“IT WILL BE JUST HEAVEN IF YOU WILL COME AND READ TO MEâ€
Before the day was out, he found any number of excuses. This life, he told himself, was all, and youth was the best part of life, in fact, the only part in which enjoyment could find a place, and if a cup of delight was placed to his lips, was it wise to dash it to the ground and spill all its contents, because it was possible and even probable it would leave a bitter taste in the mouth. But even though he was sure the bitter taste would follow, was he not justified in taking the sweet when he had the chance? Had not somebody said:
"'Tis better to have loved and lostThan never to have loved at all"?
"'Tis better to have loved and lostThan never to have loved at all"?
Besides, he had not to consider only himself. That would be selfish. This sweet-eyed girl wanted an outlet for her gratitude and generosity, and if he rudely pushed aside the hand that was outstretched to help, and churlishly refused her sympathy, how hurt she would be. And a man would be a brute to give pain to so sweet a soul; he would rather cut his hand off than do it.
Also it did not follow that because he saw more of her he would become more deeply in love with her. He would recognise, of course, all the way through that she was out of his circle—that was a fact he would never allow to pass out of his mind. And keeping that in mind, he would be able to keep guard over his own heart.
So before the day was done, he was able to extract all the poison from his surrender. He might not have done the heroic thing, but it did not necessarily followthat he had done a foolish thing. Chance had flung this girl across his path, why should it be an evil chance? Why might there not grow out of the acquaintance something for the good of both?
Having arrived at that position, he ceased calling himself a fool, and gave himself up to pleasant dreams and even more pleasant anticipations. Closing his eyes he recalled their conversation, recalled every expression of her sensitive face, every tone of her musical voice.
He fancied her sitting again by his bedside. How dainty she was, how unobtrusively and yet how exquisitely attired. Things he had been aware of in a sub-conscious way now clearly defined themselves. He remembered her teeth, even and white, her ears small and coloured like a sea-shell, her eyebrows dark and straight, her eyelashes long, her mouth like Cupid's bow. He remembered, too, how her rich brown hair grew low in her neck, while a massive coil seemed to balance her shapely head.
He smiled to himself at length. "How much I noticed," he said, "without seeming to notice. I wonder if other people think her so good to look upon."
He slept better that night than he had done since his accident, and through all his dreams Madeline seemed to glide, a healing and an inspiring presence. He awoke with his nerves thrilling like harpstrings, and a happy smile upon his lips.
He had dreamed that his invention had realised a thousand times more than he had ever hoped or imagined, that it had lifted him into the region of affluence and power, that he took his place among the successful men of his generation by right of what he had done, and that, thrilling with the knowledge of his success, he had laid his heart at the feet of Madeline Grover. "You have been my inspiration," he saidto her. "But for my love for you I could not have wrought and striven as I have done," and for answer she laid her hands in his and lifted her face to be kissed; and then the twittering of the sparrows under the eaves awoke him.
"Dreams are curious things," he said, the smile still upon his lips. "Now I dream I fail, and now that I succeed. Both dreams cannot be true, that is certain. I wonder. I wonder."
He was still wondering when Mrs. Tuke brought him an early cup of tea.
"Have you slept well?" she asked, and there was a sympathetic note in her voice that he did not remember to have heard before.
"The best night I have yet had," he said, cheerfully.
"Then you don't think having so much company yesterday did you any harm?"
"It did me good, Mrs. Tuke. I was beginning to mope."
"She is a beautiful creature."
"You called her a scare-away American yesterday."
"Did I? Oh, well, you see, I didn't know her so well then. Besides, I never denied that she was good-looking."
"But looks are only skin deep, I have heard you say."
"And that I sticks to. But Miss Grover has sense and judgment. You should have heard her talk yesterday. I never heard a girl of her age speak with so much wisdom. We've quite taken to each other."
"I'm very glad to hear it."
"She's not to be judged by the ordinary foot-rule either."
"No?"
"In America girls have more freedom. You see, they've no king there, only a president."
Rufus laughed.
"And everybody grows up equal, as it were. Girls learn to look after themselves and men to respect 'em."
"That's as it ought to be."
"But the women of St. Gaved would be envious enough to bite their thumbs off if they knew she made a friend of me; and would talk abominable. I know 'em, and what they are capable of."
"Some of them can gossip a bit," he said, reflectively.
"And if they know'd I allowed her to see you," Mrs. Tuke went on.
"The fat would be in the fire," he interrupted.
"But they're not going to know. Do you think I don't know a lady when I sees her, and know also what's due to her? You should hear Miss Grover talk."
"She has a taking way with her."
"No, 'tisn't that. There's no chaff with her, and as for myself, I can't abide flattery. But I do like common-sense," and with a self-satisfied smile lighting up her severe face, Mrs. Tuke bustled out of the room.
Rufus closed his eyes and laughed softly. "The little scare-away American got in the first shot, that's evident," he chuckled, and he kept on smiling to himself at intervals during the day.
