Life is ever Lord of Death,And Love can never lose its own.
Life is ever Lord of Death,And Love can never lose its own.
How well he remembered that afternoon when Madeline read "Snow-Bound" to him, in which these lines occurred. He had never been able to get them out of his mind since. They had followed him like a haunting echo of something long forgotten, had stirred his heart with a thousand vague hopes and dreams.
If Love could never lose its own, Madeline might yet be his. In some far-away region beyond the reach of human vision, beyond the stress and passion of earth, beyond the darkness and the doubting, beyondthe ravages of time and trouble, they might meet again—the soul finding its mate and life its eternal complement.
Madeline had a habit of marking with a pencil the passages in a book she liked, and in one of the volumes she left behind he found these words marked with a double line down the margin:
I sometimes think that heaven will beA green place and an orchard tree,And one sweet Angel known to me.
I sometimes think that heaven will beA green place and an orchard tree,And one sweet Angel known to me.
Could he have put his wildest dreams and longings into words, nothing could have fitted better. It expressed all the heaven he wanted—all the beauty, and all the companionship his soul desired.
He was disturbed in his meditations by a knock on the outer door, and a minute or two later he heard a familiar voice in the passage inquiring if he were at home.
He rose to his feet in a moment, and pushed Tennyson into a dark corner out of sight. Then the door of his sitting-room was flung open, and Felix Muller entered unannounced. Rufus greeted him with a look of inquiry in his eyes—an inquiry, however, which he did not attempt to shape into words.
Muller made his way to the fire at once, and spread his hands over the grate. "It's a glorious night," he said, "but cold. The roads are as hard as iron, and the moon makes it almost as light as day."
"Have you driven over?" Rufus inquired.
"Yes, I had to see Farmer Udy at Longridge, and so I thought as I was so near, I would drive a little farther and see you. How have you been getting on this long time?"
"Fairly well on the whole, I think. Of course, my accident upset all my calculations for a while, but atpresent things are moving steadily and in the right direction."
"That's right, I'm glad to hear it. And when do you think the thing will be properly launched?"
"Well, it is not easy to say positively, but I should give six months as an outside limit."
"You expected at first that the whole thing would be completed in six months."
"That is true, but I had not reckoned on the contingency of a broken leg."
"But apart from your accident you were out of your calculations."
"A little. When you are dependent to so large an extent upon other people, it is impossible to be absolutely sure as to dates."
"Then your six months may run into nine months?"
"Oh, no; six months more gives a wide margin for every contingency."
Muller withdrew from the fire and dropped into an easy-chair that Rufus had pulled round for him.
For a moment or two there was silence, then Muller, diving his hand into his breast-pocket, said in his most casual tone, "You don't mind my having a smoke, do you?"
"My dear fellow, I beg your pardon," Rufus said, hurriedly, "but the truth is I was waiting for supper; won't you have something to eat first? The cold drive ought to have given you an appetite!"
"Well, now that you mention it, I think I do feel a bit peckish."
"You will have to be content with simple fare, but such as I have, etc.," and he went out of the room to hunt up Mrs. Tuke.
Rufus watched his guest narrowly while he ate, and felt sure that he owed this visit not to theproximity of Longridge, but to some other cause that had not yet been revealed.
Conversation flagged during the meal. Muller ate like a man whose thoughts were engaged somewhere else, and on something vastly more important than eating and drinking.
Rufus began to have an uncomfortable feeling that his visit boded no good, and yet he had not the courage to precipitate matters by asking impertinent questions.
As soon as the supper-tray was taken away, Rufus produced a box of cigars, and for a minute or two they blew smoke in silence.
Muller was the first to speak. Looking at his cigar carefully, as if examining the brand, he said in his most casual manner, "I suppose, Sterne, you have never considered the possibility of being forestalled in your invention?"
"Well, no," he said slowly, but with a startled look in his eyes. "I cannot say that I have ever seriously considered such a possibility."
"And yet it is notorious in the realm of discovery and invention, that the same idea has been hit upon by different men in different parts of the world almost at the same time."
"I do not remember that fact being brought clearly to my mind," Rufus said, wondering if someone had forestalled him.
"It is true, nevertheless. I could give you illustrations if I had time. But what is important at the present moment is that a man away up in Westmorland has got ahead of you."
"No!" Rufus said, in a tone of alarm.
"Well, perhaps I ought to have said that he appears to have got his claim in first. I do not understand all the technicalities of the case, but he appears to me tohave achieved, or to have achieved very largely, the thing you are aiming at," and he took a newspaper cutting out of his pocket, and passed it on to Rufus.
Rufus unfolded the cutting with hands that trembled in spite of himself. If he had been forestalled then life with him was at an end. The greater part of the thousand pounds was spent or pledged already. Failure meant that he would have now to employ his ingenuity in devising a method of escaping from the world in a way that would not awaken suspicion.
Muller adjusted hispince-nezand watched his companion while he read. Rufus summoned to his aid all the resolution he possessed and preserved a perfectly impassive face.
"Well?" Muller questioned, when Rufus had got to the bottom of the slip.
"It's a little disconcerting," was the answer. "But I shall not fling up the sponge yet."
"But he has got hold of your idea!"
"Not exactly."
"At any rate he has got uncomfortably near to it."
"He has got nearer than I like, I admit. But the greater part of what he claims is mere bluff."
"But his objective and yours are precisely the same?"
"No, not precisely. I go much farther than he does, as Stephenson went farther than Watt."
"That is in your application of the principle. But is not the principle the same?"
"It is similar, though not identical. I have gone all over the ground he is travelling now."
"And in another month he may be all over your ground."
"There is danger, of course, but I think still I shall get in first."
"I hope you may. But I confess when I tumbled across that article this morning it made me feel mightily uncomfortable."
"It is a little upsetting, no doubt."
"You see, he must have secured himself pretty well, or he would not have permitted so much of the scheme to get into print. Don't you see it largely discounts anyone else who comes after, though he may have something better."
"Yes, I admit the force of all you say," Rufus answered slowly. "But my game is not up yet."
"I hope not, indeed. I should regard it as nothing short of a calamity were you to fail."
"If the worst comes to the worst it will have to be faced, that is all. In any case, you will not suffer loss."
"There you are mistaken. You are my friend. And friends are not so plentiful that one can contemplate the disappearance of even one of them with equanimity."
"That may be true. But mercifully, the dead are soon forgotten. You will soon get used to my absence."
