"And they ate it all up between them?"
"Every dollar. At least, I presume so. It was postponed—I mean the settlement—and postponed month after month, and year after year; and taken to this court and that, the lawyers licking their lips all the time—What cared they for the widow and the fatherless? And when there was nothing left of the estate, why the litigation ceased."
"That's usually the case, isn't it?"
"But in our English courts there is a chance of an honest man coming by his rights."
"Not much if he should happen to be a poor man."
"Then you believe we are as bad as the Americans?"
"Every whit. Lawyers and law courts, all the world over mean the same thing."
"But isn't one of your best friends a lawyer?"
"You refer to Felix Muller? Well, yes. Muller has been a very good friend to me. But when it comes to business, like the rest of them, he will have his pound of flesh."
"Ah, well!" the old man answered, with a sigh. "It's a sad world. Though many may be called, few are chosen, and Satan must work his will till the appointed time."
"He seems to have had a pretty long innings," Rufus said, with a laugh.
"And yet, beyond his chain he cannot go," the old man answered. And then supper was brought on to the table.
Rufus awoke next morning to the sound of Christmas bells ringing wildly down the valley and out across the hills. It was a pleasant sound, and awoke many tender memories in his heart. Instinctively his thoughts turned back to the Gospel story, and to the Christ who had changed the history of the world. Whatever might be said of the doctrines and dogmas that his grandfather had preached for fifty years with so much vehemence and energy, there could be no doubt as to the ethical value of Christ's life and sayings.
He had not looked into the New Testament for a good many years now, but it suddenly occurred to him that it was scarcely fair to hold Christ responsible for all the foolish things done and taught in His name. He recalled without effort whole paragraphs of the Sermon on the Mount, for he had been compelled, as a boy, to get off whole chapters both of the Old and New Testament by heart, and he felt that nothing nobler had been taught in all the history of the world. Besides all that, there was something infinitely beautiful and touching in the tragedy of Christ's life and death. He was a martyr for scorned ideals. He gave up his life rather than compromise with evil, or be a party to the hypocrisies of His time. He was, undoubtedly, the friend of the poor, and outcast, and oppressed, and was the only religious man of His time who had the courage to speak a kind word to publicans and harlots.
Rufus began to have an uncomfortable feeling that he had scarcely treated this sacred figure with ordinary chivalry or fair play. The very ideals he stood for and advocated were among those the Man of Nazareth lived for and died for. From what, then, had he revolted? Against what had he protested?
He closed his eyes while the bells rang on, and tried to think. He could recall no word of Christ to which he could take exception, no single act that was not in itself a message of goodwill to men. Here was a life absolutely unselfish, and sacrificed in the pursuit of the noblest ideal. Here was teaching that struck at the greed and hypocrisy and lust of a corrupt age. Here was an influence, if taken by itself, which must always be for the common good.
Why, then, had he revolted? He had called Christianity a delusion and a snare. A benumbing superstition, an invention of priests for the enslavement of men and women. In his defence of the position he had taken up he had pointed out that Christianity had stood for slavery, for war, for oppression, for persecution, for greed, and for the rule of the strong over the rights and consciences of the weak. Had he been wrong in this contention? And if not, where was the discrepancy?
Could it be true that Christ stood for one thing, and Christianity for another? In other words, was the thing that bore the name of Christianity, Christianity at all? Did it bear anything but the most distant resemblance to that sweet and ennobling influence that Jesus breathed into the life of the world?
He became interested in the problem. The bells ceased their wild revel, and a little company of carol singers broke out in the front garden:
Hark! the glad sound, the Saviour comes,The Saviour promised long,Let every heart prepare a throne,And every voice a song.
Hark! the glad sound, the Saviour comes,The Saviour promised long,Let every heart prepare a throne,And every voice a song.
They sang well and tunefully, sustaining all the parts, and throwing heart and enthusiasm into the exercise. He listened with interest and pleasure. A new chord seemed to have been struck in his nature. A fresh window had been opened in his mind. A year ago the carol might have irritated him, and he would probably have laid the flattering unction to his soul, that he had outgrown a mouldy and moth-eaten superstition.
He wondered if loving Madeline Grover had made his heart sensitive to new influences, or if it was the possibility of a speedy escape from life that had turned his heart anew to these questions.
The carol-singers had come to honour his grandfather. He was no longer their pastor. He had preached till he was eighty—preached till his once crowded congregation had dwindled down to a mere handful, and the glory of "Zion," as the chapel was called, had become but a memory. Yet his name was revered still. For fifty years and more he had lived in Tregannon, and had lived a life of strict and severe integrity, and, though the younger generation had drifted away from his ministry, and "Zion" was no longer enthusiastic about the terms of its title-deeds, yet there was no one who had not a good word to speak of the white-haired supernumerary.
He heard the door open at length. The old servant had gone down to let the singers in, and he knew there would be cocoa and saffron cake, and a word of welcome and exhortation from his grandfather. It was pleasant, after all, to be remembered with so much affection after a life of eighty-four years.
Rufus wondered if his name would ever be held in any degree of esteem by his fellows, or if he would live unhonoured, and die unlamented. Why was it his grandfather's name was so much revered? Was it the manner of his life or the character of his preaching that had touched the heart and imagination of Tregannon?
He had not much difficulty in answering that question. Nobody cared about his sermons now. The few that were remembered, were remembered only to be discussed and discarded. His criticisms of Luther, his fierce attacks on Arminianism, his deadly assaults on Darwin and Huxley, who were beginning to be talked about, his righteous scorn at infant baptism, his ponderous defence of verbal inspiration, his laboured expositions of the prophecies of Daniel, his flounderings in the deep waters of the Apocalypse, his weighty disquisitions on foreknowledge and predestination, and his nicely-balanced definitions of such terms as atonement, justification, regeneration and the like—what did they all amount to now? Who recalled them or were made the better by them? The thing that mattered was goodness. In so far as he had set an example of uprightness of character, of simplicity of aim, of unselfishness in his dealings with his fellows, he had lived to purpose. The sermon that all Tregannon remembered was his upright life. Austere he had always been, carrying himself with a certain reserve that no one could break down, but beneath a cold and placid surface there had beaten a genuinely human heart. To the poor and suffering and heartbroken he had proved himself through two generations a genuine friend. Hence it was that though he had lived in retirement for the last four years his name was held in reverence still.