The afternoon was beginning to wear away before Madeline put in an appearance. She came into the room like a breath of spring—gentle, fragrant, energising. She was not at all shy, neither was she obtrusive. There was never anything self-conscious in her movements. She was trying to be kind, trying to pay in some measure a big debt of gratitude she owed, and she was supremely happy in making the attempt.
"Do you know, I feel real pleased with myself to-day," she said, in her quaint American way.
"Do you?" he questioned.
"Seems to me living up in a big house like Trewinion Hall, one has scarcely a chance of being kind or neighbourly, and when the chance does come, it seems great."
"Do you think exclusiveness and selfishness mean the same thing?"
"I don't know. That's a sum I haven't figured out yet. But what would you like me to read to you?"
"Anything you like. I fear you will not consider my stock of books very interesting."
"Have they all to do with science and mechanics, and that sort of thing?"
"No, not all."
She rose from her chair and went to a table on which several volumes lay, and began to read their titles. "Principles of Western Civilisation," "The Earth's Beginning," "Facts and Comments," "Education and Empire," "Philosophy and Life."
"Ah! here is a story book I expect. 'The Buried Temple,' by Maurice Maeterlinck," and she picked up the book and began to turn over the pages, then with a faint sigh she laid it down again.
"Would you rather I talked to you?" she questioned, turning her face toward him with a smile.
"I think I would," he replied. "I am not much in the mood for philosophy to-day."
"But why vex your brains with philosophy at all? What you need when you are ill is a real, good story. The next time I come to see you I'll bring a book along with me."
"What will you bring?"
"I don't know yet. Do you like poetry?"
"When it is poetry."
"Are you sure you know it when you see it?" and she laughed good humouredly.
"Well, I would not like to dogmatise on that point," he answered.
"You've read Whittier, of course?"
"No."
"Oh, I'm sorry for you. Whittier is great. I like him heaps better than your Browning."
"Why?"
"Because I understand him better. I expect poetry is like beauty, in the eye of the beholder, don't you think so? Now if poetry don't touch me, don't thrill me, why, whatever it may be to other people it isn't poetry to me. Do I make myself plain?"
"Quite plain."
"Now Whittier just says what I feel, but what I haven't the power to express; just sums up in great, noble words the holiest emotions I have ever known."
"Yes."
"Then Whittier is a man of faith and vision, as all poets must be if they are to be great. I like Browning for that. He sees clear. He doesn't merely hope, he believes. He not only 'faintly trusts the larger hope,' he builds on the rock. A man who has no faith is like a bird with a broken wing. Don't you think so?"
"But what do you mean by faith?" he asked, uneasily.
"Ah, now you want to puzzle me," she said, with a smile.
"Oh, no I don't," he replied, quickly. "I only want to get your meaning clearly."
"But I'm not a poet," she answered. "I'm only a girl, and I can't find the right words. But I justmean faith. Seeing the invisible, if I may say so. Realising it. Being conscious of it."
"The invisible?" he questioned.
"Yes, God, and heaven, and immortality. Believing also in goodness and humanity and the sacredness of human life."
"Do you believe that human life is a very sacred thing?"
"Why, of course I do! What a question to ask."
"Does it seem so very strange?"
"Why, yes. Think of the care that is taken of everybody, even the worthless. Think of all the hospitals and asylums——"
"Yes, that is one side of the question," he said. "What we may call the sentimental side. But place human life in the scale against money or territory or human ambition."
"Well?"
"We mow men down with machine guns or blow them up with dynamite—not in twos or threes, but in thousands and tens of thousands, and the more we kill the more satisfied we are."
"Oh yes, I know. That is all very terrible," she said, with a puzzled expression in her eyes.
"But why terrible?" he questioned.
"I can't explain myself very well," she answered, slowly; "but, of course, we must defend our country."
"Therefore country is more sacred than life."
"Oh no, you are not going to catch me that way. To die for one's country must be great, heroic."
"Exactly. Therefore, in comparison with what we call country—that is, our particular form of government, or our particular set of rulers, or our particular stake in it—what you call the sacredness of human life occupies a very subordinate position."
"But you would risk your life in defence of your country?" she questioned, evasively.
"Most certainly I would," he answered, promptly; "but then you see I am not hampered by any notions respecting the sacredness of human life."
He was sorry a moment later that their conversation had taken the turn it had. He felt that he would bite his tongue out rather than give this sweet-eyed maiden pain; and that he had pained her was too evident by the look upon her face. And yet, having gone so far, he was bound to be honest.
"If I held your views," he went on, "nothing would induce me to take a human life—neither patriotism nor any other ism."
"Oh, but," she said, quickly, "there are some things more sacred even than life, honour for instance, and truth."
"No doubt. But there is surely a difference between losing one's life, giving it up for the sake of some great principle, and taking the life of another."
"Then you would not be afraid to die for something you valued much?"
"Why should a man be afraid to die at all? Of course life is sweet while you have something to live for, but to rest and be at peace, should not that be sweet also?"
"You want to live?"
"Now I do. For the moment I have something to live for. Something that gives zest to existence and fills all my dreams."
"I am so sorry to have delayed its execution. Perhaps you will come to it with more zest and insight after the long rest."
"I think I shall," he answered, slowly, looking beyond her to where the day grew red in the west.
