CHAPTER IV.RADIUM.Ruby Stroke threw aside the heavy veil she wore and placed her bag on the table. Rupert heard the clink of coins."Of course, I've got it," she stammered. "Look! Five hundred pounds. I've brought fifty in gold. I thought, perhaps, it would be more useful than—than notes."He staggered to her side and looked at the two little bags of gold she had placed on the table. She showed him a roll of notes. He pushed them aside, and pouring the gold out on the table he commenced to count it. It fascinated him. He could not speak.Presently he began to laugh hysterically. "You are sure there's no mistake?""Count it again."Again he laughed. "I didn't mean that—I mean, it's all right—I can't believe it—that this is ours—all ours." He dropped on to his knees beside her and put his arms around her waist. "Oh, my dear!" he cried, "my dear!"Ruby smiled. She sat staring at the money with hard, dry eyes. "It was rather stupid to bring so much gold perhaps," she said in an unsteady voice. "But I thought you could pay some of your bills with it. And—you are so careless. You might lose notes just as you lost that cheque yesterday."She picked up the crisp bundle of notes on the table. "I'm going to take charge of these, and later on pay them into your bank. So that when you return from Devonshire, you'll find quite a nice little nest-egg.... Now, give me a cup of tea, and then I'll pack for you. You've only got about three hours."It did not take Ruby long to pack. Rupert watched her and gave instructions as to what he would take, but to which, woman like, she paid no attention."I've got lots of old clothes at the farm," Rupert said. "We shall spend all our time fishing and shooting. Gad! I'll take old Despard down our tin-mine. Probably, it's little better than a swimming-bath now!"Rupert was in high spirits. Ruby encouraged him to talk, and smiled as she listened."Is Mr. Despard going down with you?" she asked.Rupert nodded."Then you won't mind if I don't see you off at Paddington?" She glanced at the watch on her wrist. "I've got an appointment at half-past one, so it would be difficult anyway.""You don't like Despard, do you?" Rupert said; "yet he's very fond of you.""Yes, I know he is. I wish he wasn't."But Rupert only pinched her cheek playfully. He did not understand. Ruby wanted to tell him that Despard had made love to her, to put him on his guard, but she was afraid to speak more clearly. She did not want to make him jealous, and she was afraid lest the two men should quarrel. So no more was said. They bade one another good-bye in the little sitting-room where so many happy hours had been spent—and where such great events had happened."I shall not be away more than a week or two," Rupert said as he kissed her. "I suppose you will be in town all the summer?""Probably," she answered evasively. "Anyway, I shall be here when you return. Enjoy yourself and don't worry."She kissed him again and again, clinging tightly to him, unable to tear herself away now that the hour had come."Why, there are tears on your cheek!" Rupert whispered, brushing them away. "You mustn't be sad: our future never looked so rosy. Look here, I shall tell my father I'm engaged to be married. I didn't mean to do so until I'd passed my examination, but it's only fair to you. And we can afford to get married now! You've got those notes safely?"She nodded, and smiled through her tears. "I can pay them into the bank to-morrow."And then, giving him a final embrace, she hurried away. Rupert stood at the front door and watched her out of sight. He wondered why she did not turn round and wave him farewell again as she always had when they parted.A few hours later as he was borne rapidly in the direction of Devonshire with his friend, Robert Despard, he had temporarily forgotten Ruby Strode. When the train on the branch line from Newton Abbott stopped at Moreton he saw his sister waiting for him on the platform. A wave of boyish pride swept over him as he introduced Marjorie to Robert Despard. Two years had changed her considerably. She was a woman now, and beautiful. At the same time he was conscious of the humble dress she wore, the thick cotton stockings, and rather ungainly boots. Conscience pricked him again, and he felt a touch of remorse.The money she should have spent in pretty clothes he had been wasting in London! He felt he wanted to apologise, too, for the old-fashioned dog-cart waiting outside and the sturdy, rough-haired Dartmoor pony harnessed to the shafts. But Despard had no eyes for anything but Marjorie Dale's beauty. He was unable to take his eyes off her, and Rupert noticed the colour rushing to her cheeks as they drove along.Despard had a certain way with women. He treated them with a queer mixture of deference and gallantry. He knew how to pay a compliment with subtlety. For the first time Rupert realised there were two distinct sides to his character. And before the long drive across the moorland was over—still blazing with yellow gorse and bloom—he again wished he had not asked Despard to stay with them.Old John Allen Dale was waiting