Rufus found himself debating the question from a fresh standpoint. Was Christianity what his grandfather preached, or what he lived? He had heard him declare from the pulpit, with passionate vehemence, that good works were filthy rags, and that morality might be a millstone around the neck to sink the soul in deeper perdition. Yet who cared for his grandfather's theology in Tregannon? The thing that made his name revered was that very morality which he had so often warned his hearers against.
"There's a screw loose somewhere," Rufus said to himself, with a smile. "Perhaps I had better read the New Testament again and try to find out what Christianity is. What passes in its name I like as little as ever I did. Its priestly assumptions, its grotesque dogmas, its truculent grovelling at the feet of wealth, its pitiful squabblings about forms and orders, its defence of oppression and war, and most other abominations, its silence and helplessness in face of public corruption. Great Scott! what does it all mean? Think of Christianity in Russia siding with the brutes who rule that unhappy land; think of it in France, where the people in disgust are trying to kick it out; think of it in England, allied to the State, intriguing for power and resorting to every kind of sharp practice to gain its own ends, and think of Jesus dying for a great ideal. I'll give up the problem, it's beyond me." And he got out of bed and began to dress. After breakfast he rather astonished the old people by announcing that he would go to chapel.
"I hope you will go, Rufus, in a proper spirit," the old man said, severely.
"I hope so," was the answer; "though I am bound to confess I am prompted mainly by a desire to hear your new minister."
The Rev. Reuben looked grave. "It is possible he may say something you may approve of. I grieve to say that even the pulpit is touched by what is called the modern spirit."
"But I hear that 'Zion' is regaining some of its former glory."
"The congregations are large, I admit; but I fear in these days the people have itching ears."
"That has been true, I am told, of every generation."
"It may be so. Yet thirty years ago—aye, twenty years ago—the people endured sound doctrine even when it was galling to the flesh."
"And to-day, grandfather?"
The old man shook his head and smiled sadly. "I fear me they have no stomach for strong meat," he said, pathetically.
"Well, it is not a bit of use trying to swallow what we cannot digest," Rufus said, with a laugh. "However, I will hear this Rev. Marshall Brook for myself."
He felt painfully conspicuous as he walked into the chapel behind the stooping form of his grandfather—the little grandmother was too feeble to attend. He thought that everybody was eyeing him with an unnecessary amount of curiosity. He slipped into the far corner of the pew, the place where he had spent many a weary and painful hour in the years gone by, and for awhile he kept his eyes fixed upon the floor. A quiet, slow-moving voluntary was being played on the organ, around him was a faint rustle of silks and the shuffling of feet. From the vestibule came a subdued hum of voices as acquaintances met and exchanged Christmas greetings.
Rufus was carried back again to the days of his boyhood and youth. The present was forgotten. He had never been away from Tregannon. He wasstill a lad. He had a jack-knife in his pocket and a white alley and a piece of cobbler's wax and several yards of string. That was Billy Beswarick's suppressed cough coming from a neighbouring pew, and he was sure Dick Daddo was behind him waiting to pull his hair.
He raised his eyes at length, and the illusion partially vanished; but not altogether. There was the same organ—how often he had counted its gilt dummy pipes; new brass book-rests had been placed in the gallery front for the convenience of the choir—that was an innovation, and brought him down to more modern days. The iron pillars that supported the galleries were festooned with evergreens, and over the arch of the organ loft was a text of Scripture, conspicuous in white against a scarlet background:—"On earth peace and good will toward men."
The text set Rufus thinking again. He rather wondered that anyone had the courage to put it up. Perhaps the young people had done it, unthinkingly, for no sentiment could be more incongruous or out of place. The air was full of the clash of arms, the newspapers contained little else than records of battle and slaughter. Ministers all over the country were preaching sermons on patriotism and Imperialism. Churches and Sunday-schools were organising boys' brigades, and children were being taught how to shoot. Here and there a solitary voice protested against all war as unchristian, but the voice in the main was unheeded. How could war be unchristian? How could killing on a large scale be anything but an ennobling occupation? How could defending homes that were not attacked and destroying homes that were not defended, be anything less than heroic? How could stealing your neighbour's birthright and possessing his inheritance be anything but righteous?
"There's evidently a screw loose somewhere," he said to himself, with a smile. "If that text sets forth the objective of Christ's mission, then a good deal that passes muster as Christianity to-day is loathsome hypocrisy."
Then his attention was arrested by the entrance of the minister into the pulpit. A young man with a frank, boyish face, large, square forehead, a wide mouth, strong chin and jaw—all this he took in at a glance. A moment later he noticed that his dress was unclerical, his hands small and brown, his eyes deep-set and dark.
Rufus felt interested in the man. Accustomed as he had been during all the years of his boyhood and youth to seeing the tall, stiff, clerical figure of his grandfather in the pulpit, there seemed something delightfully free and unconventional about this young man. The pulpit "tone" was absent from his voice, the pulpit manner he had evidently not yet learnt, the pulpit expression had to be acquired.
Rufus got far back in his childhood days again during the singing and prayers. But directly the text was announced and the minister began to preach he felt wide awake and interested. To begin with, all his early notions about preaching were rudely upset. Taking his grandfather as a model this young man did not preach at all. He just talked and talked in a most delightfully easy and quickening way.
The farther he advanced the more interested Rufus became. There were no attempts at oratory, no flights of rhetoric, no simulated passion, no declamation, but just earnest, lucid talk. He forgot that he was in a chapel and this man in a pulpit. They might be anywhere—in a workshop or by the fireside—and the man was talking to them on a subject of deep and perennial interest. He did not dogmatise; he didnot ignore objections and difficulties. He faced every problem fairly and fearlessly, and gave his reason for the faith that was in him.
"The desire of all nations shall come," was the text. What was the desire of all nations? What was the deep, passionate longing of all thoughtful, serious people of all ages and of all countries? And how was that longing met in Jesus of Nazareth?
On the first point he touched Rufus to the quick. He described every mental emotion through which he had passed, and showed how every merely human philosophy had failed to satisfy the need of the human heart. Every word of this part of the discourse was absolutely true to Rufus's own experience.
