"No, no! Madeline," he interrupted, quickly.
"My father was only a working man," she went on, "and across the water we have no blue bloods; we have blue noses, but that's another matter, but we're all on the same footing there."
"Not socially, and dollars in America count for what name and titles count for here."
"But I haven't even the dollars," she said, with a laugh.
"But you have," he protested, quickly. "That is—I mean—you have not to work for your living. You are not a type-writer girl, or anything of that sort."
"And should I be any the worse if I were?"
"Well, of course, Madeline, you would be a lady anywhere, or under any circumstances," he said, grandiloquently.
"Thank you, Gervase, but suppose we get back again now to the point we started from."
"I'll be delighted," he said, eagerly. "I do want to start the new year with everything settled; that's the reason I pushed myself on to you, as it were, this afternoon. I hate beating about the bush, and all our friends are wondering why the engagement is not announced."
"Oh, dear! you have gone back miles further than I intended," she laughed. "I understood you wanted to warn me against somebody."
"I do, Madeline. I'm your best friend, if you'll only believe it. And I do beseech you, if you've been in the least friendly with that fellow Sterne, you'll drop him."
"You think he isn't a good man."
"Oh, blow his goodness. The point is, he's common, vulgar—bad form in every way, if you understand. Anyone in your position should never be seen speaking to him."
"But is there anything against his moral character?"
"Oh, confound his moral character," he said, with an oath, for which he apologised at once. "It isn't that I'm squeamish about. The point is, Madeline, he's no gentleman."
"He seemed to me to be quite a gentleman."
"I'm sorry to hear you say that," he said, mournfully, getting up and throwing another log on the fire. "It shows how you may be deceived by such scoundrels."
"But is that a nice word to use of any man against whose moral character you have no complaint to make?"
"No, it isn't a nice word, but he isn't a nice person. I don't care to mention such things, but you may not be aware that he is an infidel?"
"What is that, Gervase?"
"Oh! I don't know, but it's something bad, you bet. I heard the vicar talking about it last time I was at home, and he was pretty sick, I can assure you. If Sterne were to die to-morrow I question if the vicar would allow him to be buried in consecrated ground."
"And what would happen then?" she asked, wonderingly.
"Oh! don't ask me. I am not up in those things, but I just mention the matter to show you he's a pretty bad sort, and not the sort of person for any one like you to be on speaking terms with."
"But what I want to know is, has he ever done anyone any wrong. Ever cheated people, or told lies about them, or stolen their property. Or has he ever been known to get drunk, or to behave in any way unworthy of a gentleman?"
"My dear Madeline, I hate saying anything unpleasant about anyone. But a man who never goes to church, who doesn't believe in the Church, who has no respect for the clergy or the bishops, who has been heard to denounce some of our most sacred institutions, such as the land laws, who has even said that patriotism was a curse, and war an iniquity—what can you expect of such a man? He may not have actually stolen his neighbour's property, but he would very much like to."
"I don't think that necessarily follows," she said, seriously. "I think it is possible for a man to have very small respect for the clergy, and for what is called the Church, and yet for him to have a profound sense of honour, and an unquenchable love for righteousness."
"Then you don't think staying away from church is as bad as getting drunk?"
"I should think not, indeed," she answered, quickly. "A man who gets drunk, I mean an educated man, a gentleman—sinks beneath contempt."
"Sterne may get drunk for all I know," he said, uneasily. "You see, I have been out of England for a long time."
She closed her book with a sudden movement, and rose to her feet.
"No, you must not go yet," he said, in alarm. "We have not settled the matter which I wish particularly to have settled to-day."
"We have talked quite long enough for one afternoon," she answered, coolly.
"But, Madeline, have you no pity?" he said, pleadingly.
"It would be folly to rush into such a matter hastily," she answered, in the same tone.
"But—but, Madeline, answer me one question," he entreated. "Have you—have you seen this man Sterne since I came back?"
"You have no right to ask that question," she said, drawing herself up to her full height. "Nevertheless, I will answer it. I have not," and without another word she swept out of the room.
Her heart was in a tumult of conflicting emotions. She was less satisfied with Gervase than she had ever been before, and less satisfied with herself. And yet she saw no way out of the position in which she found herself. It was next to impossible, situated as she was, to upset what had been taken for granted so long, particularly as she had acquiesced from the first in the unspoken arrangement. She felt as if in coming to England she had been lured into a trap, and yet it was a trap she had been eager to fall into. She had hoped when she saw Gervase, that all her old reverence andadmiration and hero worship would flame into life again, instead of which his coming had been as cold water on the faggots. Whether he had lost some of the qualities she had so much admired or whether all the change was in herself, she did not know, but the glamour had all passed away, and her eyes ached with looking at the common-place.
She wondered if it were always so; if maturity always destroyed the illusions of youth, if the poetry of eighteen became feeble prose at twenty-one.
She went to her own room, and donned her hat and jacket, and then stole unobserved out of the house. "I must get a little fresh air," she said to herself, "and, perhaps, a long walk will put an end to this restlessness."
She turned her back upon St. Gaved, and made for the "downs" that skirted the cliffs. The wind was keen and searching, and the wintry sun was already disappearing behind the sea. "I suppose I shall have to say yes sooner or later," she went on, as she walked briskly forward. "I don't see how I can get out of it very well. All his people seem to be expecting it, and he is evidently very much in love with me. I am afraid there won't be very much romance on my side, but, after all, we may be very happy together."
Then she looked up with a start as a step sounded directly in front of her, and she found herself face to face with Rufus Sterne.
Rufus returned from Tregannon in a condition of mental unrest, such as he had not known before. It was Madeline Grover in the first instance who set him thinking along certain lines, and once started it was impossible to turn back. During all the time he remained a prisoner in the house, his brain had been unusually active. Unconsciously his fierce antagonisms subsided, his revolt against accepted creeds took new shapes, his belief in German philosophy began to waver.