at the door of the queer, tumble-down, thatched-roofed building which had been the home of the Dales for generations. He took Rupert in his arms and held him closely, then, with an apology, turned to greet Robert Despard. His manner had all the old-world courtesy of the yeoman farmer."By Jove, you live off the map, and no mistake!" Despard cried looking round him.He gazed at the strange, almost forbidding-looking farmhouse, at the great tors surrounding it on all sides. He listened to the river Dart as it sang its wild way to the sea, the only song among those rugged hills."Don't you feel jolly lonely sometimes?" he said to Marjorie.She shook her head. "I haven't time. And I've known nothing better."She took his kit-bag from the dog-cart, and before he could stop her she had carried it upstairs to his room."There is nothing better," John Dale said dreamily. And he linked his arm affectionately through Rupert's. "Well, my boy, you needn't say anything, I see by your face that you've passed your examination. The world is at your feet now to conquer. You're going to do great things, eh?"Rupert gave a quick glance at Despard. But the latter merely winked, then, turning on his heel, entered the farm. Rupert heard him mount the stairs in search of Marjorie.Rupert squared his shoulders and looked his father full in the face. "I'm sorry, guv'nor, but you must have the truth. I've failed again."John Allen Dale winced as if some one had struck him a blow. The strong, determined jaws met tightly, but he said nothing."I'm going up again in November," Rupert continued. "And I know I shall pass. It's not an idle boast, guv'nor. I can, and I will."The old man laid his hands on the young man's shoulders. He spoke bravely and proudly, yet there was a tremor in his voice:"Rupert, lad, I know you've done your best, and I'm not blaming you. It's a severe blow because—well, you'd better know now—the money's come to an end! I've pinched and screwed, gladly; but the savings of the last fifty years have all gone. They were little enough. The farm doesn't raise enough to keep us in food and clothes. I've even had to raise money and mortgage the old place. I couldn't pay your fees for the examination again, much less your board and lodging in London.""I know," Rupert replied gently, though he had not dreamed it was as bad as that. And once again remorse seized him. Once again he wondered what he would have done if it had not been for Ruby Strode.He would have died a coward's death and left his father and sister to suffer shame and dishonour.It was some little time before he could find his voice and tell his father that he need not worry about the money."I don't want you to question me, guv'nor, but I've had a bit of luck and made enough to keep myself for another year or two in London. I can let you have plenty to go on with, too.""Not borrowed money, not made by gambling?" John Dale asked. "But I needn't ask you, Rupert. It was money honestly earned, I know."Rupert dared not confess how he had obtained it. "It came through a friend," he said unsteadily. "I can't tell you more now, father, but I will one day. I only want you to know that you needn't worry. I shan't fail you. I promise."Dale took his son's hand in his great, horny fist and pressed it tightly. "I know that, I know that, my boy."The first thing Rupert did with the money Ruby had given him was to repay Despard the twenty-five pounds he owed him. The second was to hand Marjorie fifteen pounds—ten for housekeeping expenses, and five for herself. She was overwhelmed, and at first refused to take it. To her it seemed like a fortune."You needn't tell the guv'nor," Rupert said, "though he knows I've made a bit. But if he's in want of anything just buy it for him—say it's a present from me. Get yourself a nice frock and some pretty shoes."Rupert felt afraid that the rough fare and humble life at Blackthorn Farm would bore or disgust his friend, but he soon found that he was wrong. Despard settled down to the new mode of life as if he had been thoroughly used to it. He was up soon after daybreak helping Marjorie to milk the cows; watching her scald the cream and make the butter, and he insisted on being taught how to do these things himself. He made himself useful about the farm, too, and quite won John Dale's heart. He proved himself nearly as good a shot at the rabbits as Rupert, though he quite failed to catch the cunning Devonshire trout, and frankly admitted that it bored him to throw a fly."I want to look at this old tin-mine of yours," he announced one day; and he asked Dale for particulars about it, as to how long it had been worked, why it had failed, and the state it was now in."It has failed because there wasn't enough tin to make it worth while working," Dale told him. "We thought we were going to make a fortune out of it, but it turned out the other way."Despard nodded and stroked his black moustache thoughtfully. "I know something about the Cornish mines, and I've got a bit of money in one or two of them. As you know, they restarted working a year or two ago, and they're doing