But when the preacher came to deal with the second part of his subject, Rufus felt all his old scepticism returning with a rush; and yet so reasonably did the preacher talk that he was compelled to listen. He did not speak like an advocate with a bad case. There were no evasions, no special pleadings, no attempts to browbeat witnesses, or to sail off on side issues. He spoke as one who had fought his way through every phase of doubt, and had reached the serene heights of absolute conviction.
Christ had met his needs, and had answered his questions, had solved the riddle of life.
Rufus shook his head more than once unconsciously. The argument from experience might be satisfactory enough to those who had the experience, but he wanted proof. The experience of another man was of very little value to him.
If he could be sure that Christ spoke with absolute authority on these questions that vexed the human mind, then would he find rest also, but how was he to get that assurance.
He walked home from chapel by his grandfather's side in silence. The old man was as little disposed to talk as Rufus, but for a different reason.
After dinner Rufus went for a long walk alone. He wanted to shake off the effects of the sermon. Some of the conclusions of the preacher had made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. The possibility of life being a sacred trust for the use, or abuse, of which he would be held responsible by a Supreme Being was distinctly disquieting, especially in view of the unpleasant possibility that was hanging over his head.
If life were not his own to do as he liked with—to spend or end how or when seemed good in his own eyes—then his attempt to gamble with it was more immoral than for a trustee or a lawyer to gamble with his client's property. Rufus had always prided himself on his honour. It was his sheet-anchor in all the mental storms through which he had passed; but if in throwing his life into pawn he had pawned his honour at the same time what was there left to him that was worth possessing? And if the worst should come to the worst, if, as he sometimes feared, his invention had been forestalled—not only a part of it, but the whole of it—if the demands of what he called honour should necessitate the giving up of his life, in what sort of moral dilemma would he find himself?
His compact with Muller began to appear in a more unpleasantly lurid light than it had ever done before. Could a man steal money to pay his debts with, and then boast of his honesty in paying? Could he discharge a debt of honour by an act that in itself was criminal?
It was dark when he got back to his grandfather's house, but the influence of the sermon was still upon him. He had passed cottages by the dozen fromwhich had come sounds of mirth and festivity. Tregannon appeared to be enjoying itself to the full. The young people, untroubled about the future, were making merry in the hope and gladness of to-day; while he, having lost the faith of his childhood, had drifted into regions not only of hopelessness, but of peril.
"It seems but a poor exchange," he said, sadly, "but I shall have to make the best of it."
When he opened the door he was surprised to hear the voices of his grandfather and the Rev. Marshall Brook, in what seemed to him a very animated and even heated discussion.
After her meeting with Rufus Sterne, Madeline walked slowly back to the Hall with a very thoughtful look upon her face. She knew that this Christmas Eve was to be a fateful time for her, her whole future seemed to be hanging in the balance. On what happened during the next few days—perhaps, during the next few hours—would depend in all probability the happiness, or the misery, of all the years that would follow.
The point to which her life had been steadily drifting would be reached to-night. The man who had been waiting for her would ask her to come into his arms, the consummation of her girlish dreams was about to be realised. Why did she shrink from the fateful moment? Why did she contemplate the meeting with Gervase with something like alarm? Before she reached the Hall she put a question boldly to herself that she had never dared ask before. Had Rufus Sterne anything to do with this half-defined fear that haunted her. Suppose he had never crossed her path—had never awakened her gratitude by his courage and chivalry, had never touched her sympathy by his vicarious suffering—would she at this moment be almost dreading the appearance of Gervase Tregony on the scene?
Till she met Rufus Sterne, Gervase had been her ideal. His bigness, his masterfulness, his fearlessness, his daring had awakened in her a sense of awe. Hewas her ideal still in many respects. She never expected to see a more soldierly man, never expected to hear a voice that was more clearly meant to command, never anticipated a stronger arm to lean upon.
And yet there was no denying the fact that the brightness of the image had been somewhat dimmed of late. In point of bigness, in point of masterfulness, and, above all, in point of social position, Rufus Sterne was not to be mentioned in the same day with Gervase Tregony, and yet Rufus Sterne, poor and friendless as he was, had touched her heart and her imagination in a way that Gervase had never done.
Her fingers were tingling still under the pressure of his hand. The tones of his voice were still vibrating through the chambers of her brain, the colour mounted to her cheeks whenever she thought of him.
"Perhaps, when I see Gervase," she said to herself, "all my forebodings will vanish. It will be a comfort to know that I have been worrying myself for nothing. If he loves me for my own sake—and I shall soon find out if he doesn't—and if I—I—like him as I have always done, why there is no reason at all why we should not be two of the happiest people in the world. Nevertheless, I wish Sir Charles was not in such a hurry to arrange things."
She found Lady Tregony and Beryl pretending concern at her long absence, but very little was said, and Madeline did not explain why she had been so long.
"We have ordered dinner, my dear, for half-past seven," Lady Tregony said, in her blandest tones. "We have had another telegram from dear Gervase while you have been out. It was handed in at Bristol. He seems terribly impatient to be at home. I suppose you would not care to drive into Redbourne with Sir Charles to meet him?"
"No, indeed. I would prefer to meet him here, thank you."
"I am sure it would be quite proper, my dear, if you would care to go, and really Gervase seems dying to see you."
"I don't think it would be proper at all," Madeline answered, quite frankly.
"Oh, yes, my dear. Everybody now looks upon the engagement as a settled thing."
"Indeed. I did not know people took so much interest in our affairs, or indeed, knew anything about the matter."
"Oh, yes, my dear; it is impossible that such things can be kept a secret. I expect you will get tons and tons of congratulations on Friday."
"Why on Friday, Lady Tregony?"
"Why, because we shall have the house full of people on Friday, to be sure. I wouldn't that there should be a hitch for the world."
Madeline walked upstairs to her room, feeling very perturbed, and not a little annoyed. It seemed now as if everybody was beginning to show his or her hand. Now that the game was practically won there was not quite so much need for caution or finesse. Indeed, to take the engagement for granted might be a good way of settling the matter once and for all.
"But it is not settled yet," she said to herself, a little bit indignantly; "and what is more I will not have my affairs settled for me by anybody."