The process of mental evolution went on so quietly and silently, that he was almost startled when he discovered that his philosophic watchwords no longer represented his real beliefs. He felt as though while he slept all his beliefs had been thrown into the melting-pot to be cast afresh, and were now being poured out into new moulds. What the result would be when the process was complete it was impossible to say, but already one thing was certain, the blank negatives in which he once found refuge, would never again satisfy him. He might never evolve into an orthodox believer. The religiosity of the Churches appealed to him as little as ever it did. He despised the smug hypocrisy that on all hands usurped the place of Christianity, and defiled its name. He loathed the pretensions of priests and clerics of all sects. But out of the fog and darkness and uncertainty, certain great truths and principles loomed faintly and fitfully.
The fog was no longer an empty void. The silence was now and then broken by a sound of words, though the language was strange to his ears. There appeared to be a moral order which answered to his own need, and a moral order implied the existence of what he had so long denied.
His visit to his grandparents quickened his thoughts in the direction they had been travelling. Everything tended to serious reflection. The awful mystery and solemnity of life were forced upon him at all points. The old people walked and talked "as seeing Him who is invisible."
He was quietly amused when he returned from his long walk on Christmas day to find his grandfather and the young minister engaged in a heated argument on the barren and thorny subject of verbal inspiration. He would have stopped the discussion if he could, for he discovered that his grandfather was getting much the worst of the argument, and was losing his temper in consequence. But the old man refused to be silenced. Getting his chance of reply he poured out a torrent of words that swept everything before it, and to which there seemed to be no end.
Fortunately, tea was announced just as the young minister was about to reply, and over the tea-table conversation drifted into an entirely different channel. After tea the Rev. Reuben retired to his study accompanied by his wife, and Rufus and Mr. Brook were left in possession of the sitting-room.
As there was no evening service on Christmas Day the young minister felt free to relax himself. Conversation tripped lightly from point to point, from general to particular, from gay to grave, from serious to solemn.
They talked till supper time, and after supper Rufus walked with the young minister to his lodgings, andremained with him till long after midnight. The conversation was a revelation to Rufus in many ways. Marshall Brook was a scholar as well as a thinker. He was as familiar with the German writers as with the English. He was alive to all modern questions, conversant with all the work of the higher critics, alive to all that was fundamental in the creeds of the Churches, contemptuous of the narrowness and bigotry that brought religion into contempt, tolerant of all fresh light, patient and even sympathetic with every form of human doubt, and large-hearted and clear-eyed enough to see that there was good in everything.
Marshall Brook had often heard of his predecessor's sceptical grandson, and was glad of the opportunity of meeting him, and was charmed with him when they did meet. It was easy to discover where the shoe pinched, easy to see how and when the revolt began, easy to trace the successive steps from doubt to denial, from unbelief to blank negation.
Rufus talked freely and well. He knew that the young minister regarded him as an infidel, and he thought he might as well live up to the description. Marshall Brook led him on by easy and almost imperceptible steps. His first business was to diagnose the case, and if possible to find out the cause. For the first hour he allowed all Rufus's arguments to go by default.
But when they got to close grips Rufus felt helpless. This young scholar could state his case better than he could state it himself. He had traversed all the barren and thorny waste, and much more carefully than Rufus had ever done. He knew the whole case by heart; knew every argument and every objection. He tore the flimsy fabric of Rufus's philosophy to shreds and left him with scarcely a rag to cover himself with.
Rufus remained three days at Tregannon and spent the major portion of the time with Marshall Brook. Apart from the interest raised by the questions discussed, it was a delight to be brought into contact with a mind so fresh and well disciplined. They hammered out theprosandconsof materialistic philosophy with infinite zest. They wrestled with the joy of striplings at a village fair. They fought for supremacy with all their might, but in every encounter Rufus went under.
When he returned to St. Gaved he was in a condition of mental chaos. Nearly every prop on which he supported himself had been knocked away. He was certain of nothing, not even of his own existence.
It was not an uncommon experience; most thinking men have passed through it at one time or another. Destruction has often to precede construction. The old has to be demolished even to the foundations before the new building can arise.
Yet none save those who have passed through it can conceive the utter desolation and darkness of soul, during what may be called the interregnum. The old has been destroyed, the new has not yet taken shape. The ark has been sunk and the mountain peaks have not yet begun to appear above the flood. The frightened soul flits hither and thither across the waste of waters, seeking some place on which to rest its feet, and finding none; and unlike Noah's dove there is no ark to which it can return. It must remain poised on wing till the floods have assuaged and the foundations of things have been discovered.
In the last resort every man writes his own creed. No man, even mentally, can remain in a state of suspended animation for very long. A philosophy of negations is as abhorrent to the sensitive soul as a vacuum is to Nature. After destruction there is bound tobe construction. Like beavers we are ever building, and when one dam has been swept away by the flood, we straightway set to work to build another.
Rufus was trying to evolve some kind of cosmos out of chaos when he met Madeline on the downs. She came upon him suddenly and unexpectedly and his heart leaped like a startled hare. How beautiful she was. How lissom and graceful and strong.
"This is an unexpected pleasure," she said, in her bright, frank, ingenuous way. "I am glad we have met."
"Yes?" he replied, not knowing what else to say.
"I have heard something about you recently and I would like to know if it is true."
"What have you heard?" he questioned, with a puzzled look on his face.
"That you are an infidel."
"Who told you that?"
"That is a matter of no consequence since it is common gossip."
For a moment he was silent, and turned his eyes seaward as if to watch the sun go down. "Are you pressed for time?" he asked without turning his eyes.
"No, I am quite free for the next hour," she answered, with a smile, though she wondered what the Tregonys would think if they knew.