well now. There might still be money in yours, Mr. Dale.""You're welcome to all you can find," the old man laughed.Rupert and Robert Despard spent the whole of one afternoon exploring the mine. The examination was not made without danger and difficulty. To Rupert's surprise very little water had penetrated the main shaft, and Despard pointed out that the river and the surrounding bog-land probably acted as drainage. It was easy to find traces of tin in the tunnel right up to where the working had ceased."It ought to have paid to follow this up," Despard said thoughtfully. "A case of too much capital or too little. Or else the engineer was a duffer.""You don't think it would pay to erect a new plant and start operations again, do you?" Rupert said eagerly.Despard shrugged his shoulders. "The risk would be too great. If it were a gold mine, now, people would fall over one another to put money into it. Or the magic word, radium!"Despard stopped suddenly, and raising the light he carried glanced into Rupert's face. He had been scraping and poking about in the bed of the tunnel while he talked, using a short, pick-like instrument he had commandeered from the farm.He held out a small piece of black substance having something of the colour and consistency of tar. He told Rupert to examine it closely. The latter did so."Well?" Despard cried sharply. There was a trace of nervous excitement in his voice which Rupert had never heard before."Well?" the latter said."Good Lord! no wonder you've been plucked three times!" Despard cried. "Don't you know what this stuff is?"Rupert examined it again. "Rather like pitch-blende.""Yes—something," Despard sneered.A sharp cry escaped Rupert's lips. He bent down and examined the black, sticky substance more carefully."It is pitch-blende!""Extinguish the light," Despard said sharply.Rupert obeyed. A long time they stood in the darkness. Presently Despard commenced to dig and scrape the surface and sides of the tunnel. After a little while he struck a match and re-lit the lantern."That was expecting rather too much," he whispered.They collected the pitch-blende they had found, and putting it into his handkerchief Despard dropped it into his pocket."I'll examine this and test it to-night. But don't say anything about it, not even to your father. Just because we've found pitch-blende it doesn't mean there's radium. But—they have found traces in some of the Cornish mines, you know."Marjorie was waiting for them at the surface of the mine. She gave a shriek as she saw them, for their clothes were torn and discoloured, and they were wet through."Well, how much tin did you find?" she asked jokingly. "Are you going to make our fortunes?"Despard looked at her. "Supposing I were to make a fortune for you, what reward should I get?""Oh, fifty per cent. of the profits," she laughed, lowering her eyes."I shouldn't ask that," he whispered. "I should want something money couldn't buy."When they reached the farmhouse supper was waiting. It was growing dark, and work was over for the day. John Dale had not returned home."We had better wait," Marjorie suggested, "He's never late. Probably he has gone up to Post Bridge Hall to see Sir Reginald Crichton on business."The mention of Reginald Crichton's name reminded Rupert of what his father had told him about having to mortgage the property. Supposing there was anything in their discovery that afternoon the mortgage would have to be paid off before anything else was done. He went up to Despard's room and suggested that while they were waiting for supper they should examine the sample of pitch-blende they had taken from the mine.Despard locked the door and laid the mass of putty-like substance on the table. "To get a proper test we ought to take or send it up to town," he said. "But there's one simple method——"He was interrupted by Marjorie calling to Rupert. "You're wanted at Post Bridge Hall at once," she told him. "Father is there, and they've sent a servant over to ask you to go up."Rupert swore under his breath. "What on earth can the matter be? You don't think anything has happened to—the old man?"Marjorie shook her head. "I don't think so. The message is simply that you're wanted."Rupert put on his hat and hurried down the path which led to the main road. Crossing Post Bridge he turned to the right and soon found himself in the avenue that led to the Hall. It was situated fairly high up under the shadow of the tors and surrounded by trees. Lights shone cheerfully from all the windows. Before he could ring the front-door bell Sir Reginald Crichton stepped out and met him."Sorry to trouble you," he said curtly; "but the matter is rather important. Do you mind coming up to my study?"Rupert followed, wondering what had happened. To his relief he saw his father standing with his back to the fireplace.Sir Reginald shut the door, then sitting down an old oak bureau motioned Rupert to a seat. But the latter remained standing."Perhaps you will explain," said Sir Reginald, looking at John Dale.Rupert looked from one man to the other, and he noticed that his father's face