"I wish I could help you," she said, as if thinking aloud; "but women can do so little."
He withdrew his eyes from the window and looked at her again.
"You will do much," he said, speaking earnestly.
"How?"
"By inspiring someone to be great. A clod would become a hero with your—your——" then he broke off suddenly and withdrew his eyes.
"Won't you finish the sentence?" she questioned, looking at him shyly.
"Not to-day," he answered, and a few minutes later she rose to go.
Madeline did not put in an appearance the next day or the day following that. But on the third day she came into the room like a ray of sunshine.
"Well, I'm here," she said, in her bright, eager fashion; "but I was just terribly afraid I wasn't going to get—there now, isn't that a sentence to be remembered?"
Rufus showed his welcome in every line of his face. It was a dull, rainy day, with a blustering wind from the west and a sky that had not revealed a speck of blue since morning. He had lain mostly in one position, looking through the small window, watching the trees on the other side of the road swaying in the wind, and listening to the fitful patter of the rain.
His thoughts had not been always of the most cheerful kind. The days and weeks were passing surely, if slowly, while the great scheme on which he had set his heart and his hopes was at a standstill. He was conscious, too, of a new and terrible hunger that was steadily growing upon him—a hunger for companionship, for sympathy, for love. The coming of Madeline had changed his life, changed his outlook, changed the very centre of gravity. Nothing seemed exactly the same as it did before. Even death had changed its face, and the possibility of a life beyond forced itself upon his brain with a new insistence.
To win success had been his ambition—the one dream of his life. The only immortality he desired was to live in a beneficent invention he had wrought out. Now a new desire possessed him. There was something better than success, something sweeter than fame. If he could win love. If he could know the joy of a perfect sympathy. If—if——.
His thoughts always broke off at a certain point. It seemed so hopeless, so foolish. Until he had won some kind of position for himself it was madness to think of love. At present he was working on borrowed capital, and there was always before him the grim possibility that he might fail, and failure meant the end of all things for him. Felix Muller should never have reason to doubt his courage or his honour.
Then he would start again, dreaming of Madeline. The two preceding days had seemed painfully long. He had listened for her footsteps from noon to night. He had watched for her coming more than they who wait for the morning. He had pictured her smile a thousand times, and felt the warm pressure of her hand in his.
When at length she glided into the room his heart was too full for speech. How bright she was, how winsome, how overflowing with life and vivacity! The gloom and chill of autumn went out of the room as if by magic, and the air was full of the perfume of spring violets and the warmth of summer sunshine.
She pulled off her gloves and threw them on the table and seated herself in a chair near him.
"Have you been very dull these last two or three days?" she questioned.
"Rather," he answered. "You see, the fine weather has come to a sudden end."
"But I guess it will soon clear up again, though I am told your English climate is not to be relied upon."
"The only certain thing about it is its glorious uncertainty."
"Well, there may be advantages in that; there's always a certain interest in not knowing. Don't you think so?"
"Most things have their compensations," he said, with a smile.
"Then there's a chance of your being compensated for this long spell of suffering and idleness."
"As a matter of fact I have been compensated already."
"No! in which way?"
"Ah, that is not easy to explain," he said, turning away his eyes. "And you might not understand me if I tried."
"Am I so dense?"
"I don't think you are dense at all. But I am not good at saying things as they ought to be said. You will sympathise with me in that, I know."
"Oh, that is mere equivocation. You simply don't want to tell me."
"I would tell you a lot if I dared."
"Dared?"
"Yes. I should not like to drive you away or make you angry. Your friendship is very sweet to me—that is one of the compensations."
"The friendship of a mere girl is worth nothing to a grown, busy man, who is fighting big problems and aiming at great conquests. If I could only help you that would be just fine. But it is of no use hankering after impossible things, is it? So I am going to read to you."
"What are you going to read?"
"A piece called 'Snow Bound.' Now listen," and for half-an-hour he did not speak. Her voice rose andfell in musical cadence. He closed his eyes so that he might catch all the melody of her voice. The lines she read did not interest him at first. All his interest was in the sweet-eyed reader.
But he grew interested after awhile, and was touched unconsciously by the beautiful faith and tender humanity that flashed out here and there.
When she reached the end he opened his eyes and looked at her, her lips were still apart, her eyes aglow with emotion. She was no longer the bright, merry irresponsible girl. She seemed to have changed suddenly into a strong, great-souled woman.
"Would you mind reading a few stanzas over again?" he questioned, after a pause.
"With pleasure."
"Beginning, 'O time and change.'"
"Yes, I know," and she opened the book again. He listened with intense eagerness. She dropped her voice a little when she came to the words:
Alas for him who never seesThe stars shine through his cypress trees!Who, hopeless, lays his dead away,Nor looks to see the breaking dayAcross the mournful marbles play!Who hath not learned in hours of faithThe truth to flesh and sense unknown,That Life is ever Lord of death,And Love can never lose its own!
Alas for him who never seesThe stars shine through his cypress trees!Who, hopeless, lays his dead away,Nor looks to see the breaking dayAcross the mournful marbles play!Who hath not learned in hours of faithThe truth to flesh and sense unknown,That Life is ever Lord of death,And Love can never lose its own!