It had been her intention to dress herself with the greatest care that evening, to don the smartest and most becoming frock she possessed. But she concluded now she would do nothing of the kind.
"I am not going to lay myself out to make a conquest as though I were a husband hunter," she saidto herself, with heightened colour; "and what is more I am not going to let anybody take things for granted," and she dropped into a basket chair before the fire.
It was the first time Lady Tregony had so openly shown her hand, and it made Madeline think more furiously than ever.
Her maid came a little later and lighted the lamp and drew the blinds, then quietly withdrew. Madeline sat staring into the fire, watching the faces come and go, and conjuring up all kinds of visions. She heard the brougham drive away; heard the Baronet's voice for a moment or two, then all grew still again. In another hour he would be back again, accompanied by his son. She wanted to get up and walk about the room, but she held herself in check with a firm hand, and sat resolutely still. She did not attempt to hide from herself the fact that she was painfully excited. Her heart was beating at twice its normal rate. She was longing to see Gervase, and yet she dreaded the moment when she would again look into his eyes.
She did her best to put Rufus Sterne out of her mind. She had a vague kind of feeling that she was disloyal to her girlish ideals. The hour, to which all the other hours of her life had steadily and consistently moved, was on the point of striking. She ought to be supremely happy. One face only should fill all her dreams. She had grown to believe that Gervase Tregony had been ordained for her and she for him—until the last few months not a doubt had crossed her mind on this point, and now——
She got up and began to walk about the room. She could sit still no longer. The very air had become oppressive. She felt as though a thunderstorm was brooding over the place.
Her maid came in at length, much to her relief, and began to help her dress for dinner. While her hair was being brushed and combed she listened intently for the sound of carriage wheels. The roads were hard, and sounds travelled far on the still frosty air.
She caught the sounds she had been listening for at length, and her heart seemed to come into her mouth. The beat of the horses' hoofs became as regular as the ticking of a clock. Nearer and nearer drew the sounds, till the maid stopped her brushing, and listened.
"They are coming," she said, with a little catch in her breath. "I did not think they would be here so soon," and she dropped the brushes, and began to twist Madeline's glorious hair into a large coil low on her neck.
"You need not hurry," Madeline said, quietly; "I shall not go downstairs till just before dinner."
"Her ladyship is dressed already," the maid answered.
"Naturally," she answered, significantly, and relapsed into silence.
A few minutes later they heard the gritting of the carriage wheels on the drive. It curved round under Madeline's window, and pulled up at the front door.
She listened for the sound of voices, but Sir Charles and his son alighted in silence. Then a little shrill cry of delight was wafted up from the hall as Lady Tregony fell into her son's arms. The next moment the harsh, raucous voice of the captain echoed distinctly through all the rooms.
Madeline felt her heart give a sudden bound. How often she had heard that voice in her dreams, and thrilled at the sound—not a musical voice, by any means, not a voice to lure and soothe, but a voice to command; a voice to inspire confidence and awaken fear at the same time.
Then a knock came to the door, and Beryl rushed in. "Gervase has come, dear," she said, excitedly.
"Yes, I heard his voice."
"But are you not coming down at once?"
"I cannot very well," she answered, with a smile.
"But he will be terribly disappointed. His first inquiry was for you."
"We shall meet in the drawing-room before dinner is announced."
"But what must I tell him?"
"Anything you like, dear."
Beryl departed with a pout, and a look of disappointment in her eyes. A little later there was a sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs.
Madeline disappointed her maid by insisting on wearing her least becoming evening gown, and the only ornament she wore was a bunch of holly berries in her hair.
She went downstairs alone, and was surprised to find the drawing-room empty. Where Lady Tregony and Beryl had taken themselves to she could not imagine. A big fire of logs was blazing in the grate, and in all the sconces candles were alight. She expected every moment that either Beryl or Lady Tregony would come to her; they were both dressed, and there was no reason whatever that they should remain in their rooms.
After several minutes had gone by she began to suspect the truth. They were keeping away so that she might meet Gervase alone. It was very thoughtful of them certainly, but it was taking rather too much for granted. She disliked so many evidences of management and contrivance. If Providence was arranging all these matters she could not see why Providence might not be allowed a free hand. So much human assistance did not seem at all necessary.
She was beginning to feel a little bit resentful when the door was thrown suddenly open, and Gervase entered. For a moment she started back with unfeigned surprise. She had expected seeing him in all the glory and splendour of his uniform, and here he was in ordinary evening dress, looking as common-place as any average country squire. The only splendid thing about him was his moustache, which was waxed out to its fullest dimensions.
"Madeline," he said, huskily, coming hurriedly forward, with outstretched hands. "This is the supreme moment of my life."
She placed both her hands in his, and looked him steadily in the eyes. She was quite calm again now. Her heart had ceased its wild gallop.
"It seemed as if I should never get here," he said, in the same husky tones. "Oh! how impatient I have been to look into your dear eyes."
"If you had missed this train you would not have got here for your Christmas dinner," she said, artlessly, "and that would have been horribly disappointing."
"Would you have been very much disappointed?" he questioned, trying to throw a note of tenderness into his voice.
"Of course, I should have been disappointed," she answered, frankly; "I've been quite consumed with curiosity to see what you look like."
"Not with curiosity only, I hope, Madeline."
"Why, isn't curiosity bad enough without having any other feeling to torment you?"
"Did you think I should have changed toward you?" he said, in hurt tones. "Did you regard me as one of the fickle mob, who hold love so lightly?"
"Nay, I have always regarded you as a brave, strong man who would place duty above everything."
"In that, I trust, I shall never disappoint you," he said, humbly. "Henceforth my duty and my joy shall be to serve you."
"I am only one," she said, quickly. "Is not your first duty to your country and your King?"
"My first duty is to my queen," he answered gallantly, "and that is you."
She drew her hands from his suddenly, and stepped back a pace. "Had we not better understand each other better before we talk so confidently?" she said, in hard decided tones.
"What, after three long years?" he questioned, in an aggrieved voice. "Is it possible that there is anything left unexplained? Have I not opened all my heart to you in my letters? Do I need still to prove my devotion?"
"No, no. You have been very candid and very loyal," she said, quickly. "But a matter of so much importance should not be decided in an hour."