"I sincerely hope the occasion will not arise," Muller said, speaking slowly and gravely. "Indeed, as I said before, I should regard your failure as a calamity. Still, there is no getting over the fact that what you regarded as impossible less than six months ago has come very definitely within the realm of possibility."
"Yes," Rufus said, with some hesitation. "I am bound to admit that the chance of failure seems less remote than it did."
"I am sorry to have to discuss this matter with you again," Muller went on, after a pause. "I can assure you it is almost as painful to me as it must be to you. Still business is business, and I have to thinkof my own position. If I were a rich man, I would not mention the matter—upon my soul, I wouldn't."
"I thought you had no soul," Rufus said, with a pathetic smile.
"Oh, don't joke over mere figures of speech," Muller said, staring into the fire. "I tell you I feel terribly upset."
"But my cause is not lost yet," Rufus said with forced cheerfulness.
"No, it may not be. But, on the other hand, it may be. If your competitor has gone so far, he may during the next week or month go all the rest of the distance."
"I must take my chance of that."
"The point with me is—supposing the worst comes to the worst, have you anything on which you can raise a loan? I hate the thought of your slipping out of life in the flower of your youth."
"Look here, Muller," Rufus said, summoning to his aid all his strength and resolution. "We discussed this matter at the beginning. I counted the cost and took the risk. If the worst comes to the worst I am not going to show the white feather."
"I do not doubt your courage for a moment," Muller said. "But I want to point out that it will take a little time to realise your estate. I presume you have made your will."
Rufus went to a drawer and took out a large envelope which he passed on to his companion.
Muller opened the envelope and drew out the paper slowly. Then he adjusted hispince-nez, and began to read. "Yes," he said, after a long pause, "this is quite in order—quite."
"And in case I am driven to take my departure," Rufus said, in a hard, even voice, "I will give yousufficient time to wind up my small estate before the end of next year."
"You think there is no other way of meeting the case?" Muller questioned.
"In case my scheme fails there is no other way," Rufus answered. "Now let us not discuss the matter again. I understand your anxiety. I should be a bit anxious if I were in your place. But you have my word of honour. Let that be enough."
"It is enough, my boy—it is enough!" Muller said, gushingly.
"Meanwhile we need not count upon failure until forced to do so. I shall not fail if effort and determination can avert it."
When Muller had gone, Rufus sat for a long time staring into the dying fire. Then he picked up the newspaper cutting, and read through the article very carefully a second time.
"No, he has not got my idea quite," he muttered, "but he has come uncomfortably near to it."
Then he drew a long breath and shut his teeth tightly. Life had grown a more precious thing of late, and hope had taken new shapes and forms. Moreover, the possibility of a conscious existence beyond the shadow of death had been looming larger and larger for months past, and with that possibility other possibilities had come into view. What if the consequences of conduct followed men into the unseen? What if sin should separate a soul from the soul it loved? What if this life were a trust for which we should be held responsible? What if suicide should be as heinous a crime as murder? What if dying by one's own hand should stain the soul with deeper dishonour than any broken vow or unfulfilled promise? He drew away his eyes from the fire and shuddered slightly as these thoughtspassed through his mind. In whatever direction he turned his thoughts he was faced with possibilities that, to say the least, were not a little disconcerting.
"If I had only known six months ago what I know now," he reflected, "I should not have put my head into this noose with so light a heart. I should have been content to have gone on with my work as time-keeper at the mine. But I was impatient for success, and quite certain that death was the end of all things."
Then across the frosty air the parish clock fixed high in the church tower struck the hour of eleven.
Rufus counted the strokes as they vibrated solemnly through the night.
"Do the dead ever hear, I wonder," he said to himself, and he shuddered again.
Then his thoughts turned to the book that he had been reading earlier in the evening and he began to repeat almost unconsciously one of the stanzas that Madeline had marked:
Twilight and evening bell,And after that the dark,And may there be no sadness of farewellWhen I embark.And though from out the bounds of time and spaceThe floods may bear me far,I hope——
Twilight and evening bell,And after that the dark,And may there be no sadness of farewellWhen I embark.And though from out the bounds of time and spaceThe floods may bear me far,I hope——
Then he stopped suddenly and rose hurriedly to his feet. "I am growing morbid," he said. "I wish Muller had kept the article to himself. In a case of this kind ignorance is bliss." And he turned out the lamp and climbed slowly upstairs to bed.
The day after Felix Muller's visit to Rufus the squire and his family returned to the Hall. The news soon spread through St. Gaved that the big house was alive once more, and that the captain was expected home in time to eat his Christmas dinner with the family. Rufus heard the news with a curious thrill, but whether of pain or of pleasure it would be hard to say.
His heart had been aching for a sight of Madeline's face ever since she went away. And yet there were times when he desired above all things that he might never look into her eyes again. Pain was not to be cured by additional pain. To see Madeline would not appease the hunger, it would only increase it. Hence to keep out of her way would be the wise thing for him; to avoid the field-path in front of the park, and the familiar road across the downs and round by the cliffs. If they met she would be sure to speak, and the very sound of her voice would awaken into life all the wild longings of his soul once more. It was far better, therefore, for him that they never met.
Besides, it was more than probable that by this time she was the promised wife of Gervase Tregony. He was coming home to claim her and coming home at express speed. Was he delighted at the prospect, he wondered. Did he love her as she deserved to be loved?
"Oh, if it had only been my lot to win so sweet a soul," he said to himself. "Is it true, I wonder, that we always long most passionately for the impossible?"
For several days he kept close to business, never venturing out of doors till after sunset. Once he thought he passed her in the bright moonlight, and his heart almost stopped, but he never paused in his walk, never looked back; indeed he strode on with a longer and quicker stride, and did not breathe freely again till a sharp bend in the road prevented any possibility of recognition.
When he yielded to the witchery of her presence before, there was some excuse for his doing so, but all the circumstances were different now. He had no excuse to-day, no right. His tenure of life hung on a thread. His chance of success was growing less hopeful day by day.
Even if Madeline were free and within his reach he would have no right to speak to her of love. While this sword of Damocles was suspended over his head he was bound in honour to be silent. But since she was neither free nor within his reach, and he was walking across a volcano that at any moment might burst open beneath his feet, it would be the part of a madman to put himself in her way if there was any chance of keeping out of it.