She closed the book again and waited for him to speak.
"It is a beautiful thought," he said, without opening his eyes. "If one could only be sure it is true."
"Be sure that what is true?" she asked, in a tone of surprise.
"That Life is ever Lord of death. That Love can never lose its own."
"Why do you think there can be any doubt about it?"
He opened his eyes again and looked at her, and his heart smote him. It would be a cruel thing to disturb her serene and simple faith with his own doubts. Almost for the first time in his life he felt the utter futility of the agnostic's creed. It had nothing to offer but a catalogue of negations. To the parched and thirsty lips it placed an empty cup, and before tired and longing eyes it held up a blank canvas.
He had grown out of his religious creed as he had grown out of his pinafores. His heart and his intellect alike had revolted against the narrow orthodoxy of his grandfather. He had been driven farther into the barren desert of negations by the pitiful parody of religion exhibited by ecclesiastical organisations, and to complete the work Felix Muller had inoculated him with the views of German materialists. He fancied, like many another man who had followed in the same track, that he had got to the bed-rock at last, that after much delving he had found the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
Yet it was truth that brought no hope, no comfort, no inspiration. He was not eager to proclaim it to others. Men would be just as well off if they never reached thisultima Thule—perhaps, better off. To persuade men that there was no God, nor heaven, nor immortality, that this life was all and the grave the end, was not the kind of thing to inspire men to great deeds or heroic achievements.
His intellect might mock at the simple faith of the sweet-eyed maiden. He might honestly believe that she was living in a fool's paradise. But if it was aparadise and there was nothing beyond it, why disturb her? If death ended everything, let her enjoy her paradise as long as possible. If it was the only paradise she would ever have, it would be sheer cruelty to drive her out of it.
If he destroyed her faith, what had he to give her to fill its place? There was nothing in a string of negations to satisfy the hunger of a human soul. Granted that her faith was folly, that her religion was pure superstition, there was no denying that it was a very beautiful superstition, that it invested life with a grandeur that nothing else could give to it.
And, after all, was he so sure that he had found the ultimate truth? He had inscribed on his little bannerNe plus ultra, but had he any right to dogmatise more than others? There might be a farther "beyond" which faith could pierce. There might be truth which flesh and sense could never apprehend. There might be spirit as well as matter.
"I should like you to read me more from the same book," he said, at length.
"Oh! I will do that with pleasure," she said, eagerly. "I knew you would like my dear old Quaker poet."
"He has the gift of expression," he answered, cautiously.
Then she began to read "The Eternal Goodness," slowly and reverently.
He closed his eyes again, and listened with wrapt attention. The beautiful faith of the poet seemed to strike a new chord in his being. Moreover, the religion in which he had been reared, and from which he had broken away, seemed a nobler and a Diviner thing than it had ever appeared to him before. Stripped of its human glosses and paraphrases, released from therusty fetters of dogma, stated in simple language, it awoke a dormant emotion in his nature that had never been touched until now.
"Would you mind leaving the book with me when you go?" he questioned, when she had finished.
"Of course I will leave it," she answered.
"I am afraid I shall not see so much when I read it for myself," he went on. "There is so much in the right emphasis being given."
"Do you mean me to take that as a compliment?" she questioned, playfully.
"Not as an empty compliment," he answered, gravely. "You read beautifully."
She did not reply to that, but her eyes glowed with pleasure.
During the next week or ten days he lived in a kind of fairyland. Every now and then he had an unpleasant feeling that he would wake up sooner or later with a start to discover that the gold was only tinsel, that the rippling streams were dry, and the green and shady meadows a hot and arid desert.
Every day or two Madeline came to see him—came quite naturally and without ceremony. She did not hide from herself the fact that she liked to come. She frankly admitted that she liked the invalid. She told herself that she would be an ungrateful little wretch if she didn't. He had saved her life, and saved it at terrible risk to himself and terrible suffering, and it would be selfish, indeed, on her part if she did not try to cheer and brighten the long days that he was enduring, and enduring so patiently on her account.
Moreover, Rufus Sterne was no ordinary man. He belonged to a type she had not met before. As yet she did not know how to describe him. He was more or less of a mystery to her, and that in itself kindledand sustained her interest. Most of the young men she had met she "saw through" in ten minutes, and in half-an-hour had weighed them up, classified and labelled them.
But Rufus Sterne baffled her. He was altogether too complex for her simple and easy method of analysis, too massive for her six-inch rule. At times he seemed to her a huge bundle of contradictions. His face could be as stern as the granite cliffs, his smile as sweet and winning as spring sunshine. At times he was as silent and mysterious as the sphinx, at other times brimming over with mirth and merriment. His passion for truth and right filled her with admiration, his apparent indifference to all religion struck her with dismay. He was a man of the people in theory, in practice he lived alone, remote and friendless.