"But we have known each other for years, and did we not understand each other from the very beginning?"
"Perhaps we did," she answered, with downcast eyes.
"And everyone else understood," he went on. "It is true little or nothing was said at the beginning, for you—you—were—were—very young. But I was of full age, and when the proper time came I wrote plainly to you."
"Yes, I know."
"And you were not surprised? You expected I should write in that way, did you not?"
"Yes, I think I did."
"And yet now you talk of our understanding each other better. Oh, Madeline! Let me assure you that no other woman has crossed my path, that no otherface has caught my fancy, that my heart has been true to you from the first, and I am prepared now to devote the rest of my life to you."
"But is there not another side to the question?" she asked, seriously. "You said when first we met I was very young. But I have grown to be a woman now."
"That is true, by Jove!" he answered, with a harsh laugh, "and a very lovely woman, too. But that only adds force and weight to what I have already said. If you had grown to be ill-favoured or plain, you might hesitate, thinking my heart would change. But no, Madeline, I am not of the fickle sort. If you were not half so handsome as you are I should still come to you eager, devoted, and determined."
"You fail to understand my point," she said, quickly.
"Not I, indeed," he interposed, with a laugh. "It is natural, I suppose, for a woman to have some doubts about a soldier. I know among the pious folk we have rather a bad reputation, and that we are supposed to have as many wives as Brigham Young. But that's a gross libel. I don't pretend that soldiers are saints, and some of them, I grant, change the objects of their affections frequently. But, Madeline, believe me, I have been true to you. True to that last smile and look you gave me in Washington. I come back offering you a complete and whole-hearted devotion. Now, come and let me kiss you, and settle the matter before dinner."
She drew back a step further. "I think we understand each other less now than when we began our talk," she said, in hard, unnatural tones.
"Well, by Jove, Madeline, you do astonish me," he said, in a tone of well-feigned surprise. "You surely don't think I'm insincere—that I'm putting iton, as it were; that I'm pretending what I don't feel? Let me assure you I'm absolutely certain of my regard for you. Even if I were in doubt before I got here—though, to tell you the candid truth, I never have been in any doubt. But even if I were, the sight of your face, the loveliness of your ripened womanhood, if you will allow me to say so, has drawn out my heart to you more strongly than ever."
"I don't think we shall gain anything by pursuing this subject any further just now," she said, quietly. "And we shall have many opportunities for quiet talks later on."
"And you are not going to let me kiss you?"
"Most certainly not," she said, the colour rising in a crimson tide to her cheeks and forehead.
"Then all I can say, it is a cold welcome," he said, using an adjective that need not be written down.
"You do not understand me, Gervase," she said, a pained look coming into her eyes.
"By Jove! I don't," he said, "and what is worse still, you persist in misunderstanding me."
"I am sorry you put it in that way," she answered; "but there goes the dinner-gong," and the next moment the door was pushed open, and Lady Tregony bustled into the room.
"So you have met!" she said, with a little giggle, "and no one to disturb yourtête-á-tête. Well, that is delightful."
Gervase frowned, but did not reply, and Madeline took the opportunity of escaping out of the room.
In the dining-room she frustrated Lady Tregony's little design, and instead of seating herself next to Gervase she sat opposite him. She had not seen him for so long a time, that she wanted an opportunity of studying his face. Her first feeling of disappointment was confirmed as she looked at him more closely. In his uniform he looked magnificent—at least, that was the impression left on her mind; but in ordinary swallow-tail coat and patent leather slippers he looked common-place. There was no other word for it. Moreover, three years under the trying skies of India had aged him considerably. His straw-coloured hair no longer completely covered his scalp. The crow's feet about his eyes had grown deeper and more numerous. The skin of his face looked parched and drawn, his cheek bones appeared to be higher, his nose more hooked, and his teeth more prominent.
Moreover, under an ordinary starched shirt-front the well-rounded chest had entirely disappeared. Perkins, the butler, could give him points in that respect.
Madeline felt the process of disillusionment was proceeding all too rapidly. She wished he had come downstairs arrayed in scarlet and gold. As a study in black and white he was not altogether a success, and it was not pleasant to have her dreams blown away like spring blossoms in a gale.
It was a great disappointment to the Tregonys that they were unable to announce on the night of their "At Home" that Gervase and Madeline were engaged. Madeline, however, was obdurate. She saw no reason for haste, and she saw many reasons for delay. The very anxiety of the Tregonys to get the matter settled at once made her only the more determined not to be rushed. The very masterfulness of Gervase—which she admired so much—for once defeated its own end.
In her heart she had no real intention of upsetting what seemed to be the scheme and purpose of her life. It had seemed so long in the nature of things that she should marry Gervase Tregony—(why it should have seemed in the nature of things she hardly knew)—that to refuse to do so now would seem like flying in the face of Providence, and that required more courage than she possessed. Still, as far as she could see, it was no part of the providential plan that she should become engaged to Gervase that very year, and marry him early in the next. Dates did not appear to be included in the general arrangement, and she "guessed that in that matter she might be allowed considerable latitude."
Gervase showed much less diplomacy than his father. Sir Charles had more correctly gauged Madeline's disposition than any other member of the family. He knew very well that she would never be driven,that any attempt at coercion would defeat its own end. On this assumption he had acted all the way through, and but for a single incident everything might have gone well.
As the days passed away Gervase grew terribly impatient. He was hard up. "Horribly, disgustingly hard up," as he told his father, and here were Madeline's thousands or millions steadily accumulating, and nobody the better for it. If he could once get the knot tied he would be safe. She had so much that she could let him have all he wanted without feeling it, and there seemed no reason in the world why he should not begin to enjoy himself without delay.
Madeline listened in the main with much patience to his appeals and protestations, but for some reason she could not understand, they failed to move her. He never touched the heroic side of her nature. His appeal was always to her vanity and selfishness. His pictures of happiness were merely pictures of self-indulgence. The aim and end of life as he shadowed it forth was "to take thy ease, eat, drink, and be merry." A town house, a shooting-box in Scotland. Two or three motor-cars, a steam yacht, and an endless round between times of balls and calls and grand operas.