So he pursued his work with all the earnestness and intensity he could command, but he was conscious all the time that something had gone out of his life. The enthusiasm that springs from certainty had left him, the chill and lethargy of doubt had crept into his blood. Instead of constantly dwelling on the delights of success, he found himself brooding over the prospect of failure, and wondering what lay beyond the grim shadow of death.
By a curious combination of circumstances both life and death had become doubly hard to contemplate. Success had once been his dream. To-day success of itself seemed nothing. The one thing that was of value, that would have turned earth into heaven was love. He would have courted failure—gloried in it—if failure would have given him Madeline. But since Madeline was denied him, neither success nor failure mattered much, and life and death were both robbed of the light of hope. He told himself one minute that he did not care to live since Madeline could never be his, and the next minute he dreaded the thought of death, since death would blot out the sight of her and the thought of her for ever and ever. So, in whatever direction he looked, he found neither solace nor inspiration.
The thing that spurred him on from day to day was not so much the hope of victory as the humiliation of defeat. There was any number of people in St. Gaved who had no sympathy whatever with him in his ambitions, whose invincible creed was that a man ought to be content to remain in that state of life to which it had pleased God to call him. These people had expressed themselves with great freedom and candour on his folly in giving up a good position at the mine, and devoting all his time and energy to something in the clouds; and which, in all likelihood, would never be of any benefit to man or beast.
Rufus used to smile at the criticisms of these people, and anticipate the day when he would stand proud and triumphant before them. Now he began to fear that the day might come when they would triumph over him, when they would expand their chests and smile wisely, and say to their neighbours: "There, didn't we tell you so?" It was rather with the object of preventing such a triumph than of winning any triumph for himself that he toiled on from day to day, throwing into his work more of the energy of despair than the inspiration of hope.
Meanwhile Madeline had been suffering from what she called "an acute attack of the blues." For no sufficient reason, so she admitted to herself, she became restless and peevish, and generally discontented. She was not ill. Generally speaking, her appetite was as good as it had been, while her energy was greater than ever. But for some reason nothing satisfied her—things that at one time she would have gone into ecstacies over barely interested her. She was in the mood to be pleased at nothing, and to find fault with everything.
That this condition of things began on the day Sir Charles took her to task for visiting Rufus Sterne she was well aware; but why it should have continued was a puzzle. She had been angry with Sir Charles at the moment it was true, but after a day's reflection she had been led to see that he was perfectly in the right. Moreover Sir Charles had behaved very handsomely all the way through. She was convinced that it was very largely on her account that they went to London for the autumn, and while in London she had scarcely a wish that was not gratified. She had gone to receptions and balls and dinners by the dozen. She had been taken to every place of interest she wanted to see. She had blossomed out into what she termed "a tame celebrity," and had had more compliments showered upon her than ever before in her life, yet, in spite of all this, she was not happy. Indeed, after a few weeks, she tired utterly of London and wanted to return again to Trewinion Hall. That however, was shown to be an impossibility. The house had been taken practically till the end of the year, and theservants at Trewinion Hall had been put on board wages till Christmas.
"Are you sure you are quite well, Madeline?" Sir Charles said to her, when she preferred her request.
"Quite sure," she replied. "In fact I was never better in my life."
"Then why do you want to go back to the Hall?"
"Oh! I don't know. This endless whirl and excitement has got on my nerves, I think."
"But you complained of Cornwall getting on your nerves some time ago."
"Did I? Well, it did seem rather flat and tame at first."
"No, it was not at the beginning. You were delighted with it on your arrival——"
"And I am still," she interrupted. "I think it is just too lovely for anything."
"But have you really got tired of London life?"
"I think it is too stupid for words. Oh! no, I don't mean that exactly. Pardon me, Sir Charles"—seeing the pained look in his eyes—"I won't complain any more if I can help it, I won't really."
"I am very anxious that you should enjoy yourself all you possibly can. Beryl is dreading the time when she will have to go back again."
"She knows so many people," Madeline said, reflectively.
"And you have made hosts of acquaintances, have you not?"
"Yes, acquaintances, but they don't mean anything. I never realised before, I think, how many people there are in the world, and how many things there are in the world I can do without."
"That oughtn't to be a very startling discovery," he said, with a smile.
"But you don't feel it in a place like St. Gaved," she said. "There everybody seems necessary to everybody else."
"Indeed?" he questioned, dryly.
"Well, I mean that in a little community where each one plays his part, and each one's part is known to all the rest——"
"Yes?" he questioned, seeing she hesitated.
"Oh! I can't explain myself very well, but you must know very well what I mean."
"No; really you flatter me," he said, in a tone of banter, "for in reality your meaning is quite beyond me."
"Then I must be stupider than I thought," she answered, with a pout, and relapsed into silence.
Sir Charles was not only perplexed, he was more or less troubled. If he dared he would have been angry, but he knew that anger would defeat the particular end he had in view. Whatever Madeline might or might not be she was not the kind of person to be coerced. She might be led in many directions, but no one could drive her. At the least suggestion of the lash, she would jib and back, and nothing short of physical force would move her a step forward.
Hence Sir Charles had felt from the first that his task was one of extreme difficulty and delicacy. Moreover, every day as it passed increased the difficulty. Madeline was swiftly growing out of girlhood into womanhood, and the things that fascinated her as a girl quickly palled upon her as a woman, and Sir Charles was growing desperately afraid lest when she saw Gervase again she might be disillusioned, as she evidently had been in other matters.
He was more troubled also than he liked to confess over her intimacy with Rufus Sterne. He could notforget the romantic circumstances under which they had met, the signal service he had rendered her, and the long weeks of suffering and idleness that followed as a consequence, and on a romantic and generous nature like Madeline's, these things would make an abiding impression. For that reason he had got her away from St. Gaved as quickly as possible after he had made the discovery that she was in the habit of visiting him, and for the same reason he intended to keep her away until within a few days of his son's return.
Sir Charles had counted so long on annexing the American heiress for his son, that any thought of failure now was too humiliating to be entertained. It was his last hope of rehabilitating Trewinion Hall, and the historic name of Tregony. Gervase's record was of such a character that no English heiress would look at him unless, indeed, he consented to marry the daughter of a tradesman, and even in such case as that his chances would be very doubtful.
The beautiful thing about an American heiress was that nobody inquired into her antecedents. So long as she had the requisite number of dollars nothing else mattered. Her father might be a pork-butcher, or a pawnbroker, or an oilman; that was no barrier to his daughter becoming a countess or even a duchess.