was pale, the features drawn. Before speaking Dale cleared his throat nervously."It's about that cheque I sent you eight days ago. Just before you left London. A cheque for five pounds which Sir Reginald drew and made payable to me. It wasn't crossed, so I endorsed it and sent it to you."Rupert nodded. "Yes, I received it.""And cashed it?" Sir Reginald spoke.Rupert started. "No, I——" Again he looked from one man to the other. He felt suddenly guilty. "As a matter of fact, I'm sorry to say I lost it.""Lost it? You never told me." Dale spoke. "Of course you wrote to the bank?"Rupert bit his lip. "I forgot all about it—in the excitement of packing up and coming home."John Dale was about to speak, but Crichton held up his hand. "Did the loss of five pounds mean so little to you, then?" he asked Rupert.The latter moistened his lips. His sense of guilt increased, though he had only been guilty of gross carelessness. Yet, how could he explain the situation?"I was fearfully rushed and worried at the time," he said, fumbling for words. "As a matter of fact, the morning I received it I went to the races, and I only discovered the loss when I got back. I must have pulled it out of my bag with some letters and papers. I hope—nothing is wrong?"Sir Reginald leant forward and stretched out his hand. "Look at this, sir."Rupert took the slip of paper he held out. It was a cheque. He saw written across the back of it his father's name. He looked at the face of the cheque."Pay John Allen Dale or bearer the sum of five hundred pounds." Then underneath in figures "£500 0s. 0d.""Exactly," Crichton said. Rising to his feet he stood in front of Rupert and looked at him searchingly. "Your father sent you a cheque for five pounds. Since it left your possession the pounds have been changed to five hundred. That sum was paid out by my bankers. Naturally, I want an explanation. Your father sent it to you. You admit having received it, and say you lost it. I'm afraid that explanation doesn't satisfy me.""You don't mean to say you think——"Rupert flared up, then stopped.Five hundred pounds! The significance of the amount suddenly struck him. The amount Ruby Strode had won for him over Ambuscade. Once again he saw himself sitting in his rooms in Westminster facing ruin; he saw himself take his revolver from the drawer and hold it to his breast. Then he felt the arms of the woman he loved round him; he heard her voice telling him it was a coward's way. And when he told her it was the only way, she confessed that she had secretly backed the outsider and won him five hundred pounds.He began to tremble. His body became wet with perspiration. He heard his father's voice raised apprehensively."Rupert, my boy. Speak, for God's sake, speak! Say you know nothing about it."Rupert raised his face and tried to look at his father. He did not see him; he only saw the face of the woman he loved. She had confessed she loved him better than life itself."Speak!" John Dale cried, his voice rising. "Speak!""Speak!" Sir Reginald Crichton echoed. "Confess that you are either guilty—or not guilty."CHAPTER V.THE ACCUSATION.Rupert pulled himself together and looked at Sir Reginald. "I have nothing to say, sir.""Nothing to say!" Clenching his fists Dale strode towards his son as if intending to strike him.With a gesture Sir Reginald stopped the old man and waved him back. "Gently, gently! You must keep calm, Mr. Dale. I am sure, on consideration, your son will see the advisability of making a clean breast of this affair."Old John Dale controlled himself and stood quite still, folding his arms across his chest. Until now he had scarcely taken his eyes off his son's face. He was afraid to look any longer lest instead of the boy he had loved and for whom he had worked and made so many sacrifices—he saw a thief, a criminal.There followed a silence. To each man present it seemed interminably long, but neither father nor son dared break it. They were standing almost opposite one another. The younger man held himself very erect, his head thrown back; he was looking straight at Sir Reginald Crichton, resentment in his eyes. Sir Reginald, seated at his bureau, was obviously embarrassed and ill at ease. Judging from appearances their positions should have been reversed."Come, won't you speak?" the latter said in a more kindly voice. "For your father's sake, Mr. Rupert, and your sister's—as well as for your own.""I have told you I have nothing more to say. I know nothing about it."Sir Reginald raised his eyebrows, and picking up a pencil commenced to tap it thoughtfully on the edge of the bureau.There was another long silence. Twice Dale tried to speak and failed. His great frame was shaken. He took a couple of steps towards his son and laid a hand on his shoulder."I know you didn't do it, my boy," he said in a voice that was no longer under control. "Maybe, you're ashamed of yourself for having lost it; or, more like, you had it stolen, and perhaps you have a feeling you might be able to point out the thief, only you don't like to speak for fear of making a mistake.... Unjust