She frankly owned to herself that her idol had been taken off its pedestal, and there was no longer any halo about his head. To live in the same house with Gervase day after day was distinctly disquieting. His civilian attire made him look painfully common-place, his conversation was as common-place as his appearance.
She asked him one day why he did not wear his captain's uniform.
"Because I have resigned my commission," he answered.
"Resigned your commission?" she questioned, slowly.
"Why not?" he replied. "I have done my share of roughing it, surely."
"But—but—oh! I don't know. I had an idea once an officer, always an officer."
"Oh, nothing of the sort," he laughed, "I've given up soldiering to devote myself to you. Isn't that a much nobler occupation?"
"I don't think so," she answered, slowly. "Besides, I did not want you to give up your commission to devote yourself to me."
"At any rate, I've done it. I thought it would please you. It will show you, at any rate, how devoted I am. There is nothing I would not give up for your sake, and I never thought you would hesitate to speak the one word that would make me the happiest man in the world."
"But you could not be happy unless I was happy also?" she interrogated.
"But you would be happy. I should just lay myself out to make you as happy as a bird. By my soul, you would have a ripping time!"
"I don't think that is just what I want," she said, abstractedly. "Don't you think there is something greater in life than either of us have yet seen?"
He looked at her with as much astonishment in his eyes as if she had proposed suicide. "Greater," he said, in a tone of incredulity. "Well, I'm—I'm—. The truth is, Madeline, you're beyond me," he added, twisting suddenly round, and back again. "As if there could be anything greater. We might have a turn at Monte Carlo if you liked, or Homburg in the season, or—but the fact is, we might go anywhere. Think of it! You can't conceive of anything greater!"
"Oh, yes! I can," she answered quietly, but firmly. "There's nothing noble or heroic in living merely for self and pleasure."
"Noble! heroic!" he repeated, slowly, as if not quite comprehending. "Well, now, I wonder what preaching fool has been putting these silly notions into your head. Have you turned Methodist?"
"I don't know why you call such notions silly," she said, ignoring his last question. "Did not Christ say that a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things he possesseth?"
"Oh! well, I'm not going to say anything against that as an abstract thing," he said. "But the Bible must not be taken too literally, you know."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Why, I mean what I say, and what every man, if he's got any sense, means. Religion is a very respectable thing, and all that. And I think everybody ought to go to church now and then and take communion, and be confirmed when he's young, and all that. And if people are very poor there must be a lot of comfort in believing in Providence, don't you see, and in living in hope that they'll have a jolly good time later on, and all that, don't you see. But as for making oneself miserable for other people, and denying oneself that somebody else may have a better time, and turning the other cheek, and all that, don't you see—well, that's just rot, and can't be done."
"Why not?"
"Why not? Well, it's just too silly for words. Fancy a man or a woman not having a good time if he has the chance."
"But it may be more blessed to give than to receive."
"Don't you believe it, Madeline. I believe in taking a common-sense view of life. We've only onelife to live, and it's our duty to squeeze all the juice out of it that we can."
"But may not the pursuit of self end in missing self? Is there not more joy in pursuing duty than in chasing pleasure?"
"Look here, Madeline," he said, after a long pause, staring hard at her, "tell me candidly who's been putting these silly notions into your pretty little head."
"I wish you would not talk to me as though I had the head of a baby," she said, a little indignantly. "You should remember that I am no longer a child," and she turned and walked slowly out of the room.
Gervase went off to the library at once to interview his father. The days were passing away, and he was getting no nearer the realisation of his desire. All his interviews with her ended where they began. Whenever he approached the subject nearest his heart and his interests, she always managed to shunt him off to some side issue.
Sir Charles was busy writing letters, but he looked up at once when Gervase entered.
"Can you spare time for a little talk?" the son asked, abruptly.
"Why, of course I can," was the reply. "Is there something particular you wish to talk about?"
"Well, the truth is," he said, in a tone of irritation, "I am not getting on with Madeline a bit."
"Perhaps you are too eager and impatient. You must remember that Madeline is not the girl to be driven."
"Yes, I've heard that before," he said, angrily. "You have always harped on that string. But you've been in the wrong, I'm sure you have. If you'd only let me have my way I would have proposed to her three years ago."
"And spoiled everything."
"No, I should have won everything. She was only a girl then, and was immensely gone on me. A soldier in her eyes was a hero, and an officer's uniform the most splendid thing she could imagine. If I'd struck then, when the iron was hot, she'd have fallen into my arms, and once engaged there'd have been no backing out."
"My dear boy, you don't know Madeline Grover," Sir Charles said, seriously. "No girlish promise would have bound her if she wanted to get out of it."
"Oh, yes, it would. She has tremendously high notions about honour and duty."
"Exactly. That's just where you fail to appreciate the difficulties of the situation. Very likely you tell her that some of her notions are silly, because you don't understand them."
"That's just what I have been telling her this very morning."
"And you think that's the way, perhaps, to win her promise."
"But what's a fellow to do? One cannot sit mum while she talks rot about—about——"
"About what?"
"Oh! I don't know; but you know when a girl gets on to heroics she generally makes a fool of herself."
"Madeline is very sane as a general thing."
"Then why in the name of common-sense doesn't she jump?"
"She wants to make sure of her ground, perhaps."
"But she knows who I am and who you are, and, surely, it's something to ask a nameless girl to marry into a family like ours."
"I confess I expected she would be more impressed than she is."
"Does she know she's got the tin?"
"I don't think so. She thinks we have the wealth and the position, and everything else."
"And yet she doesn't jump. I'd no idea she'd hold out as she is doing."
"You'll have to humour her, Gervase. I've told you from the first she's not to be driven. Sympathise with her in what you call her heroics. Encourage her in her mental flight after great ideals."
Gervase shook his head, and looked blank. "It's no use, father," he said, despondingly, "I should only make a fool of myself if I tried. Nature never gave me any wings of that sort."
"At any rate, don't contradict her, and call her a goose, and assume the airs of a superior person."
"But surely I know a mighty lot more than she does. Think of my age and experience, and remember I haven't travelled over half the world with my eyes shut."
"It is not experience of the world, but knowledge of the ways of women you want. It isn't strength, but diplomacy that you need."
"You think she will come round in time, don't you?"
"Oh, yes! I think so, provided you play your cards with skill. She has never said 'no' has she?"