"I owe a good deal to you," he began, slowly and thoughtfully.
"No, not to me, surely. I am the debtor," she interrupted.
"Yes, to you," he went on in the same slow, even way. "And if you care to know—that is, if you are interested—why then it will be a pleasure to talk to you—as it always has been——"
Then he paused and again turned his eyes toward the sea. She glanced at him shyly but did not reply.
"It is easy to call people names," he said, at length, without looking at her. "I do not complain, however. I have believed the things I could not help believing. Can we any of us do more than that?"
"I do not quite understand?" she answered, looking at him with a puzzled expression.
"I mean that the things we believe, or do not believe, are matters over which we have no absolute control. You believe what you believe because you cannot help it. You have not been coerced into believing it. The evidence is all-sufficient for you though it might not be for me. On the same ground I believe what I believe—because—because I cannot help myself. Do you follow me? Faith after all is belief upon evidence, and if the evidence is insufficient——"
"But what if people reject the evidence without weighing it, stubbornly turn their backs upon the light?" she interrupted.
"Then they are not honest," he said, quickly; "but I hope you do not accuse me of dishonesty?"
"I accuse you of nothing," she answered. "I have only told you what people are saying."
"And you are sorry?" and he turned, and looked her frankly in the face.
"I am very sorry," she replied, with a faint suspicion of colour on her cheeks.
"It is generous of you to be interested in me at all," he said, after a pause. "And if I were to tell you how much I value that interest you might not believe me."
She darted a startled glance at him, but she did not catch his eyes for he was looking seaward again, and for a moment or two there was silence.
"I should like to tell you everything about myself," he went on, at length, "my early troubles and battles, my boyish revolt against cruel and illogical creeds,my almost unaided pursuit of knowledge, my steady drift into blank negation; but I should bore you——"
"No, no!" she said, quickly. "I should like to hear all the story. I should, indeed. Really and truly."
They walked away northward, while the light went down in the West. The twilight deepened rapidly, and the frosty stars began to glimmer in the sky. But neither seemed to heed the gathering darkness nor the rapid flight of time.
Rufus talked without reserve; it is easy to talk when those who listen are sympathetic. He told the story of his father's death abroad, of his mother's grief, of his own bitter sense of loss. He sketched his grandfather—upright and severe—preaching a creed that was more fearsome than any nightmare. He spoke of their slender means and their fruitless efforts to get any of the property his father left. Of his granny's wish that he should be a draper, of his own ambition to be an engineer, and the compromise which landed him in Redbourne as a bank clerk. And through all the story there ran the deeper current of his mental struggles till at last he fancied he found theultima Thulein pure materialism.
Madeline listened quite absorbed. It was the most interesting human document that had ever been unfolded to her, and all the more interesting because it was told with such artlessness and sincerity. Yet it was not a very heroic story as he told it. Rufus was no hero in his own eyes, and he was too honest to pretend to be what he was not. Perhaps, in his hatred of pretence he made himself out a less admirable character than he was in reality.
Madeline sighed faintly more than once. There were manifest weaknesses where there should have been strength. He had drifted here and there where heshould have resisted, and taken for granted what he should have tried and tested.
"And you still remain on the barren rocks of yourultima Thule?" she questioned, at length.
He did not answer for several moments. Then he said quietly, "You will think me sadly lacking in mental balance, no doubt; but at present, I fear, I must say I am at sea again."
"Yes?"
"You compelled me to face the old problems once more, to re-examine the evidence."
"I compelled you?"
"Unwittingly, no doubt. You remember our talks when I washors de combat. The fragments of poetry you read to me, the books you lent?"
"Well?"
"I found myself fighting the old battles over again. Before I was aware, I was in the thick of the strife."
"And you are fighting still?"
"Yes, I am fighting still."
"With your face toward yourultima Thule?"
"I cannot say that."
"What is your desire, then?"
"To find the truth. Perhaps I shall never succeed, but I shall try."
"You should come to church, which is the repository of truth, our vicar says."
He smiled a little wistfully, and shook his head. "At present I am making a fresh study of what Jesus said—or what He is reported to have said."
"Then that is all the greater reason why you should come to church."
He smiled again, and shook his head once more. "I do not think so," he answered.
"You do not?"
"No, the contrast is too sharp and startling."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I hardly like to discuss the matter at present," he said, diffidently; "I do not know sufficiently well where I am. Only I am conscious of this, that while Jesus wins my assent, the Church does the opposite."
"That is because of your upbringing."
"I do not think so. I have stood apart from all creeds and from all sects. At present I am a humble searcher after truth. I want some great principle to guide me. Some philosophy of life that shall appeal to the best that is in me."
"Well?"
"I turn to the Church, and I find a great bishop addressing such questions as these to his clergy: 'What ecclesiastical dress do you wear when celebrating the Holy Communion? Do you ever use any ceremony such as the Lavabo, or swinging of the incense immediately before or after the service? Do you have cards on the holy table? If so what do they contain? Do you ever read the first of the three longer exhortations? Do you ever have celebrations without communicants?' with a dozen other questions—to me—equally trivial and unimportant."
"To the bishop such questions would not be trivial at all, but vastly important."
He smiled a little sadly. "Isn't that the pity of it," he said, "that trifles are treated as though they were matters of life and death? I notice that a neighbouring vicar has even closed the church because women go into it with their heads uncovered."
"I admit that that seems straining at a gnat."
"But he does not think so. He is evidently righteously indignant, complains of the house of God being desecrated, because people go into it without somepiece of millinery on their heads. One wonders whether it is a woman's hair or her head that is the offence."
“THEN SUDDENLY FROM OUT THE SHADOW GERVASE APPEARED AND STOOD BEFORE THEM.”