accusation...." His voice faltered. "I know you're innocent, Rupert, thank God, I know that."Rupert turned his head and looked at his father for one moment. For the first time in his life he saw tears in the old man's eyes. He turned his back on him as the blood rushed to his face. It was almost more than he could bear.Of course, he was innocent, and it was impossible to conceive anyone, least of all his father, believing him guilty of such a mean and dastardly trick. A crime worse than theft or robbery.He experienced a revulsion of feeling. He knew if he had spoken out at once and confessed exactly what had happened the morning he had received the cheque, both Sir Reginald and his father would have believed him. But, in spite of the brave words old Dale had just spoken, and in spite of Sir Reginald's patience, Rupert knew that already they mistrusted him. At the back of the heart of one was suspicion amounting perhaps to certainty. At the back of the heart of the other was fear."Do you believe I altered the amount on the cheque?" he asked Sir Reginald."I have asked you what you know about it. Until you give me a direct reply I must naturally suspend judgment. I should certainly find it very hard to believe you guilty of such a crime.""It was I who sent for you," Dale whispered, "directly Sir Reginald told me what had happened and showed me the cheque."Rupert looked from one man to the other. There was fear in his heart, too. A nameless fear. He had only to say outright what he knew about the matter, tell them exactly what had occurred the day he received his father's letter containing the cheque, and they would believe him.They would believe him, but their suspicions would naturally be shifted to another quarter. He would have to confess that he had been in debt, that he had gone to the races, that he had won a large sum of money, exactly five hundred pounds—exactly the amount to which the cheque he had just seen had been altered.Sir Reginald was still drumming with the end of his pencil on the edge of the bureau. "I'm sure you'll answer me a few questions, Mr. Rupert. They'll be brief and to the point, and I hope your answers will be the same."Rupert nodded. "I've already told you I've nothing to say. If you believe me to be innocent why do you want to question me?"Sir Reginald shrugged his shoulders. Drawing forward a sheet of paper he picked up a pen and dipped it in the ink."On what date did you receive this cheque?"Rupert told him. He answered sharply in a high-pitched tone of voice. He felt he was on the defensive, and he resented the feeling."I presume you looked at it?" Rupert nodded. "You saw the amount for which it was drawn? What was the amount?""Five pounds.""What did you do with it?""I can't remember. I think I left it on the table with my father's letter.""What were your movements that morning?""I don't see what these questions have got to do with——"Again he felt his father's hand on his shoulder gripping it tightly. "Answer Sir Reginald, my boy, no matter what he asks you. You can have nothing to hide from him. Tell him frankly everything you did that day, no matter what it was.... We are men, we were young once; we shall understand."Rupert stared across the dimly-lit room. The curtains had not been drawn across the windows, and outside he could see a cluster of fir-trees silhouetted against the sky, a glimpse of the white road bounded on either side by stone walls, and, beyond, the line of moorlands. The twilight had almost gone, and the stars were shining in the sky. He was conscious of a great silence surrounding the house, the silence which always brooded over the hills.Not so many hours ago the roar of London had echoed in his ears, and he had sat in the windows of the lodging-house in Westminster and watched the river of life rushing torrent-like at his feet. Like a swimmer eager to test his strength, he had flung himself into it and been swept away."We are waiting," Sir Reginald Crichton said."I don't know that I did anything in particular," Rupert replied. "I was awaiting the result of my examination. I was out most of the day: it was when I came back that I missed the cheque.""I suppose you had plenty of money to pay the bill at your lodgings and fare down here, or you would have cashed it immediately?" Sir Reginald suggested."In the last letter you wrote me, Rupert, you told me you were rather hard up. That's why I sent you the whole of Sir Reginald's cheque, though I was rather pressed for money myself."Dale spoke under his breath, almost in a whisper. He knew he was not helping his son by what he said, but the truth was dearer to him than anything else. And only by truth could his son be cleared and the mystery surrounding the cheque solved."I had been lucky," Rupert stammered. "I had made a little bit—at racing."Sir Reginald dropped his pen and moved his chair back. "Oh, so you go in for racing! Forgive me for being interfering, but I shouldn't have thought you could have afforded that. You must be aware that some time ago your father was forced to mortgage most of the land surrounding his farm, and