Poor as Sir Charles was, he would have fainted at the idea of Gervase marrying the daughter of a Redbourne tradesman, however rich or beautiful or accomplished she might be. The very suggestion of "trade" was an offence to his aristocratic nostrils. But Madeline came from a country where the only aristocracy was that of cash, hence by virtue of her uncounted millions she was eligible for the highest positions on this side the water. The logic might not be very sound, but it was satisfying. If the Earl of this and the Duke of thathad regilded their coronets with American dollars, why might not he refurbish the Tregony coat of arms with the same precious metal? The reasoning appeared to him to be without a flaw.
Moreover, there was the additional argument of necessity. In consequence of the low price of corn along with nearly all other articles of food, agriculture was in a terribly depressed condition. In other words, the farmer could pay only about half the amount in rent that he would be able to do if wheat and barley, and bacon and butter, stood at twice their present prices.
Sir Charles always grew white with anger when he thought of the foolish men who, in a previous generation, abolished the corn-laws and gave cheap food to the people.
"Look at me," he would say; "my rent roll is only about one-half of what it was in my father's day, and there are hundreds and thousands of the best families up and down the country who have been reduced in circumstances by the same means. What the Government ought to do is to put a high duty on all imported corn and foodstuffs, that would send up the price of English wheat, and English beef, and everything else that is English, and so give the English nobility a chance of getting out of their estates all that they are capable of producing."
The logic of this, if not quite sound, was also satisfying from his point of view. There seemed, however, no prospect just then that the food of the people would be taxed for the benefit of the noble and indispensable class to which he belonged. The working classes for some selfish reason, appeared to object to it. They were possessed by the stupid idea that the higher their wages and the cheaper their food, the better off theywould be; and against such unreasoning prejudice as that, logic spent its strength in vain.
Failing, therefore, any Government help in the shape of protection, he would have to guard his interests in some other way, and Madeline appeared to be an excellent way out of the difficulty. In fact, she almost reconciled him to the idea of free imports. If England had suffered loss through the importation of American wheat, it was only fair that England should be compensated by having the pick of America's richest and fairest women. Since there was no duty on corn, it was only just and right that heiresses should be free.
But as the time drew near when Sir Charles hoped to see the full fruition of his little scheme, he grew increasingly nervous. Until the last few weeks everything had gone as smoothly as heart could desire. Madeline seemed like a ripe apple that would drop directly the tree was touched. Without any undue influence, with scarcely a suggestion from anyone, she was inclining in the very direction most desired.
Then suddenly she had become captious and uncertain. The moment she reached the point when she was desired to make up her mind definitely she drew back. The increasing warmth of the Captain's letters she had appeared to reciprocate to the full. She had talked about him with a simple ingenuousness that had delighted the baronet's heart. The proposal seemed to have arrived in the very nick of time. She had gathered from Sir Charles, in detached fragments, the full story of her father's wish in the matter. She had been given one glimpse of London, with its life and gaiety, she had been supplied with every newspaper cutting that spoke of Captain Tregony's prowess as a hunter of big game, and she had tacitly accepted thesituation, as though Providence had shaped her lot, and shaped it to her entire satisfaction. And then she hesitated, and became silent, and demanded time for further consideration.
Sir Charles had broached the subject in the most delicate manner possible when they happened to be alone. Gervase's letter to the family had been left on the drawing-room table. The Baronet picked it up and read it again.
"Gervase seems terribly impatient to get home this time," he remarked, casually.
Madeline glanced up from her book, but did not reply.
"I really do not wonder," Sir Charles went on. "Poor old boy, it is nearly three years since he saw you, and he must be pining for a sight of your face."
"He seems a little home-sick," Madeline said, indifferently.
"I don't think it is that altogether. Now that he has definitely proposed to you, it brings all the longing to a head, if I may say so. I hope you have written to him and put an end to his suspense?"
"No, I have not replied yet. I thought of writing this afternoon."
"I wish you would; I am sorry you have not written before."
"I have been too busy with other things, Sir Charles."
"Oh, well, I am not complaining, my dear. Take your own time, of course. But, naturally, I feel for my son, and I know how anxious he will be. It will be nice for him to meet you here in his ancestral home as his affianced wife."
"I suppose it would simplify matters, wouldn't it?"
"It would simplify matters a very great deal," Sir Charles said, in a tone of relief. "There is no reasonwhy you should not go away on the Continent in the early spring for your honeymoon, and so escape our bitter east winds."
"That would be lovely, wouldn't it?"
"Lovely! Ah! well, I almost envy you young people. If one could only be young a second time how much he would appreciate it! But I will not detain you now if you are going to write letters," and he thrust Gervase's epistle into his pocket, and walked slowly out of the room.
Later in the day he discovered that instead of writing letters she had been visiting Rufus Sterne at St. Gaved, and his anger almost got the better of him. By a tremendous effort, however, he kept himself well in hand, and talked to her with a seriousness that did full justice to the occasion.
Two days later he learned that she had not yet replied to Gervase's letter; he made no remark, however, but on the following day he made a proposition that they should spent the late autumn in London.
The experiment, however, had not been altogether satisfactory. Madeline had not been at all like her old self. She was moody and absent-minded, and by no means easy to please. That she had written to Gervase he knew, and written more than once, but she gave no hint to anyone of the nature of her communications.
Sir Charles hoped for the best, but he was troubled all the time by serious misgivings. Her very uncommunicativeness was a disturbing factor. Several times he was strongly tempted to put a point-blank question to her; but when it came to the point his courage failed him. Moreover, his reason told him that the more anxious he appeared to be the more stubborn and intractable she would become. The only thing he could do was to wait patiently untilGervase's return, and trust to luck or Providence for what would follow.
Madeline welcomed the morning of their departure from London more eagerly than any of the others. She was tired of the big city, with its murk and gloom, its dreary streets and muddy crossings, and its never-ceasing roar and turmoil. She longed for the "clean country," as she expressed it, with its quietness and peace and far distances. In truth, she hardly knew what she longed for. Some day her desire would take definite shape, then she would understand.