"I think it is rather insulting to women, of course," she answered, with a laugh. "But he is only one, and nobody need mind very much."
"But how do these things help me? Think of the men who are wrestling with the great problems of life, who are fighting temptation and bad habits, who are groping in the darkness, and crying for the light, and the Church meets them with petty discussions about Lavabos and stoles and chasubles and incense, and hats off or on in church?"
"But are they not parts of religion?"
"I do not know. If they are, it is not to be surprised at that religion gets water-logged."
"But such things may be helpful to some people."
"In which way?"
"Oh, I don't know! But some day you will see things differently, perhaps."
"Perhaps so. I see some things differently already."
"Then you are not an infidel?"
"You can call me by any name you like. I do not mind so long as you understand me, and I have your sympathy."
"My sympathy, I fear, can be of no help to you."
"It will help me more than you can understand."
"I am so glad we have had this long talk together," she said, brightly. "I shall know what to think now when I hear people calling you names. But here we are close to the lodge gates."
She held out her hand to him, and the light from the lodge window fell full upon them. He took her hand in his, and held it for a moment.
Then suddenly from out the shadow of the lodge Gervase appeared, and stood stock still before them.
"Where have you been, Madeline?" Gervase said, quietly. "We have all grown so concerned about you." His voice was quite steady, though there was an unpleasant light in his eyes.
"I have been for a walk, that is all," she answered, in a tone of unconcern.
"I wish you had let some one know," he said, in the same quiet tone. "It is hardly safe for you to be out after dark."
"Why not?" she answered. "I know my way about, and there is no one in St. Gaved who would molest me."
"You think so, perhaps," and he shot an angry glance at Rufus, who stood quite still, speaking no word.
"Of course I think so. Besides, I have not been alone."
"So I perceive. But had we not better return to the house and put an end to my mother's anxiety?"
"I am sure Lady Tregony is not the least bit anxious," she said, with a pout.
"I can assure you she is very much concerned. That is the reason I came to look for you."
"Oh, indeed!" and with a hurried good-night to Rufus she walked away toward the Hall.
Gervase was by her side in a moment. Rufus watched them till they had disappeared in the darkness, then turned, and made his way slowly in the direction of St. Gaved.
He could not help feeling amused at the encounter he had witnessed, though he was almost sorry that Gervase had seen them together. It was clear enough that the Captain was terribly angry, though he did his best not to show it. Possibly he was more than angry. Natures like his were apt to be jealous on the slightest provocation.
Rufus smiled broadly at the thought. The idea of a baronet's son being jealous of him was too comic for words. Yet such things had happened. Jealousy was often unreasonable. And if the Captain were really jealous it boded ill for Madeline's future happiness.
"I should be sorry to cause unpleasantness," he said, knitting his brows. "If they have to live together, I should like her to be happy. I wonder if she has promised to be his wife?"
Meanwhile, Gervase and Madeline were walking up the long drive in silence. Madeline was in no humour for speech. Gervase was bubbling over, and yet was afraid to trust himself to open a conversation. The case seemed to him almost desperate, and yet he knew it was to be met not by scolding, but by diplomacy.
The thing that he feared more than anything had happened before his very eyes. And yet he was not disposed to blame Madeline very much, the blame belonged to Rufus Sterne—a handsome, intriguing rascal, who had used the girl's sense of gratitude for all it was worth.
"I should like to twist the scoundrel's neck," he said to himself, with an ugly look upon his face. "I wonder what he expects to gain? Of course, he willnever dare to make love to her. It might be a good thing if he did——"
Then his thoughts took another turn. Madeline was an American, and under the Stars and Stripes social considerations counted for very little. Possibly she thought that Rufus Sterne was just as good as he, and if she did, heaven only knew what would happen.
"I was a fool not to make love to her at the first," he thought, with a scowl. "She thought no end of me then, and I could have married her right off. I'm sure I could, but father insisted that waiting was the game. Father was a fool, and I was a fool to listen to him."
The lights from the Hall windows began to glimmer through the trees, and he had spoken no word to her since they passed through the lodge gates. He had looked at her once or twice, but she kept her eyes straight in front of her. Did she expect he would scold her, he wondered? Had she begun to realise that her conduct was deserving of censure, or was she only annoyed that she had been seen?
The silence was becoming embarrassing. He wished she would speak, and give him the opportunity of reply. To walk side by side like mutes at a funeral promised ill for the future.
"Are you tired, Madeline?" He was bound to say something, and one question would serve as well as another.
"Not in the least," and she quickened her steps to give point to her statement.
"Oh! please don't walk so fast," he said, in a tone of entreaty. "One can't talk when walking so fast."
"I don't want to talk."
"Why not, Madeline? You are not angry with me, surely?"
"Of course not. Why should I be?"
"I might be angry with you, but I'm not. I never could be angry with you, Madeline. You have no idea how much I think of you, and how much I appreciate you."
"Why might you be angry with me?" she asked, sharply, without turning her head.
The question almost staggered him for a moment. Yet as he had brought it upon himself he was bound to answer it.
"Well, you see," he said, desperately, "no man cares to see the woman he loves, and whom he expects to marry, walking out with another man, especially after dark."
"Oh, indeed!"
"But don't think I am angry with you, Madeline," he interposed, quickly. "I could trust you anywhere."
"Then why did you come spying on me?" and she turned her eyes suddenly upon him.
"No, not spying on you, Madeline," he said, humbly; "that is not the right word to use. But I knew that fellow might be loitering about. He is always hanging about somewhere."
"Everybody hangs about somewhere—to quote your elegant phrase," she said, sharply.
"Yes, yes. But anybody can see what that fellow is after. He did you a service, there is no denying it, and now he is presuming on your good nature."
"In which way?"
"Well, in getting you to notice him and speak to him."
"Surely I can speak to anyone I choose?"