that I am the mortgagee?""I told you I had been lucky.""And that's the reason you treated the cheque your father sent you so carelessly—for, you knew in sending it that he and your sister were depriving themselves of many of the necessities of life."Rupert lost his temper. Sir Reginald was making him feel a cur, making suggestions which he had no right to make; poisoning his father's mind against him."If you want to know everything, it was the day the cheque arrived that I made a bit," he blurted out. "I'd got a few pounds in my pocket, money I'd borrowed from my friend Despard. He's staying with us now. If you want corroborative evidence. I went down to the races and backed the winner. I suppose in the excitement of the moment I must have pulled the cheque out of my pocket and lost it on the racecourse."Sir Reginald sighed. It might have been a sigh of satisfaction or of doubt. "Why couldn't you have told us this before? If, as seems very probable, you lost it at the races, it is easy to conceive that some one picked it up, saw his opportunity, and very cleverly altering the figures took it to the bank next morning." He rose to his feet. "Of course, I shall have to go up to London and put it into the hands of the police. I'm afraid I shall need your help. They are sure to want from you the time you travelled to the racecourse and back, the enclosure you patronised, and so forth. I can rely on your giving me all the help in your power, I am sure.""I have told you I know nothing," Rupert cried, turning on his heel. "I can only tell the police the same thing." He picked up his hat. "Have you finished your examination?"Sir Reginald bowed. "I'm sorry if it has been unpleasant. But I could not help myself. And it would hardly have been fair to you or your father if I had made enquiries behind your back."Rupert nodded, and crossing the room unsteadily opened the door. "Are you coming, father?" he asked the old man, without looking at him."You can go on, Rupert, I'll follow presently," Dale replied.Once outside Rupert walked quickly down the drive, past the dark, great clump of fir-trees and along the rough granite-made road until he turned into the main Princetown road and reached Post Bridge. A little way up the hill the lights of the inn twinkled through the darkness. The waters of the East Dart purled beneath him. As they rushed over the rocks the foam glittered in the starshine. A bat swept past his face, its wings humming faintly. He leant his arms on the stone parapet of the bridge and gazed down into the crooning waters.He was innocent, but he knew that up at Post Bridge Hall there was one man who believed him guilty of a despicable crime, and that one man his own father, who, not knowing what to believe, doubted him. His own father, himself the soul of honour, as proud of his good name as was perhaps the greatest man in the land.His father, a man of the soil, whose greatest ambition had been to turn his son into a man of the world, a gentleman, to give him a profession, a start in life, an independence. For that he had made many and great sacrifices, even to the mortgaging of the land he owned and which his forefathers had loved and cultivated. And his only other child being a daughter he had expected her to make many, and perhaps as great, sacrifices also.Was this to be the end? Rupert asked himself. The family name and honour dragged through the mire, their affairs the gossip of the newspapers of the Devon towns and villages, to find himself accused and perhaps forced to defend himself.Of course, he could prove his innocence—he heard himself laugh. For a moment it all seemed so absurd. He felt he had been behaving like a coward and a fool in not frankly confessing that he had gone the way of nearly all young men in London, got into debt, gambled, fallen in love, and saved himself by one of those strange tricks of fortune which happen once and again in a lifetime. He drew himself up and looked at the sky blazing with stars now, the million eyes of the night.He had held his peace because he loved. Because if he spoke he would have to drag the name of the woman he loved into the affair. She would be sent for, questioned, and bullied; the police would examine her. They would find out that she had gone to the races with him and put the sum of exactly five pounds on Ambuscade at a hundred to one, winning the fatal amount for which the cheque had been altered—five hundred pounds.Fortune had smiled on him, but it had kissed the one cheek only to smite the other. Of course, Ruby knew nothing about the missing cheque, and could not help him in any way. It would be contemptible to drag her name into it.Even if it came to a question—his honour or hers. And his honour meant his father's and sister's.Presently he heard footsteps approaching, and he moved farther along the bridge down the side of the hill to the water's edge. Every one for miles around knew him, and it was not the moment he wanted to be recognised or asked futile questions about his life in London—how he had enjoyed himself, or whether he had passed his examination.The