It seemed to her sometimes a wonderful condescension on his part that he deigned to notice her at all. Like most of her sex, she did not in her heart think much of girls. She would defend them readily enough if they were attacked, and if driven into a corner would acclaim their superiority over men; but in reality she thought little of them. In the main they were small and niggling, and not particularly magnanimous. Neither did she place herself an inch higher than the average girl. She was as conscious of her own limitations as anybody.
Hence, that this strong, self-reliant man, who was fighting the world single-handed, and toiling to complete some great invention, should make her his friend, tell her that her friendship was very sweet to him, was a compliment greater than had ever been paid to her before.
She had never placed Rufus Sterne for a moment in the same category with Gervase Tregony. Gervasewas on her own level. He was not to her a mysterious and unexplored country. She knew him thoroughly, knew what he was capable of; had sounded all his depths and tabulated all his qualifications.
Hence, Gervase never over-awed her; never made her feel small or insignificant. On the whole, she thought she liked him all the better for that. Gervase might not be profound—that was hardly to be expected in a soldier; he might not be morally sensitive—that also was incompatible with the profession. But he was a good sort, so she believed. A bit rough and over-mastering, but generous at heart. Not vexed by social or political problems, but fond of life, and intent on having a good time of it if he had the opportunity.
She had never doubted for a moment that she and Gervase would get on excellently together. Indeed, they appeared to have been designed for each other, and yet she had hesitated to accept his proposal, and every day her hesitation grew more and more pronounced.
The fascination of Rufus Sterne's personality intensified as the days passed away. Her admiration for his character increased. There was nothing small or petty or niggling about him. She did not compare him with Gervase Tregony, and yet unconsciously she found herself contrasting the two men—contrasting them to Gervase's disadvantage.
And yet in her heart she was very loyal to the man who had proposed to her—the man who had captivated her girlish imagination by his splendid uniform and masterful ways.
Her feeling towards Rufus was of a different order. At first it was merely a sense of gratitude; later on gratitude became suffused with sympathy; but as the days passed away, other ingredients were added, themost marked being admiration. His strength, his patience, his reticence, all called forth her approval, till in time he became something of a hero in her eyes.
And all this time Rufus yielded himself more and more to the witchery of her presence, and felt in some respects a better man in consequence. There were compensations, no doubt. Her very presence created an atmosphere that softened and humanised him. His hard, defiant cynicism melted before her smile like snow in spring sunshine. Their conversations touched and unlocked springs of emotion that had been sealed for years; the books and poems she read to him broadened his horizon and led him to re-open questions that he imagined were closed. Her smile, her voice, her look, set all his nerves to music, and made life a more beautiful thing than ever it had seemed before.
But he knew all the time that there would come an awakening sooner or later. They were like two happy children sauntering through green and pleasant glades, screened from the storm and recking naught of the desert beyond.
For himself he avoided looking into the future. He would enjoy the sunshine and the flowers as long as possible. In the long intervals between her visits he recalled their conversations, and re-read the pieces to which her voice had given so much meaning and melody. Moreover, he turned the pages of the books she had lent him and committed to memory some of the passages she had marked. They were sweet to him because she loved them.
So all unconsciously he strayed back from the hard desert of negations in which he had wandered so long. Because he loved this sweet flower, he loved all flowers for her sake. Indeed, love became the medium throughwhich he looked at all things; far distances became near, and new and wider horizons loomed beyond.
Whatever pain might come to him later on, the memory of these days would remain an inspiration to him. To have loved so truly was surely in itself an ennobling thing. Nothing would ever take out of his life these golden threads that had been woven into its texture. The song might cease, the voice of the singer be hushed, but the echo of the song would remain in his heart to the very last.
So he enjoyed those bright, peaceful days to the full, and tried not to anticipate the future. "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," he said to himself. But the day of awakening was nearer than he thought.
Rufus had not seen Madeline for three whole days, and had begun to wonder what had happened. On the fourth day, however, she came during the forenoon.
"It was now or never," she said, by way of explanation; "the house has been full of people during the last three days, and this afternoon some others are coming. So I had to pretend!"
"Pretend?" he questioned.
"I'm afraid they're getting suspicious," she replied.
"Suspicious of what?"
"That I'm not so great a student, or so devoted to my books, as I seem to be. So I had to pretend I was going to write to the Captain!"
"What Captain?"
She laughed. "Oh! there's only one Captain, as far as the Tregonys are concerned, and that, of course, is Gervase. Do you know him?"
"I've seen him, of course; but I have never spoken to him."
"He's very handsome, isn't he?"
"I really don't know," he answered, bluntly; "it had never occurred to me."
"I suppose men don't notice such things where men are concerned," she said, reflectively; "but in his uniform he is just superb."
"Then you think fine feathers make fine birds?"
"Well, in some respects, yes," she answered, slowly, "though Gervase looks handsome in ordinary evening dress."
Then silence fell for several seconds. The subject was one in which Rufus was not greatly interested, and as yet not a suspicion of the truth had dawned upon him. "Do you like Gervase?" she said at length, speaking abruptly.
The question took him by surprise, and almost threw him off his guard. As a matter of fact, he did not like him, and was on the point of saying so, but checked himself in time. "Why do you ask that question?" he stammered, evasively.