"Of course you can. But he is not the kind of man you would choose to speak to, but for the unfortunate accident."
"Why not?"
"Well, Madeline, there should be some sense of fitness in everything. Here is a man without religion, who never goes to church or chapel, who has no sense of accountability or responsibility, who doesn't believe even in the Ten Commandments——"
"Yes, go on," she interjected, suddenly.
"Who at the present time," he continued, slowly, "is actually living by imposing on the credulity and good nature of other people."
"How so?"
"How so? He is spending money right and left, I am told, on some pretended invention, or discovery of his, which is to revolutionise one of the staple industries of the county. Of course, the whole thing is a fake. You may be quite sure of that. But whose money is he spending? He has none of his own. With his glib tongue I have no doubt he has imposed on a lot of people to lend him their savings. Honourable conduct, isn't it? Perhaps he is trying to interest you in his invention?"
"No, he is not."
"Not got sufficiently far yet. Oh, well, it will do you no harm to be warned in time."
"You take a charitable view of your neighbours, Gervase."
"My dear Madeline, charity is all right in its place. But in this world we must be guided by common-sense."
They had reached the house, and were standing facing each other to continue the conversation.
"Well?" she interrogated.
"You may lay it down as a general principle that a man who is an infidel is not to be trusted."
"For what reason?"
"Because he has no moral standard to hold him in check. You believe in the Bible and in the Commandments and in the teachings of the Church, and you live in obedience to what you believe. But he believes none of these things. He is bound by no commandment except as a matter of policy."
"May not a man have a moral instinct which he follows? Are all the unbelievers, all the doubters, all the sceptics, all the infidels—or whatever name you like to call them—are they all bad men?"
"I do not say that, Madeline. Besides, policy often holds them in check."
"And what holds you in check, Gervase? Is it your passionate attachment to the right, or the fear of being found out?"
"I don't think that is quite a fair question," he said, uneasily. "I don't pretend to be a saint, though I do try to live like a Christian gentleman."
"And you think Mr. Sterne does not?"
"I have no wish to say all I think, or even to hint at what I know. A word to the wise is sufficient. I am sure you will be on your guard in the future."
"But you do hint at a great deal, Gervase, whether you know or not."
"It is because I love you, Madeline, and would shield you from every harm."
She looked at him for a moment, as if about to reply, then turned and walked up the steps into the house.
Gervase stood still for a moment or two, then turned slowly on his heel, and began to retrace his steps the way he had come.
He chuckled audibly when he had got a few paces away. He felt that he had done a good stroke of business. He had sown tares enough to spoil any crop. If he had not proved to Madeline that RufusSterne was a man without moral scruples, he had succeeded in filling her mind with doubts on the subject.
If that failed to answer the end he had in view he would have to go a step further. He had no wish to resort to extreme measures, for the simple reason that he did not like to run risks, but if Madeline was still unconvinced that Rufus Sterne was a man not to be trusted, some direct evidence would have to be manufactured and produced.
It was clear to him that this man who had saved her life was the one stumbling-stone in his path. But for him she would have raised no objection to their engagement. Everything had gone in his favour until that adventure on the cliffs; everything would go right now if he were out of the way.
The best way to get him out of the way would be to blacken his character. Madeline was a girl with high moral ideals. An immoral man she would turn away from with loathing. Gervase shrugged his shoulders significantly. He had already by implication thrown considerable doubt on his character; if that failed, further and more extreme measures would have to be considered.
When he reached the lodge gates he turned back again. He walked with a quicker and more buoyant step. He felt satisfied with himself. He had more skill in argument than he knew. He believed he had spiked Rufus Sterne's guns once and for all.
Madeline was very silent over the dinner-table, and during the rest of the evening. Evidently the poison was working. Gervase left her in peace. It would be bad policy to pay her too much attention just now. The poison should be left to do its utmost.
Nearly a week passed, and nothing happened. Madeline remained silent, and more or less apathetic.She manifested no inclination to go for long walks alone, and kept herself for the most part in her own room.
This from one point of view was so much to the good. It seemed to indicate that she had no desire to meet Rufus Sterne. On the other hand, it was not without an element of discouragement. She was no more cordial with Gervase. Indeed, she kept him at arm's length more persistently than ever. Gervase became almost desperate. His financial position was causing him increased anxiety, while his father began to upbraid him for not making better use of his opportunities. To crown his anxiety Beryl told him one day that Madeline was not at all pleased with him for trying to insinuate that Rufus Sterne was a man of bad character.
Gervase swore a big oath and stalked out of the house. He was angrier than he had been since his return from India. He was ready to quarrel with his best friend. As for Rufus Sterne, he was itching to be at his throat. It would be a relief to him to strangle him.
As fate would have it he had not got five hundred yards beyond the lodge gates before he came face to face with the man whom he believed was the cause of all his trouble and disappointment.
Rufus was returning from Redbourne, tired and despondent. Things were not going well with his invention, and the dread possibility which at first he refused to entertain was looming ever more largely on the horizon.
The sun had set nearly an hour previously, but the white carpet of snow and the myriads of glittering stars made every object distinctly visible.
The two men recognised each other in a moment. Rufus would have passed on without a word. Hewanted to be alone with his own thoughts. But Gervase was in a very different humour. Moreover, the sight of Rufus Sterne was like fuel to the fire, it seemed to throw him into a rage of uncontrollable passion.
"Hello, scoundrel," he said, "loitering round Trewinion as usual," and he squared his shoulders and looked Rufus straight in the eyes.
Rufus stopped short, and stared at the Captain in angry surprise. "What do you mean?" he said, scornfully and defiantly.
"I mean that you are a contemptible cad," was the answer.
Rufus laughed, mockingly.