In the big house there were many things to be done in preparation for Christmas. Mottoes had to be selected and cut out of coloured paper, and surrounded with evergreens and hung in the hall, and naturally this task fell to the lot of Madeline and Beryl. Then, it was decided to have a house-party the day but one after Christmas Day, and invitations had to be sent out to all the gentry of the neighbourhood. Lady Tregony undertook this pleasant duty, but soon found the work of filling in cards and addressing envelopes altogether too exhausting; so Madeline, who was swift with her pen, was pressed into the service. In addition to all this, various tokens of affection and regard had to be sent to the extremely poor of the parish—nothing of very much value, it is true—still, the simplest parcel took time to make up and address.
The result of all this was that the house was kept in a state of bustle from morning till night, and Madeline had no time to pay a single visit to any of her acquaintances in the village.
She did steal out of the house one evening after dinner, and tramped in the bright moonlight nearly to St. Gaved and back again, but the walk did not yield her much satisfaction. She had an uncomfortable feeling that she passed Rufus Sterne on the way, and that he took pains not to be recognised. She turned and looked after the retreating figure, and felt certainshe was not mistaken, but he did not halt for a moment or look back.
It was a simple and trifling thing in itself, but it set her thinking. Of course, he might not have recognised her, as she for the moment had not recognised him. On the other hand, her face was toward the moonlight, his was in shadow. She scarcely saw his face at all, her face would be plainly visible. Moreover he hurried past, with his hat pulled low, as if he had no wish to be recognised. What did it mean?
The more she thought about the matter, the more she was convinced that the man she met was Rufus Sterne, and that he deliberately avoided the chance of recognition. Was he offended with her, then? Was he sorry that they had ever become acquainted, and wished the acquaintanceship to end? Did he regard her as a sort of stormy petrel, heralding bad weather and bad fortune? Did he think that safety and success could be secured only by keeping out of her way?
That he would have good reason for cherishing such sentiments there was no denying. She had been his evil genius in the most critical period of his life. She had thrust him back into idleness and helplessness when every day was of the utmost value to him.
"I really don't wonder that he shuns me," she said to herself, regretfully. "I really don't, and if his invention should fail, he will hate me more than ever."
Under ordinary circumstances her pride would have asserted itself, and she would have resolved—since he had ignored her—never to speak to him again. But the circumstances were not ordinary. The ties of gratitude, if nothing else, bound her to him for all time; the loss that he had suffered on her account made it impossible for her to treat him as she might have treated an ordinary acquaintance. Hehad good reasons, no doubt, for ignoring her, but that only made the pain the harder to bear.
Two days before Christmas it became evident to her that there was a little conspiracy on foot to prevent her going into St. Gaved. She had not noticed at first any significance in the fact that there was always someone at hand to run errands for her and Beryl. But when, for the sixth or seventh time in succession, her suggestion that she should run into St. Gaved was met by the reply, "Oh, don't trouble, dear," or "You are too tired, dear," or "Peter will see to that, dear," or, "We shall not require it to-day, dear," she began to think that solicitude on her account had become a trifle overstrained.
When once her suspicions were aroused, she began to put the matter to the test. During the morning of Christmas Eve she discovered on four separate occasions that she was short of something that she particularly needed, and each time, when she suggested that she should run into St. Gaved and get it, a servant was dispatched with most unusual haste to make the purchase.
Madeline smiled to herself, but said nothing. But it set her thinking on fresh lines. She began to recall all that had happened since her last visit to Rufus Sterne, then her thoughts travelled farther back still, and after a very little while she saw, or fancied she saw, a tolerably consistent purpose, not to say conspiracy. When once she had got a clue, or what she fancied was a clue, it was easy to read meanings into a thousand little circumstances that otherwise would have had no significance whatever.
She had been under the pleasing delusion that she had gone her own way, that practically she had followed her own wishes in everything—that her own wishes happened to exactly coincide with the wishes of herfriends was simply a matter for congratulation. No attempt had been made to bring pressure to bear on her at any point. When Sir Charles had talked seriously to her, it was nearly always on questions of English etiquette and customs—subjects she was profoundly ignorant of. If she decided to go into St. Gaved now, she felt sure no direct attempt would be made to stop her.
To test the matter, she went to her room, put on her hat and jacket, and announced to Sir Charles, whom she met in the Hall, that she was going into the town for her own amusement.
"All right, Madeline," he said, with a smile; "this is Liberty Hall, you know."
She was a little bit taken aback by his answer; it was so frank and spontaneous that it almost disarmed her.
She walked very slowly toward the village, her thoughts being intent on the new problem. Ever since her meeting with Gervase Tregony nearly three years ago, her life had moved steadily in the same direction, and toward the same seemingly inevitable end. This she had regarded in the past as providential, and had accepted the omen with thankfulness.
But she fancied now she saw a human motive running through all. Since her meeting with Gervase, she had practically never a chance of becoming acquainted with another man. As a matter of fact, the only man she had become intimate with was Rufus Sterne, and directly that intimacy was discovered, she was whisked off to London and kept out of his way. She was being guarded and protected until Gervase's return.
Gervase was expected home that very day. He had landed at Marseilles the previous day, and was coming straight through without a break. For a man like Gervase such rush and hurry was most unusual.
That a man like Gervase wanted to marry her was, no doubt, very flattering. He was a great soldier, a man of immense courage, and a distinguished-looking man to boot. On the other hand, she was a nobody, her father had been an ordinary working man—that he had "got on" late in life she knew. But what his financial position was she would not know till she was twenty-one. So that looking at the matter merely from a social point of view, it was a great condescension on the part of Gervase.
But not only did Gervase want to marry her, but it had become extremely clear of late that Sir Charles was as eager as his son. In fact, events were being rushed. It was understood when she arrived in England that Gervase would not be home till the New Year. Now he was risking his neck in an eager rush to be here by Christmas. Why all this haste? Why was everybody so anxious she should marry the heir to a baronetcy, or, to put it the other way about, why were all the Tregonys so eager to marry the heir to an unknown American girl?
That American girls by the shoal had married titled Englishmen she knew, and titled foreigners of all sorts and conditions. But it was clear and obvious to outsiders generally that the attractions had been dollars on the one side and titles on the other—a fair exchange, no doubt. There had been aquid pro quoin each case.
But in her case——!
Then she pulled herself up suddenly, and a hot blush mantled her cheeks. Was she any better than the rest? Had not her girlish imagination been carried away by pictures of a baronial hall, ivy-grown and weather-beaten? and had not the thought of being "My Lady Tregony" dominated nearly everything else?
"No," she said, at length, "I admired Gervase for his own sake. He is brave and distinguished-looking and—and—oh! I like a man who is strong and masterful."