"Well, you see," she answered, quite frankly, "they want me to marry him."
"To marry him?" he questioned, raising his eyebrows in astonishment.
"You won't think it strange my talking to you about the matter, will you?" she said, with perfect simplicity. "You see, apart from the Tregonys, I haven't a friend in all England except—except you."
"It is kind of you to look upon me as your friend," he said, with heightened colour.
"No, no; it is the other way about," she answered; "all the kindness is on your part."
Then there was another moment of silence. He felt stunned, bewildered, and was almost afraid to speak lest he should betray his feelings.
"I ought to have written days and days ago," she went on, at length. "You see, he expects to be home by the New Year at latest. Sir Charles hopes that he will be able to eat his Christmas dinner with us. And—and—Sir Charles, and Gervase also, would like to have the matter settled before he comes home."
"Yes?"
"Oh, well! I hardly know why I have hesitated. I expect it is that I am naturally obstinate. When nobody said a word about the matter, and I thought nobody cared very much—why—why, I looked upon the matter as good as settled," and she blushed quite frankly and smiled as she did so.
"And have they become anxious all at once?"
"Oh! I don't know. Sir Charles tells me that it was a wish of my father's long before he died, and that nothing would please him so much, and all that. And really it looks as if Gervase and I were meant for each other."
"Do you believe in fate or destiny?" he questioned, moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue.
"No, but I believe in Providence," she answered, promptly.
"But how can you be sure what Providence means?" he asked. "If Providence speaks how do you know you have interpreted the message aright?"
"Yes, there is something in that," she said, reflectively. "On the other hand, one must be careful not to fly in the face of Providence."
"Admitting your theory of a Providence," he said, slowly, "is not the true Providence our heart and judgment? Must we not in the last resort fall back on what we feel and believe to be right?"
"Yes, go on," she said, eagerly.
"And if one goes against his own heart—his own instincts if you like—if one ignores his own clear judgment, would not that be flying in the face of what you call Providence?"
"But is our own heart to be trusted?" she questioned; "and is not our judgment often blind?"
"Should we be wiser in trusting to somebody else's heart and judgment?"
"We might be. You see, I am only a girl. I have had no experience. I know very little of the world or its ways. On the other hand, here is Sir Charles. He is getting old. He knows a good deal more than there is in the copy-books. Then there was my father; he did not talk to me about the matter, but from what I know now he talked freely to Sir Charles. Then there is Gervase, he's over thirty, and has seen a good deal of the world, and he's quite sure. And then there is myself, and I think Gervase is one in a thousand. So, you see, all the streams appear to be flowing in the same direction, and that looks a clear indication of Providence. Now, doesn't it?"
"If you are convinced I should say nothing else matters," he answered, with averted eyes.
"Well, there's only one thing that worries me," she said, thoughtfully; "and that's only worried me lately."
"Yes?"
"I used to think nothing else mattered so long as one could enjoy himself or herself. That to have a good time was the chief end of life. Gervase is retiring from the Army, and intends to do nothing for the rest of his days."
"Well?"
"It seems to me a much nobler thing to do something. You told me once that I should inspire somebody to great deeds. But that would be rather hard on Gervase after he has roughed it for so many years."
"If you inspire him, it will not be hardship," he answered.
"I am not sure that I could," she said, turning her head, and looking out of the window. "He is very brave and fearless, and all that. But the great things that work for human good—well, you see, he is not an inventor like you."
"Do not mock me," he said, almost fiercely. "My poor scheme may never see the light."
"Oh, yes it will. You are bound to succeed. You are not the kind of man to give up in despair."
"Give up what in despair?"
"Anything on which you have set your heart. You're like Gervase in that respect, and it is a quality I admire immensely in a man."
"But what if two strong men set their hearts on the same thing?"
"What thing?"
"Oh, anything. A woman, for instance," he said, with a forced laugh.
"Ah, then I expect the stronger and the worthier would win."
"Do women admire strength and worth so much? Do they not rather admire position and name and title? Has the poor man a chance against the rich; the plain man any chance against gold lace and epaulets?"
"No one can speak in the name of all women. But I must run away now or Sir Charles may go to my room in search of me."
"Will you write your letter to-day?"
"I don't know. Very likely I shall if I can find time."
"And will you say 'Yes?' Pardon me being so inquisitive."
"Oh, I expect I shall," she said, with a smile. "It seems the proper thing to do. Gervase and I appear to have been meant for each other."
"I hope you will be happy," he said, holding out his hand to her. "Good-bye."
Half-an-hour later Mrs. Tuke found him staring fixedly out of the window as though he had been turned to stone. The trees were still swaying in the wind,but he did not see them. Through breaks in the clouds bright gleams of sunshine shot into the room every now and then, but he did not heed. From over the cliffs came the faint roar of the sea, but he did not hear. The world had become suddenly dark and silent. The fairy garden had vanished, leaving a bleak cold desert in its place; his heart seemed to have stopped beating. For the moment all interest had gone out of life. He almost wished that he could close his eyes in sleep and never awake again.
"Are you getting impatient to get out of doors?" Mrs. Tuke questioned.