"Don't laugh at me," Gervase roared. "I won't have it. Because you rendered Miss Grover a service you think you have a right to hang about this place at all hours of the day, so that you may intercept her when she goes out for a walk, and poison her mind against her best friends."
"It is a lie," Rufus said, fiercely. "I have neither intercepted her nor poisoned her mind."
"Will you call me a liar?" Gervase almost shrieked.
"Of course I will call you a liar when you make statements that are false."
"Then take——"
But the blow failed to reach its mark. Rufus sprang aside, his face white with anger, and almost before he knew what he had done, his heavy fist had loosened one of the Captain's teeth and considerably altered the shape of his nose.
With a wild yell of rage the Captain struck out again, but he was so blind with rage that he could hardly see what he did. Moreover, this was a kind of combat he was not used to. With sword or rapier he could havemade a very good show, but with his bare fists, in the light of the stars, he was at very considerable disadvantage. His second blow was as wild as the first, and when a blow between his eyes laid him prone on the ground, he began to yell for help at the top of his voice.
Micah Martin, the gardener, who lived at the lodge, was on the scene in a very few moments.
"Take the drunken brute away," Gervase screamed, "or he'll murder me."
Rufus looked at his antagonist for a moment in silence, then staggered away, feeling limp and nerveless. The encounter had been so sudden and so sharp that he hardly realised yet what had happened. Reaching a neighbouring gate, he leaned on it and breathed hard.
A few yards away he heard Gervase muttering and swearing, while Martin tried to encourage him with sympathetic words. He saw them walk through the lodge gates a little later and disappear in the darkness.
Then Rufus pulled himself together and tried to realise what had taken place. His right knuckles were still smarting from their contact with the Captain's bony face, otherwise he had suffered no harm. The aggressor had clearly got the worst of it.
Yet he felt no sense of elation. At best it was but a vulgar brawl, which any right-minded man ought to be ashamed of. It was true the Captain had struck the first blow, but he had returned it with more than compound interest. He wondered what the people of St. Gaved would say when they got to know. He wondered what Madeline Grover would say.
He felt so excited, that, tired as he was, he took a long walk across the downs before returning to his lodgings. Mrs. Tuke, as usual, had laid his supper on the table, but she did not show her face.
He was too much distressed in mind to eat. The events of the day, followed by the encounter with Gervase Tregony had taken away all his appetite.
For a long time he sat in his easy chair staring into the fire.
"I don't know why I should distress myself," he said to himself once or twice. "What if everything fails? There is an easy way out of all trouble. And I am not sure that Felix Muller, with all his pretence of friendship, will be sorry."
He went to bed at length, but he did not sleep for several hours. The events of the day kept recurring like the refrain of a familiar song.
He went about his work next day like a man who had almost abandoned hope. The buoyancy which he experienced at the beginning had nearly all gone. The promise of success was growing very faint and dim.
As the day wore on he troubled himself less and less about Gervase Tregony. He thought it likely that for his own credit's sake he would say nothing about the encounter. Hence his surprise was great when toward evening a policeman called on him with a summons for assault.
Rufus was brought before the magistrates, and remanded for a week. Gervase in the meanwhile made the most of his opportunity. Fate, or Providence, it seemed to him, had delivered his enemy into his hand, and he conceived it to be his duty now to assist Providence, to the best of his ability.
Rufus treated the matter very lightly. He was out on bail, and he had little doubt that when he was allowed to tell his story before the magistrates he would be acquitted at once. Indeed, no other result seemed possible. He had only defended himself, and that a man should be punished for protecting his own head was almost unthinkable.
He did not consider, however, that nearly all the magistrates belonged to the class of which Gervase was a member. That almost unconsciously they would be predisposed in his favour. That they regarded it almost as a religious duty to uphold the rights and privileges of their class, and that any insult offered to one of their own order meant a distinct weakening of that iron hand which had ruled the country for centuries, unless such insult was promptly met and punished.
The magistrates were all of them honourable men. They belonged to the best county families. They had feasted at Sir Charles's table more than once, and ridden to hounds with his son. They had unbounded faith in the wisdom of the ruling classes, and an inborncontempt for what is vaguely termed the rights of the people. Political unrest was a dangerous symptom, and insubordination a crime.
The toast they drank with the greatest gusto at their public functions was "His Majesty's Forces" and "The Navy." The Church they did not recognise as a defensive power, and though they repeated nearly every Sunday, "Because there is none other that fighteth for us, but only Thou, O God," they did not, in reality, believe it. The Gospel was all right for the social and domestic side of life, but when it came to larger affairs an army or a warship was much more to the purpose.
Rufus was not beloved by any of these dispensers of the law. He was reputed to hold Socialistic views; he was not over-burdened with reverence for the "upper classes," and, worse still, was not content with the lowly condition in which he was born.
On the day of the trial Rufus discovered that he had made a mistake in treating the matter so lightly. The prosecution had succeeded in working up a case. He was amazed when he discovered that he was charged, not only with assault but with drunkenness, and that the charge of drunkenness was sworn to by at least two witnesses. The terms of the indictment, by some oversight, had been furnished him too late for him to supply rebutting evidence. He had only his simple word of denial, and that stood him in no stead.
Gervase swore that the accused struck him without warning and without provocation; that, in fact, he was given no time to defend himself, that almost before he knew what had happened he was lying on the ground bruised and bleeding. The accused, who was clearly mad with drink, sprang upon him out of the darkness, and felled him with a single blow, and butfor the interposition of his gardener, Micah Martin, he had little doubt would have killed him.
Micah corroborated his young master's evidence. He heard a cry for help, and running out saw the Captain on his back with the prisoner's knee on his chest. He was not absolutely certain as to the latter point, but that was his impression. Seeing him the prisoner staggered away, and leaned against a gate. He seemed to be just mad drunk, and in his judgment did not quite know what he was doing.