"That isn't the trouble exactly. She has never said 'yes,' and until she says it I'm not safe. You know she comes of age in May."
"Well?"
"You take it very coolly, father," Gervase said, in a tone of irritation. "I don't think it is at all well. Madeline is my only hope. Unless I marry a rich woman I'm stranded—absolutely stranded."
"You've not been getting into deeper debt, I hope?"
"I've not been getting into shallower water, you may bet your bottom dollar on that."
"Am I to understand that you have been anticipating events?"
"I have a little. I thought I was perfectly safe in doing so. Your letters indicated that the way was quite clear, that Madeline looked upon the thing as settled, that she knew it was her father's wish, that you were quite agreeable, that everything was as straight as straight could be."
"But I never saw her letters to you."
"They were almost entirely satisfactory, I can assure you. She did not accept my proposal, it is true. But—well—she couldn't have written in a more friendly way. She thought we should meet again first, that was all. No hint of any delay after I came back."
"I hope you haven't been disappointing her in some way."
"I believe she is a bit disappointed at my retiring from the army. Like most girls, she dotes on a soldier. She loves the uniform and the gold braid and all that. But I told her I gave up the army that I might devote myself to her."
"And did that satisfy her?"
"I don't know. I can't make out exactly where she is. She seems to have changed in some way. If she hadn't lived under your eye ever since she has been in England I should be half disposed to think some other fellow had been making love to her."
Sir Charles gave a little start, then turned his head, and contemplated his writing pad.
"I suppose she didn't flirt with anybody while you were in London?" Gervase questioned, after a pause.
"Not that I am aware of, Oh, no! I'm certain she didn't," Sir Charles replied, looking up again.
"And, of course, in St. Gaved there's nobody she would look at for a moment," Gervase went on.
Sir Charles nibbled for a moment at the end of his penholder. He hardly knew whether to tell Gervase or no. It was but a vague fear at most. For months—so he believed—she had never seen Rufus Sterne, and his name was never mentioned under any circumstances. Gervase was a violent fellow, and if he were made jealous there was no knowing what he might do or say. On the other hand, it was almost certain that he would hear the story of Madeline's adventure on the cliffs sooner or later, and then he would be excessively angry at not having been told by his own people.
On the whole, Sir Charles concluded that he had better let Gervase know all there was to be known. The simple truth might gain in importance in his eyes the longer it was kept from him.
"I don't think, Gervase, you need have the least fear that you have a rival," he said, at length, looking up with what he intended to be a reassuring smile. "There was a little circumstance some months ago that caused me a moment's uneasiness; but only a moment's. I soon saw that it meant nothing, that it never could mean anything, in fact."
"What was the circumstance?" Gervase asked, with a quick light of interest in his eyes.
"Well, it came about in this way," and Sir Charles told in an off-hand and apparently indifferent manner the story of Madeline's escapade.
Gervase listened in gloomy silence, tugging vigorously at his moustache all the time.
"And you say she visited him in his diggings?" he questioned, sullenly, when Sir Charles had finished.
"I understand she called twice. From her point of view it seemed right enough. He had broken his leg in rescuing her, and with her American notions of freedom and independence, she saw no harm in calling to see him when he was getting better."
"But you say she went twice?"
"She went a second time to take him some books she had promised to lend him."
"Are you sure she went only twice?"
"I think I may say yes to that question. Madeline is very truthful and very frank, and when I pointed out that it was scarcely in harmony with our English notions of propriety she fell in with the suggestion at once."
"And she made no attempt to see him after?"
"Not the smallest. She had expressed her gratitude and the episode had closed."
Gervase looked thoughtful, and not quite satisfied.
"Madeline can be as close as an oyster when she likes," he said, after a pause; "how do you know she has not been thinking about the fellow ever since?"
"Why should she?"
"Well, why shouldn't she? He saved her life, that is no small matter, especially to a romantic temperament like hers. He broke his leg, and nearly lost his life in doing it; that would add greatly to the interest of the situation. Then, if I remember rightly, he's a singularly handsome rascal, with an easy flow of speech, and a voice peculiarly rich and flexible."
"My dear boy, you can make a mountain out of a molehill, if you like," Sir Charles said, with a laugh. "That's your look-out. I thought it right to tell you everything—this incident among the rest; but Ican assure you you need not worry yourself five seconds over the matter."
"Perhaps I needn't; or it may be there is more at the back of Madeline's mind than you think. One thing is clear to me, something has changed her, and I'm going to find out what it is; and by Jove! if—if——" and he clenched his fists savagely, and walked out of the room.
On New Year's Day Gervase felt determined, if possible, to bring matters to a head, and with this laudable purpose pulsing through every fibre of his body he made his way to the drawing-room where, he understood from his mother, Madeline was sitting alone. He found her, as he expected, intent on a book. She looked up with a bored expression when he entered, smiled rather wearily, but very sweetly, and then went on with her reading.
Gervase felt nettled and frowned darkly, but he had made up his mind not to be driven from his purpose by any indifference—pretended or genuine—on Madeline's part. For a whole week he had been beating the air and getting no nearer the goal of his desire; the time had now come when he would have an explicit answer. His worldly circumstances were desperate, and if Madeline failed him, he would have to exercise his wits in some other direction.
Moreover, the story of Madeline's adventure on the cliffs grew in importance and significance the longer he contemplated it. The fact that she and Rufus Sterne never met was nothing to the point. She might be eating her heart out in silence for all he knew. Girls did such foolish things. For good or ill he would have to find out how the land lay in that direction.
"Is your book very interesting, Madeline?" he asked, throwing himself into an easy chair near the fire.
"Rather so," she answered, without looking up.
"You seem very fond of reading," he said, after a brief pause.
"I am very fond of it."
Another pause.
"Don't you think it is very hurtful to the eyes to read so much?" he said, edging his chair a little nearer to the couch on which she sat.
"Really, I have never thought of it."
"But you ought to think of it, Madeline. The eyesight is most important."
"I suppose it is."
Another pause, during which Gervase threw a lump of wood on the grate. Madeline went on reading, apparently oblivious of his presence.
"I can't understand how people can become so lost in a book," Gervase said, a little petulantly.
"No?"
"No, I can't. It's beyond me."
"Do you never read?"
"Sometimes, but not often. I've too much else to do. Besides, doesn't the Bible say that much reading is a weariness to the flesh?"
"Does it?"
"I don't know; but I've heard it somewhere, and it's true."
"You've proved it?"
"Over and over again."
"What sort of books do you find so wearisome?"
"Oh, all sorts. There's not much to choose between them."
"Do you really think that?"
"Of course I do, or I shouldn't say it. I'm not the sort of man to say what I don't mean. I thought you had found that out long ago."
"I don't think I have thought much about it."
"I thought as much. It appears that I am of no account with you, Madeline. And yet I had hoped to be your husband. But devotion is lost, affection is thrown away, the burning hope of years is trampled upon."
"I thought we were to let that matter drop, Gervase, until we had had more time to think it over?"
"But I don't want more time, Madeline. My mind is quite made up. If I wait a year—ten years—it will be all the same. For me there is only one woman in the world, and her name is Madeline Grover."
"It is very kind of you to say so, Gervase, and I really feel very much honoured. But, you see, I have only known you about a week."
"Oh, Madeline, how can you say that? We have known each other for years."
"In a sense, Gervase, but not in reality. In fact, I find that all the past has to be wiped out, and I have to start again."
"Why so?"
"I cannot explain it very well, but I expect we have both changed. Madeline Grover, the school-girl, is not the Madeline Grover of to-day."
"By Jove, I fear that's only too true," he said, almost angrily.
"And the Captain Tregony I met in Washington—excuse me for saying it—is not the Gervase Tregony of Trewinion Hall."
"Have I deteriorated so much?" he questioned, with an angry flash in his eyes.
"I do not say that you have deteriorated at all," she said, with a smile. "Perhaps we have both of us vastly improved. Let us hope so at any rate.But what I am pointing out is, we meet—almost entirely different people."
"That you are different, I don't deny," he answered, sullenly. "In Washington you made heaps of me, now you are as cold as an iceberg. But I deny that I have changed. I loved you then, I have loved you ever since, I love you now."
"Well, have it that I only have changed," she said, with a touch of weariness in her voice. "I don't want to make you angry, Gervase, but you must recognise the fact that I was only a school-girl when we first met. I am a woman now. Hence, you must give me time to adjust myself if you will allow the expression. You see, I have to begin over again."
"That's very cold comfort for me," he said, angrily. "How do I know that some other fellow will not come along? How do I know that some adventurer has not come between us already?"
She glanced at him for a moment with an indignant light in her eyes, then picked up her book again.
"Pardon me, Madeline," he said, hurriedly, "I would not offend you for the world, but love such as mine makes a fellow jealous and suspicious."
"Suspicious of what?" she demanded.
"Well, you see," he said, slowly and awkwardly, turning away from her, and staring into the fire, "it's better to be honest about it, isn't it?"
"Honest about what?"
"I don't think I'm naturally jealous," he explained, "but father has told me all about your—your—well, your escapade with that scoundrel, Sterne."
"Is he a scoundrel?"
"You know nothing about him, of course, but he is just the kind of fellow that would take advantage of any service he had rendered."
"I was not aware——"
"Of course not," he interrupted, "but those—well, what I call low-born people have no sense of propriety; and in these days—I am sorry to have to say it—very little reverence for their betters."
"Well, what is all this leading to?"
"Oh, nothing in particular. Only father told me how he took some risks on your account, and I know that you are nothing if not grateful, and honestly I was half afraid lest the rascal had been in some way imposing on your good nature."
"You are quite sure that you know this Mr. Sterne?"
"I know of him, Madeline, which is quite enough for me. Of course, I have seen him dozens of times, but he is not the kind of man I should ever think of speaking to—except of course, as I would speak to a tradesman or a fisherman."
"Yes?"
"You see, those people who are too proud to work, and too ignorant and too poor to be gentlemen, and yet who try to ape the manners of their betters are really the most detestable people of all."
"Is that so?"
"It is so, I can assure you. As an American you have not got to know quite the composition of our English society. But you will see things differently later on. A good, honest working man, who wears fustian, and is not ashamed of it, is to be admired, but your working class upstart, with vulgarity bred in his bones, is really too terrible for words."
"And is there no vulgarity in what you call the upper classes?"
"Well, you see, the upper classes can afford to be anything they like, if you understand."
"You mean that they are a law unto themselves?"
"Well, yes, that is about the size of it. No one would think of criticising a duke, for instance, on a question of manners or taste."
"Well, now, that is real interesting," she said, with a cynical little laugh. "It explains a lot of things that I had not seen before."
"Then, too," he went on, warming to his theme, "it is largely a question of feeling. You can't explain some things; you can't say why they are wrong or right, only you feel they are so."
"That is quite true, Gervase," she answered, with a smile.
"For instance, I wear a monocle sometimes. Now that is quite right for a man in my position, and quite becoming."
"Most becoming, Gervase."
"But for Peter Day, the draper, for instance, to stand in his shop-door with a glass in his right eye would look simply ridiculous."
"You would conclude he was cross-eyed, wouldn't you?"
"You would conclude he was an idiot, and, between ourselves, that's just the trouble now-a-days. The common people seem to think that they have a perfect right to do what their betters do."
"But to copy their virtues——"
"That isn't the point exactly," he interrupted. "I don't pretend that we have any more virtues of the homely sort, than the cottage folk, but certain things belong to us by right."
"Do you mean vices?" she queried, innocently.
"Well, no, not in our case; but they might be vices if copied by the lower classes. I'm afraid I can't explain myself very clearly. But things that would be quite proper for the best people to do, would besimply grotesque, or worse, if the common orders attempted them."
"Really, this is most interesting," she said, half-banteringly, half-seriously. "Now, out in our country we have no varying standards of right and wrong."
"Ah! well, that is because you have no aristocracy," he said, loftily.
"And if I were to marry you, Gervase, and become a lady of quality I should be judged, as it were, by a different set of laws."
"You would become Lady Tregony when I succeeded to the title."
She laughed. "That, I fear, is scarcely an answer to my question."
"Not a full answer, but you see there are so many things that cannot be explained."
"Evidently. In the meanwhile I belong to the common herd——"