"It will be a relief to get out again," he answered, absently.
"Well, I'm bound to say you've been wonderfully patient, all things considered. But then, as I often say, what can't be cured must be endured."
"Yes; that's sound philosophy."
"And then you've been well looked after."
"Yes; you are an excellent nurse, Mrs. Tuke, and I shall always be grateful."
"Oh, I was not thinking of myself in particular," Mrs. Tuke said, with humility. "The doctors have attended to you as if you were Sir Charles himself. And as for that sweet creature Miss Grover, she's just a sunbeam."
"Yes; she's delightful company."
"You know, it's my belief," Mrs. Tuke said, mysteriously, "that the folks at the Hall haven't the ghost of an idea that she's been coming here to see you."
"What leads you to think that?"
"Oh, well, from little 'ints she's dropped now and then; but of course, time will tell," and Mrs. Tuke began to make preparations for his midday meal.
Time did tell, and tell much sooner than anyone anticipated. The next morning's post brought a letter from Madeline which scattered the last remnants of fairyland.
"I'm afraid I shall not be able to come and see you again," it began. "Sir Charles has found out, and he's angrier than I've ever seen him. He says it's most improper, and that I ought to be ashamed of myself. Such a lecture he's read to me as I guess you never listened to. If he hadn't been so grave and serious I should have fired up and given him a piece of my mind. I suppose, according to English customs, I've done something real awful. Anyhow, my heart doesn't condemn me, and if I've lightened your suffering with my chatter ever so little I'm real glad. As long as I live I shall be in your debt, and I shall never forget it either. It seems real stupid that just because I'm a girl I'm not allowed to play the part of a decent neighbour. England is awfully behind in some things, and your Mrs. Grundy is a terror.
"However, I've got to obey, I suppose. You see, Sir Charles is my trustee till I'm twenty-one, and he's angrier than a snake at the present moment, and as I'm here by his favour, why I can't quite do what I would like. But I shall think of you every day, and pray for you, and when you get well and your great invention has astonished everybody, none of your friends will rejoice more or be prouder of you than I shall. I don't know if it's a proper thing to say, but I've said it, and it'll have to stand. One has to be constantly looking round the corner in this old country of yours. I hope you will be as well as ever soon, and that you won't think too hardly of the foolish girl who caused your accident. If you would like to keep my books for yourself, I shall be real glad. Whittier is great,don't you think so? Good-bye till we meet again. Yours very sincerely,
"Madeline Grover."
Rufus read the letter with very mingled feelings. There were touches in it that almost brought the tears to his eyes. The assurance that she would think of him every day and pray for him moved him strangely. He would have told Mrs. Tuke, or the vicar, or anyone else that he had no faith in prayer; that the whole network of religious belief was an ingenious superstition. Yet, with curious inconsistency, the thought of Madeline praying for him was undoubtedly comforting. The general effect of the letter, however, was like that produced by a heavy blow. Coming after her own simple and naive confession of the previous day it seemed almost to paralyse him. He scarcely realised how much her visits had been to him till now, and the knowledge that she would not come again, that her face and smile would no more brighten that little room, was like the sudden falling of night without the promise of rest and sleep.
As the day passed away and he was able to think over the matter a little more calmly, he tried to persuade himself that Sir Charles's interposition was the best thing that could have happened. That since any vague hope he might have cherished of winning her love was now at an end, it was desirable from every point of view that he should not meet her or even see her.
"The awakening was bound to come," he said to himself, trying hard to be resigned. "I knew, of course, from the beginning that she was not for me, I would have kept myself from loving her if I could; but it was just beyond me. She won my heart before I knew."
And yet the bitterest drop in the cup was not that she was beyond his reach, but that Gervase Tregony, would possess the prize. He had no wish to be censorious, and it might be quite true that Gervase would compare favourably with most young men in his own walk of life. He had not been brought up on puritanic lines. Moreover, as the only son of the Squire and heir to the title and estates it was generally conceded in an off-hand way that some latitude ought to be allowed. The rich claimed a larger liberty or a larger licence than the poor, and however much the poor resented it in their hearts, usually they said nothing. Protests did no good, and to get into the black books of the Squire was not a matter to be regarded with indifference.
If people with grown-up families looked a little anxious when it was known that Gervase was to be in residence at the Hall, and raised the domestic fence a few inches higher than usual—there was reason in the past annals of St. Gaved's history.
Rufus, with his innate chivalry, and his romantic reverence for women as a whole, recoiled with a feeling almost of loathing at the thought of Gervase Tregony taking so sweet and pure a soul to his heart as Madeline Grover. Was it true, he wondered, that women did not care what a man's past had been; that they accepted without demur a social order that condoned any and every offence so long as no public scandal was produced? Or, was it that young women were deliberately kept in ignorance of what was common knowledge?
He spent several more or less wakeful nights in striving against his own heart, and in trying to cultivate a philosophic attitude which should give the impression of a supreme unconcern. Fortunately, the broken bonewas so far knit that his doctors allowed him to hobble about on a pair of crutches, and though he was not able yet to do any work, he could contemplate some of the things he had done, and shape in his mind what yet remained to be accomplished.