The next witness was Timothy Polgarrow, barman at the "Three Anchors." He swore that he supplied the prisoner with two whiskies on the evening in question; that he appeared to be excited when he came into the public-house bar, but quite sober. After the second whisky, however, he showed signs of intoxication so that a third whisky which he demanded was refused. It was quite early in the evening when he called, not much after dark. He was able to walk fairly straight when he left the "Three Anchors," but appeared to be terribly angry that he was refused any more drink.
Timothy gave his evidence glibly, and with great precision, and stuck to what he called his facts with limpet-like tenacity.
Rufus startled the court, and horrified the magistrates by asking Tim how much the Captain had paid him for committing perjury.
Rufus denied that he had ever crossed the threshold of the "Three Anchors." He had passed it on the evening in question on his way home from Redbourne, but he did not even slacken his pace, much less call.
Tim, however, stuck to his story, and was quite certain that he was not mistaken in his man.
As to the assault there could be no doubt. The Captain's face bore evidence of the severity of the attack.Rufus did not deny striking him and knocking him down, but persisted that Gervase was the aggressor.
"But why should he attack you?" the chairman asked.
"He accused me of something which I very much resented."
"What did he accuse you of?"
"I decline to say."
"Why do you decline?"
"Because it would introduce a name that I would not on any account have mixed up in this sordid affair."
"Oh! indeed." And the Bench smiled in an ultra superior way.
"Well, when he accused you of something you very much resented what did you do?"
"I called him a liar."
"Yes?"
"This angered him, and he struck at me."
"And what then?"
"I dodged the blow, and struck back."
"He didn't dodge the blow, I suppose?"
"It appears not by his appearance."
There was laughter in court at this reply, which was instantly suppressed.
"And what followed then?"
"What usually follows in such a case. Each tried to get at the other. I suppose my arm was the stronger or the longer. At any rate, when he found himself on his back he began to bellow for help."
"So that you wish us to believe that in a stand-up fight between a soldier and a civilian the soldier got the worst of it?"
"It looks as if he got the worst of it, at any rate."
"Does it not occur to you that your story does not hang well together? Is it likely that a soldier—or anex-soldier, a man trained to the use of arms—would allow himself to be felled to the ground unless he were taken unawares?"
"Whether it is likely or not I have only stated the simple facts. Why should I attack him unawares, or attack him at all? His existence is a matter of supreme indifference to me. I should not have noticed him had he not charged me with conduct which I repudiate."
"But you refuse to say what it is he charged you with?"
"I do, and for the reasons I have already stated."
At this point the Captain's solicitor took up the running, and insisted that the case had been proved up to the very hilt. Timothy Polgarrow, a man of unimpeachable character, had sworn upon oath that he had served the accused with whiskies on the evening in question. Generally speaking, it was, no doubt, true, that the accused was a very temperate man. Hence, when he took drink at all, he the more quickly got out of bounds. An inveterate toper would have taken half-a-dozen whiskies, and carried a perfectly steady head. The accused was excited when he entered the "Three Anchors." Perhaps he had business worries. It was hinted that his schemes were hanging fire. Perhaps he had imbibed freely before he left Redbourne. People drank sometimes to drown their care. But the one clear fact was that he left the "Three Anchors" considerably the worse for liquor. Liquor makes some people hilarious, others it makes quarrelsome. The accused evidently belongs to the latter class. He was ready to fight anybody. As it happened, Captain Tregony, as he would still call him, though he had resigned his commission, was the first man he met. The Captain was taking a constitutional before dinner. It was a clear, frosty evening with plenty of starlight.The Captain was walking slowly with no thought of evil, when suddenly, out of the night, loomed the accused. The sequel you know. He fell upon the Captain unawares and struck him to the ground, and the chances are, in his drunken fury, would have murdered him, but for the timely assistance of Micah Martin.
The case was as simple and straightforward as any bench of magistrates could desire. The facts were borne out by independent testimony. There could be no shadow of doubt as to the drunkenness or the assault. The only matter to be considered was the measure of punishment to be meted out. They all agreed that drunkenness was no excuse for violence, while the offence was aggravated by a man in Rufus Sterne's position attacking a man of the rank of Captain Tregony.
One or two of the magistrates were for committing him to gaol without the option of a fine. It was a serious matter for a civilian to attack even an ex-soldier. It was a species oflèse majestéthat ought not to be tolerated for a moment.
Unfortunately for these extremists a similar case had been tried a fortnight previously, and the accused—a man of considerable means—had got off with a fine of ten shillings and costs.
"And," argued the chairman, "we cannot with this case fresh in people's minds give colour to the fiction that there is one law for the rich and another for the poor."
So in order to prove their absolute impartiality, and to mark at the same time their sense of what was due to an ex-officer of His Majesty's forces they inflicted a fine of five pounds and costs, or a month's imprisonment.
Rufus was disposed at first not to pay the money. He was so angry that he almost felt that the seclusion of a prison cell would be a relief. But better thoughtsprevailed. He was absolutely helpless. It was no use kicking or protesting. He could only grin, and abide, and hope that the day would come when justice would find her own.
It was a humiliating day for him. He left the court branded as a drunkard and a brawler. The case for the prosecution had been so clear and circumstantial that even his best friends were confounded. That he should deny the accusation was natural enough; but there was an unspoken fear in their hearts that worry had driven him to drink, and that alcohol acting upon a highly-strung temperament had thrown him momentarily off his mental and moral balance.
Madeline Grover was almost dumbfounded. Unconsciously she had been idealising Rufus for months past, while their last conversation had further exalted him in her estimation. Here was a man, honest in his doubts, sincere in his beliefs, and faithful to all his ideals. A man who "would not make his judgment blind," and who refused to play the hypocrite whatever the world might say in disparagement of him.
Among all her acquaintances there was no man who had struck her fancy so much. He stood apart from the common ruck. His very antagonism to the religious conventions of his time had something of nobleness in it. If he derided the Church it was because he believed it had departed from the spirit and teachings of its founder. His reverence for what was good and helpful had won her admiration.
And now suddenly it had been discovered to her that her idol had not only feet of clay, but was clay altogether, that he was a worse hypocrite than the hypocrites he derided. That behind all his pretence——
She stopped short at that. He had made no pretence. If he had talked about himself it was in disparagement rather than praise. He claimed no virtues beyond what his fellows possessed. He had always been singularly modest in his estimate of his own abilities.
Yet here were the facts in black and white. The unshaken testimony of unimpeachable witnesses, while poor Gervase's face bore unmistakable evidence of the fierceness of the onslaught.
Four days after the trial the local paper came out with a verbatim report. Madeline took a copy to her own room, and spent the whole afternoon in studying itsprosandcons.
The points that fastened themselves upon her memory most tenaciously were first, Rufus's refusal to give the name of someone about whom they quarrelled, and second, his suggestion that Timothy Polgarrow had been bribed by Gervase to give false evidence.
Here was a phase of the question that seemed to grow larger and larger the more she looked at it. She would have to keep her eyes and ears open. Perhaps the last word on the subject had not been said. If Gervase was as honourable as she had always believed, then it was wicked of Rufus Sterne to throw out such a base and shameful insinuation. If, on the other hand, Rufus was as black as he had been painted, why this act of chivalry in the defence of the name of some unknown person?
The subject was full of knots and tangles. She would have to wait until some fresh light was thrown upon it.
As the days passed away she was pleased to note that Gervase showed no sign of triumph over the downfall of Rufus Sterne. He pointed no moral as he might reasonably have done. He did not come to her and say, "There, I told you so." His restraint and reserve were admirable, and she liked him all the better for his silence.
When, at length, she herself alluded to the matter, he spoke with genuine feeling and sympathy.
"I am really sorry for the fellow," he said. "Of course, he brought it upon himself. I could not possibly pass over the assault in silence. But all the same it is a pity that a man of parts should destroy his own reputation."
"It seemed a momentary and unaccountable outburst," she said, reflectively.
He smiled knowingly, and shook his head, but would not venture any further remark on the subject.
Madeline was greatly puzzled. She supposed she had been mistaken. It seemed for once her instincts had led her wrong, her intuitions were at fault. It was a painful discovery to make, and yet there was no other conclusion she could come to. It was impossible to believe that Gervase had deliberately plotted to ruin him, for Gervase, at any rate, was a gentleman.
Yet, somehow, she was never wholly satisfied. In spite of everything her sympathies were still with the accused man. She made no attempt, however, to see him again. She avoided every walk that would lead her across his path. She did her best to put him out of her thoughts and out of her life.
Gervase, meanwhile, played his part with great skill. He no longer pestered her with his attentions, no longer blustered. He felt he was safe now from any rival, and that time was on his side. It was very galling to have to wait so long, his fingers itched to touch her dollars, but he was wise enough to see that he would gain nothing by precipitancy. Madeline was not to be hurried or driven.
As the winter wore slowly away Madeline became more friendly and confidential. She sometimes asked him to take her a walk across the downs. She allowed him alsoto give her lessons in riding, she sought his advice in numberless little matters, in which she feared to trust her own judgment, and all unconsciously led him to think that the game was entirely in his own hands.
Between the Hall and the village there was little or no intercourse. Lady Tregony did most of her shopping in Redbourne. It was only the common and inexpensive things of household use that St. Gaved was deemed worthy to supply. Hence it happened that sometimes for a week on the stretch no local news found its way into the Hall.
Occasionally Madeline wondered whether Rufus Sterne after his sad fall, would give up in despair, and go to the bad altogether, or whether he would pull himself together and fight his battle afresh. She wondered, too, whether the scheme or invention in which he had risked his all would prove to be a success or a failure. She sometimes scanned the columns of the local paper, but his name was never mentioned, and somehow she had not the courage to ask anyone who knew him.
The weather continued so cold and cheerless, and so trying to the Captain after his Indian experiences, that it was suggested by Sir Charles that they should spend a month or two in the South of France.
Madeline caught at the idea with great eagerness, and that settled the matter. Both Sir Charles and Gervase were anxious to get her away from St. Gaved, but were not quite certain how it was to be accomplished. Madeline had grown so sick of London, and so eager to get back again to Trewinion Hall, that they were afraid she would object to going away again so soon.
Gervase glanced at his father knowingly, and his eyes brightened.
That evening father and son discussed affairs in the library.
"I think the way is clear at last," Sir Charles said, with a smile.
"Yes, I think so," Gervase answered, pulling at his briar.
"We'll get away as soon as we can, the sooner the better. Under the sunny skies of the Riviera her thoughts will turn to love and matrimony," and Sir Charles laughed.
"She's grown almost affectionate of late."
"That is good. If she ever cherished any romantic attachment for that scoundrel Sterne it is at an end."
"She never mentions his name."
"And by the time we have been away a week she will have forgotten his existence."
"I hope she will not be caught by some other handsome face."
"Not likely, my boy, if you play your cards well."
"I think, under the circumstances, I have played them remarkably well. Much better than you did when they were in your hands."
"No, no. Everything is going on as well as well can be. I don't think either of us has anything to blame himself with."
"I am not sure I did right in giving up my commission so soon. She was immensely taken, if you remember, with my uniform. She likes smart clothes."
"Oh, she's got over that. She's a woman now, and a wide-awake woman to boot."
"There's no doubt about her being wide-awake. But when shall we start?"
"Why not next Monday?"
"Aye, that will do. The sooner the better," and Gervase went off to his room to dream of matrimony and unlimited cash.