But the other question still remained unanswered. Why did Gervase want to marry her? He belonged to one of the oldest families in the county. Why did he not seek a wife in his own circle? Lord this and the Duke of that who went to America for their wives, married dollars. But——She stopped again, and looked round her, but no one was in sight. A keen north wind was blowing, and the pale wintry sun had not yet melted the hoar-frost from the grass, and yet she felt as hot as though she had been thrust suddenly into a Turkish bath.
Was it possible that dollars lay at the bottom of all this haste and anxiety? For some reason she had been kept in ignorance of her father's financial position. He had never talked to her about the matter. She was at school when he died, and remained at school long after he was laid in his grave. Why she had been kept at school so long was always something of a puzzle to her.
That she would have enough money to live upon comfortably she knew. She was allowed a thousand dollars a year now as pin-money—a sum much too large for her needs in St. Gaved, though in London she could easily spend it all. But that she was rich, or in any sense of the word an heiress, was an idea that had never occurred to her. It did not seem at all likely that she could be, or her allowance would be very much larger. On the other hand there might be method in the modest pittance that was meted out to her. To keep her in ignorance of the extent of her possessions might be part of the game. If she were rich and knewit she might be too ready to discover a reason why Gervase wanted to marry her.
"I wonder if suspicion always comes with knowledge and experience," she said to herself. "Is it one of the penalties of being grown up? When I was a girl I wasn't suspicious of anything or anybody. Now I'm certain of nothing, not even of myself."
She walked on more rapidly after awhile, but she took no notice of anything on the way. She was too absorbed with her own thoughts.
"I am glad, at any rate, I did not give Gervase a definite promise," she said to herself. "I hardly know why I didn't, for I meant to at first. But it is best I should see him again before deciding. Best that I should find out everything I can. I think he wants me for my own sake. I'm almost sure he does, but it's well to be quite sure."
"Well, anyhow, I shall see him again this evening," she said to herself, after a long pause. "I wonder if he has changed? I wonder if I have changed?"
She reached the outskirts of the village, then turned back, and in a moment or two came face to face with Sir Charles. The meeting was unexpected, and the Baronet looked a little confused.
"What, turning back so soon?" he questioned, nonchalantly.
"I only came out for a little exercise and fresh air," she answered.
"And you find the air too keen, eh?"
"Oh! not at all; I am enjoying it immensely."
So they passed each other. But a little way on, Madeline paused and looked back, but Sir Charles was out of sight.
"Now, I wonder if he followed me on purpose?" she said to herself. "Has he begun to suspect me?Did he imagine I had gone to call on Mr. Sterne in defiance of his wishes? I wish I hadn't grown suspicious; it spoils everything."
She was so busy with her thoughts that she scarcely noticed the turn in the road leading back to the Hall. Also there was no particular reason why she should return at once. So she tramped on into the country. The roads were dry and frosty. The keen wind hummed in the bare hazel bushes that crowned the tall hedges, the too brief glimmer of sunshine was fading on the hillside.
Her thoughts alternated between the Squire, Gervase and Rufus Sterne. It seemed to her as though a big stone had been dropped into the still and placid pool of her life and that the troubled waters refused to settle again. It seemed but yesterday that the plan of her life lay before her like an open book. Everything was just as it ought to be and there was no hitch anywhere. Now the book was shut, the map was destroyed, and her future lay before her a treeless, trackless, mist-shrouded desert. What was the reason of it? Was Sir Charles to blame, or Gervase, or Rufus Sterne? Or should she take all the blame to herself?
She was disturbed in her meditations by the sound of a quick and firm step behind her. Her first impulse was to turn her head, but she resisted it. The steps drew nearer; the hard road echoed distinctly. She drew slowly to the side of the road, so that the pedestrian, whoever he might be, might pass her. It was time she turned round and retraced her steps to the Hall, but she would wait a few minutes longer, until the man had passed her. Now he was almost by her side. She turned her head slightly and their eyes met. In a moment her face brightened, and her lips parted in an eager smile. He dropped a small bag he wascarrying, so that he might grasp her outstretched hand. It was fate or destiny, and there was no use fighting against it.
"I have been wondering if I was ever to see you again," she said, in her bright, unconventional way. "You are quite well again, I see. Oh, I am so thankful! I would have called round, only—well, you see the conventions of this old country have to be observed even by an American."
"And you find them rather irksome?" he questioned, an eager light brightening his eyes.
"Well, on the whole I fear I do. But we have to take things as we find them, I suppose. Discipline, they say, is good for us."
"I believe that is a generally accepted doctrine," he said, with a laugh.
"But you doubt it?" she asked, looking coyly up into his face.
"I did not say so," he answered, jocularly. "Do you think I am such a doubter that I doubt everything?"
"Well, no," she answered, slowly. "I will not go quite so far as that. I guess there are still a few things you stick to."
"We all believe what we cannot help believing," he answered, enigmatically.
"Oh, what a profound utterance!" she said, laughing brightly in his face.
"It is rather profound, isn't it? But how have you enjoyed yourself in London?"
"Oh! moderately well. For the first two weeks or so we had rather a gay time, then things got flat, or I got flat. And then the weather, you know, was atrocious. Those London fogs are a treat!"
"So I've heard. I've had no experience of them."
"Well, you needn't be envious. But how about your invention? I've been looking for your name in the papers. When are you going to astonish us all?"
His face clouded in a moment and his eyes caught a far-away look. "It is never safe to prophesy," he said, after a pause.
"But you are still quite sure of success?" she questioned, a little anxiously.
He smiled a little bit sadly, and answered, "A friend of mine sometimes encourages me by telling me that there is nothing certain in this world but death."
"Your friend must be a pessimist," she said, "and I don't like pessimists. But tell me candidly, has your success been imperilled in any way by—by—your accident?"
"No, I do not think so," he answered, quickly. "My work has been delayed a little, that is all. If I fail, it will not be on that account."
"But you are not going to fail, of course you are not."
"I hope I shall not," he answered, seriously. "But in the chances of life there must be a great many failures. Think of the millions of toiling people in England to-day and how few of them have reached their hearts' desire."
"Yes, I suppose that is so," she answered, thoughtfully, "or perhaps the bulk of them have never had any large desires. But don't you think that most of the great men who have striven long enough have won in the end?"
"I was not thinking of the great men," he answered. "It is given only to a few men to be great, and of the rest, if they fail once, their chance is gone."
"And do you mean to tell me that if you don't succeed this time you won't try again?"
"If circumstances would let me, I would never cease trying," he answered. "But we are all of us more or less the slaves of circumstances, some more than others."
"You told me once that you had staked your all on the success of this enterprise."
"That is true."
"And if you fail, you will lose everything?"
"Everything!"
"You mean, of course, your time and your money, and your labour!"
"Yes, I mean that," he said, smiling wistfully.
"Oh, well! that is not everything, after all," she answered, brightly. "You are young enough to begin again. And, after all, what we call failures may be stepping-stones to success, and you will win in the end, I know you will. God will not let you fail."
"I wish I believed in God as you do," he said, with downcast eyes.
"So long as God believes in you it won't matter so much," she answered, cheerfully. "But I must be going back now. You are going further, I presume?"
"I am going to spend Christmas with my grandfather, at Tregannon."
"Is that far?"
"About six or seven miles."
"And are you going to walk all the distance?"
"I expect so, unless someone overtakes me who can give me a lift by the way."
"I hope you will have a very happy Christmas."
"Thank you. Let me wish the same wish for you."
"We shall be gay at any rate," she said, with a little sigh. "The Captain returns this evening."
"Ah! then you are sure to be happy. Good-bye!"
He took her outstretched hand and held it for a long moment, looking earnestly the while into her sweet, fearless eyes. Then without another word he picked up his bag and hurried away.
Rufus tramped the seven long miles to Tregannon like one in a dream. Up hill and down dale he swung his way, heedless of the milestones and untroubled by distance. The short winter's day faded into darkness before he had covered half the journey. A little later the moon sailed slowly up in the eastern sky and flung weird shadows across the road, but he paid no heed. Through sleepy villages and hamlets he tramped, by lonely cottages and splashing water-wheels, but his thoughts were back in the quiet lane outside St. Gaved, and the warm hand of Madeline Grover still trembled in his.
He had tried to forget her, tried to keep out of her way; but what was the use? She had come into his life for good or ill, and she had come to stay. Until he ceased to draw breath she would dominate his heart, and it was only waste of strength and energy to fight against his fate.
He hardly knew whether he was sorry or glad. If he had to leave the world, loving her would make it all the harder, he knew. If his enterprise succeeded and his life stretched out to its natural span, the burden of an unrequited love would always press heavy upon him. And yet to love at all was worth living for. The thrill of her touch, the glance of her sweet, honest eyes, made heaven for the moment. Let the future go. Sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof. Twelvemonths hence he might be sleeping in the dust, and she might be the wife of Gervase Tregony. It was foolish, therefore, to anticipate the future. To-day alone was his, and he would make the most of it, and let his heart go out in free, unfettered affection, giving all and asking for nothing in return. It was in the inspiration and exaltation of this feeling that he swung along the quiet country lanes. No one could hinder him from loving, and love was its own reward. The joy was not so much in receiving as in giving. When love became selfish it ceased to be love. Madeline might never be his in the conventional sense. She might never know how much she had been to him, might never guess how much he loved her. That might not be all loss; it might, indeed, be gain. He felt already that he was a better man for this great passion that had come into his life—less selfish, less self-centred, less bitter and infinitely more pitiful.
He found his grandfather, Rev. Reuben Sterne, still active and alert, in spite of the eighty-four winters that had passed over his head. He was no less sure of his election now than he was sixty years ago, when he was first called to the ministry, and he was as anxious to remain a little longer on the earth as he was in the flowery days of his youth.
He extended to his grandson a grave and unemotional welcome, and then led the way into the little sitting-room, where his wife sat deep in an easy chair, a little, shrunken thing, who looked as if all the sap had dried out of her veins. Her welcome, however, was much warmer than her husband's, and the tears came into her faded eyes when he bent down to kiss her.
While supper was being got ready Rufus stretched himself in an easy chair before the fire and listened while the old people talked.
"Ah me, Rufus," Mrs. Sterne said, in her thin, quavering voice. "It is just sixteen years ago yesterday since news came that your father was dead. How time flies, to be sure, and your poor mother survived the shock just six months and a day."
Rufus had heard the story recalled nearly every Christmas Eve since. Whoever might forget, the little grandmother remembered, Joshua Sterne—Rufus's father—was her firstborn and only child, and the wound caused by his death never seemed to heal.
Rufus listened with no poignant sense of grief. His father had crossed the Atlantic to seek his fortune when he, Rufus, was little more than out-of-arms, and he had never returned. Rufus fancied that he remembered him. But he was never quite sure. The recollection—if such it was—was so vague and indistinct that it seemed little more than the shadow of a dream.
He remembered well enough the day when the news came of his father's death. Remembered the grief and anguish of his mother, which, boy-like, he did his best to soothe, but which he could not understand.
Six months later the broken-hearted mother slipped unexpectedly away into the land of shadows, and Rufus, bewildered and rebellious, was taken away from the silent house to live with his grandparents. That seemed like the beginning of all his griefs. He had often wondered since what his life would have been like if his mother had lived. How he would have rejoiced to toil for her and fight her battles. But it was not to be. In the cold and gloomy shadow of his grandfather's home it seemed to him that the better side of his nature had never a chance of developing. The sunshine was absent. The real joy of existence was unknown.
Reuben Sterne was a disciplinarian of the severest type. A minister of the Gospel who had no real Gospel to preach. A theologian who had no true vision of God. A man severe and stern by nature, and made doubly so by an austere and loveless creed. "God was a jealous God." That lay at the foundation of all his beliefs and coloured all his actions. The burden of the Divine decrees lay heavy upon his heart in the brightest days, and touched every song to sadness. Of his own election he did not doubt. Of his call to preach to the elect he was equally sure. But his only son, Joshua, the child of many prayers, gave no evidence of saving grace, and died uncalled to the favours of the heavenly fold, while his grandson, Rufus, appeared, even from boyhood, to be as pagan as his name. This was a great grief to the old man, though he would not have made any sign of it for the world. It was his place to bow, not only in submission, but in thankfulness to the heavenly will. To kiss the hand that smote, and adore the unrelenting power that consigned to eternal burning those who were dear to him as his own life.
At bottom his heart was better than his creed, but he was afraid of showing tenderness or affection lest he should be running counter to the Divine Will, or giving encouragement to the enemies of the cross to blaspheme.
Twice every Sunday Rufus was led to the Baptist chapel to hear his grandfather preach, and early indicated the fate to which he was predestined by falling asleep under the old man's most terrible sermons. Among the memories that stood out most clearly in his brain was that of his grandfather in the pulpit. A tall, straight man, with clean-shaved, severe face, and eyes that never smiled. He always wore afrock-coat, tightly buttoned, a tall, stiff collar, and a large white bow, the ends of which touched the lapels of his coat. His grey hair was brushed smoothly from his forehead, his mouth was set in severe lines, his shoulders squared as if for battle. And indeed, every sermon was a battle. He was appointed of God to fight "spiritual wickedness in high places." He asked no quarter and gave none. His voice rang with the thunders of the law. Sinai was nearer to his heart than Calvary.
Rufus gave evidence of intellectual revolt before he had reached his teens.
"What is the use of preaching, grandfather?" he asked the old man, one Sunday morning, over the dinner table.
"The use of preaching?" the Rev. Reuben questioned, aghast at the audacity of the young speaker; while Mrs. Sterne laid down her knife and fork, and stared.
"Well, suppose you didn't preach, what would happen?" the boy went on, unconscious of the storm he was raising.
"Happen? Happen? Be silent, boy; you know not of what you are speaking."
"But if you didn't preach, would the elect be lost?" the boy persisted.
"Of course not. How could they be lost? 'Whom He did foreknow, He also did predestinate.'"
"And will you save any of those who are not elected by preaching to them?" the boy went on.
"It is not in man's power to save at all," the old man said, severely. "Salvation belongeth unto the Lord."
"Well, then, I don't see a bit of use in preaching or in going to chapel."
The old man raised his eyes and stared. "You ungrateful, unregenerate youth," he said. "How dare you speak in such a way, and at my table?"
"But, grandfather," said the boy, with astonishment in his eyes, "why am I ungrateful because I ask questions?"
"Why? Because your questions savour of an unregenerate and unbelieving heart; because they make light of the Word of truth; because the Spirit of God is not in you."
"But how can I help that, grandfather? Do you think it is that I am not called?"
"I fear you are not," he said, with a groan. "I fear you are not."
"But you are not sure, grandfather?"
"No, I am not sure; but there is no evidence of saving grace in you."
"But if I am elected I shall be all right in the end, sha'n't I?"
"Yes, yes; the gracious Spirit always finds those who have the mark of the seal."
"Then, I don't think I shall go to chapel to-night."
"Not go to chapel!" and the old man's eyes flashed fire. "Not go to chapel? Did my ears deceive me? Is it for this I have cared for you since the death of your mother? Boy, boy, be careful how you disobey me!"
"But, but——"
"Not another word," the old man said, raising his right hand in a threatening attitude. "Not another word, or I will punish you as you were never punished before. How dare you blaspheme, and at my very board?"
That was the beginning of open strife and rebellion. The boy went to chapel that night, and for many years after, but never in the same spirit again. Scarcelya Sunday passed that both his heart and intellect did not revolt against his grandfather's teachings, and there was no one to show him the other side of the shield. Had some whisper come to him in those days that truth was many-sided, that the Kingdom of God was broader than Church or Creed, and that the heart of the Eternal was not to be measured by an ecclesiastical tape-line, he might have been saved many long years of darkness and doubt. But in the village of Tregannon, teachers and seers were few, and books that would have helped him were out of his reach.
So he grew first into the belief that he belonged to the non-elect, and later into the belief that the whole fabric of the Christian religion was a delusion and a snare.
Yet no cloud of unbelief dimmed for a moment the purity of his soul. He loved goodness none the less because he hated human creeds. Right was right, whatever preachers preached or failed to preach; and wrong was wrong though stamped with the Church's approval.
It was a great grief to the Rev. Reuben and to his wife when Rufus demonstrated by open and unabashed revolt that he belonged to the non-elect. They had suspected it early in his career; they had prepared themselves for the blow when it should fall. The tender-hearted little grandmother had hoped and prayed till the last, and even continued to pray when she believed that praying was vain and feared that it might be an offence to the Lord.
The Rev. Reuben was made of sterner stuff. "Ephraim," he said, "is joined to his idols, let him alone."
So the quiet, uneventful years passed away, and the boy grew into a man. A man of fine presence, of considerable intellectual attainments—for ReubenSterne gave the lad the best education he could afford—and of unblemished character.
Rufus wanted to be an engineer, but that was beyond his grandfather's means. His grandmother wanted to apprentice him to a draper, but the boy protested so vehemently that that laudable desire was never carried out. In the end, he found his way into a Redbourne Bank, where he became acquainted with Felix Muller, who was a solicitor's clerk in the town, and who later on succeeded to his master's business. From Redbourne, Rufus removed to St. Gaved as Secretary to the Wheal Gregory Tin Mining Company, Limited, and it was while there that he conceived a scheme for the bettering of his own fortunes and those of the county as a whole.
Rufus could not help recalling the past as he stretched his legs before the fire and listened in dreamy fashion to the talk of the old people. All the years that had fled and gone seemed to live again. All the people that he knew in his boyhood's days gathered round him once more. Voices long since hushed in the great silence spoke to him as they used to do; and eyes that long since had fallen into dust smiled with all their old sweetness.
He always felt a boy again when he came home to Tregannon. The old people were unchanged. They did not look a day older than ten years previously. The house and its ways had been stereotyped for a generation. The same coarse rug was before the fire, on which he had sprawled as a lad. The same kettle sang on the hob, the same poker and tongs shone in the firelight.
The old people still talked on, recalling the events of other years, the one supplying what the other had forgotten. Rufus interposed a monosyllable now andthen, but his thoughts in the main were far away from theirs. Suddenly his interest was aroused by an allusion his grandfather made to some wasteful and abortive lawsuit that followed his father's death.
"The ways of the law may be crooked in this country," he said, with energy; "and English lawyers may be blood-suckers in the main, but in America things are fifty times worse."
"Why do you think that?" he questioned, raising his eyes with interest.
"Why, because I've proved it. Your father's title was clear enough, there's no doubt about that. He made his money honestly too. If he'd lived a month or two longer he'd have returned home a rich man."
"Well?"
"Well, just because some swindler disputed his right, and a blackmailer presented a bogus account, and somebody else claimed on the estate, on the ground of a letter which was clearly a forgery, the lawyers went to work with glee, and the State judge or attorney, or whoever he may be, aided and abetted the plunder. A grosser piece of corruption there never was in this world."