He got out of doors as much as possible, but he was still weak, while his crutches were such unwieldy things that he quickly got tired. His favourite resting-place was by the garden gate, he could see the people as they passed up and down the street, and often have a few minutes' chat with his neighbours. He scarcely dared to admit the truth to himself, but there was always a lingering hope in his heart that Madeline might come into the village for some purpose, perhaps to do a little shopping, and that his heart might be cheered by a sight of her face.
Mrs. Tuke's cottage stood at a point where the "town" ended and the country began. Toward the Quay the houses were generally close together, and abutted on to the side walk, but in the other direction, there were more trees and fences than houses, and nearly all the cottages had gardens in front of them. Hence, when Rufus stood or sat at the garden gate, he looked down "the street" in one direction, and up "the lane" in the other.
The lane led away in the direction of Trewinion Hall, and if Madeline came into the town she would more likely than not pass Mrs. Tuke's cottage. In any case, she would come very near to it.
Rufus looked up the lane fifty times a day, and sometimes his heart would flutter for a moment as some girlish figure came into sight. But Madeline never came.
Then, one evening, while chatting with Dr. Chester, the doctor mentioned incidentally that the Squire hadleft the Hall and had taken up his residence in London till the middle of December.
Rufus heaved a little sigh, but he did not pursue the topic. It seemed to him like the last nail in the coffin wherein lay hidden all the wild dreams and unexpressed longings and hopes of his heart. Madeline was to be strictly guarded until the return of Gervase from India, and then, perhaps, before she had fully realised what she was doing, or before she had an opportunity of getting a true estimate of his character, she would be tied to him for life.
"It is no business of mine," he said to himself; "she is entirely out of my sphere, and even if she were not, it would be foolish of me, under present circumstances, to think of any woman."
But his heart protested all the same. For Madeline to marry Gervase Tregony seemed to him an offence against all that was sacred in human life.
It wanted a week to Christmas. Rufus sat in his easy chair with his feet on the fender and an open book on his knee. He had been hard at work till dark, after which he had taken a mile's walk into the country, and was now waiting for his supper to be brought in. He was not impatient, however. The book he had been reading was one that Madeline Grover had left with him. A volume of Tennyson, containing nearly all the poet's published work, and, as was nearly always the case, the writer had set him thinking on the problems of life and death and immortality.
Outwardly there had been no change in his life during the last two or three months. Directly his doctors gave him permission he turned again to his invention, glad of the relief that work afforded. As far as he could judge, he was moving, slowly but surely, to complete success. The thought of failure very rarely crossed his mind.
But while outwardly there was no change, inwardly there was a distinct evolution. He found himself unconsciously viewing life from a different standpoint. It was easy to laugh at the claims of priests and prelates, and to poke fun at musty and worn-out creeds. Easy to riddle with merciless logic the stupendous dogmas of the Churches, and the monumental follies of so-called theologians, but when all that had been done to his complete satisfaction, he was no nearer the solution of the riddle of life.
Moreover, he became painfully conscious of the fact that a philosophy of denials was not sufficient. He wanted something definite and something positive. An iconoclast might be a very useful individual; but when the destructive process had been completed, was there nothing more to be done? Were there no positive blocks of truth with which to erect a temple? There were questions instinctive in the human soul which asked for an answer. Had the broad universe no answer to give? Had faith no place in the eternal and immeasurable scheme.
If science could not prove, if philosophy halted and broke down, was there nothing left? Was religion a thing to be dismissed with a sneer? Might not faith be as truly a faculty of the human soul as reason?
So all unconsciously he retraced his steps from the barren realm of negation to the region of inquiry. He ceased to be dogmatic. Materialism did not explain everything. Theology, like other sciences, might be empirical, and yet its groundwork and framework might still be truth.
When a man begins to inquire he begins to grow, when he ceases to inquire the winter of decay sets in. Moreover, it is not the province of the human will to determine the direction of growth. It may be upward or outward, in this direction or in that. The mind pursues its way with an unerring instinct as the roots of trees follow the courses of the springs.
Rufus had been reading "Crossing the Bar" for the fiftieth time, and now he sat with the open book on his knees, wondering where he was intellectually and religiously. He refused however, to question himself too closely. He preferred for the present to drift. Some day he might sight land, and find a safe anchorage.
Yet one or two things were becoming daily more clear. One was, that in any perfect scheme a future life was necessary to the completion of this. Another was, that human life, if only because of its relationships and possibilities, was a more sacred thing than he at one time had been willing to grant. And a third was, that love was not a mere physical or mental affinity. It was something that went farther and struck deeper. It was a soul relation that remained untouched and independent of time and change.
He had not seen Madeline Grover for considerably more than two months. No message or whisper had passed between them. In the chances of human life he knew that he might never speak to her again. Yet his love remained fixed and unshaken. It was not something that he had put on as an extra garment, and that in the wear and tear of life he might lose again. It was part of himself—woven into the fibre of his being.
Perhaps his love for Madeline, more than anything else, made him think of the problem of immortality. Whittier had said: