonized glance at the figure before him, and then, throwing up his hands, exclaimed in a tone of horror, ‘Master George!’

The squire’s eyes were fixed upon his son. He recognized him now through the dirt and the blood and the tatters. His lips shaped themselves to speak, he rose trembling from his chair, then, gasping out, ‘My son! It was my son!’ fell forward a huddled-up mass upon the floor.

In his terror Marks spoke at random; the officers heard him upbraid the young man for what he had done, for making him an accomplice, as it were.

Every word that the old servant gasped out over the senseless body of his master was a link in the chain of evidence against the son.

George made no answer.

He stood like a man in a dream, dazed, almost unconscious of what was going on around him.

They raised the squire and put him in his chair again, but his eyes wandered vacantly round the room, and he kept mumbling to himself, ‘My son! It was my son!’

The shock had unhinged his reason.