people crossed the bridge, walking very slowly. Now and then their voices rose above the sound of the river. He looked over his shoulder; a man and a woman, and as they passed he recognised his sister Marjorie and young Lieutenant James Crichton, Sir Reginald's only son, who was spending his leave at home. They were walking close together, arm in arm, and in Crichton's right hand his sister's left hand was firmly clasped.He saw their faces for a moment in the starlight, and in that moment he knew they were lovers. He waited until they were out of sight, then he hurried back to the farm.Sir Reginald Crichton's son was in love with his sister Marjorie. Here was a fresh complication which at first seemed to add to the tragedy which threatened him. "Jim" and he had been old friends as boys. Crichton was his senior, and when he left Woolwich and was eventually attached to the Royal Flying Corps, they lost sight of one another. Presently, Rupert's discovery suggested a loophole of escape—if matters turned out badly for him. If Jim Crichton and Marjorie were engaged to be married Sir Reginald might be persuaded not to push enquiries concerning the altered cheque too far!There was something not quite pleasant in the thought, and he dismissed it. But before he had reached his home it had returned again. He entered the parlour; the lamp was burning on the table, the peat fire glowed in the grate.Despard sat in the arm-chair before it, his feet stretched on to the mantelshelf, a pipe between his lips. An old-fashioned photograph album was on his knees. Rupert walked to his side and bent over his shoulders."What on earth are you looking at?" he asked with exaggerated carelessness.Despard pointed to an amateur photograph of Marjorie. She was seated on a stool in one of the fields milking a cow."Rather good, isn't it?" Rupert said. "The local parson took it last year."Despard nodded. "It would make a very fine picture. It's the sort of thing which, if properly done, would create a sensation in our Academy." He knocked his pipe out into the grate. "Do you know your sister's a jolly sight too pretty and too intelligent to be shut up in a wild, God-forsaken place like this? It's criminal, old man. When you go back to London, you ought to take her with you; give her a chance of mixing with decent people and seeing life, eh?""She's happy enough here," Rupert said uneasily.Despard smiled and closed the book. "She would be happier in London. See if you really can't take her back with you, Rupert.... Perhaps I'd better confess at once that I've fallen in love with her! It's sudden, I know, and, of course, I shouldn't dream of breathing a word to her yet. But—one good turn deserves another, and if you get a chance put in a word for me, will you?"CHAPTER VI.FORGERY.Before leaving London, Rupert, at Despard's suggestion, had applied for an order to go over the convict prisons at Princetown. It arrived the morning following the interview with Sir Reginald Crichton.Perhaps because he had lived under the shadow of the prisons all his life, the idea of visiting them (as strangers and tourists from the cities often did) never occurred to him. The great granite building standing on the top of the hill above the West Dart, ugly, ominous, a blot on nature, man's menace to mankind, had never interested him or caused him to think for a moment of the unfortunate beings who were incarcerated there. It was just a landmark, almost part of the life of the moorlands. He knew that originally, in the days long past, French prisoners of war had been kept there, the men against whom his ancestors had fought. It was some time after the war was over and peace declared that it had been rebuilt and turned into a penal establishment.Despard wanted to go over it for reasons Rupert could not understand; but he agreed to take him with just the same tolerance with which Despard himself might have shown the Tower of London or Madame Tussaud's to his sister Marjorie.As a matter of fact, now that the order had come and Despard was anxious to make use of it at once, Rupert felt grateful. It served as an excuse to spend the day away from the farm—and the Crichton family. They made him feel, if not exactly guilty, at least ashamed of himself. He had passed a sleepless night, and during the long, silent hours he had examined his conscience and not found it as clean as it had been the last time he slept in that little room overlooking the valley of the Dart.Life in London was complex: by his own actions he had made it more complicated, and by his ignorance of men and women and the ways of the world. It seemed as if he had never had time in the city to examine himself or to consider his actions, scarcely time to think.The only rest for the worker in London is excitement. Down here on the moorlands it was good to be alone—if one had eyes to see, ears to hear, and a soul to understand nature.In London loneliness was a terrible thing: loneliness of streets that had no end, of walls that could not be scaled, of windows through which one might gaze and find no perspective.A lonely man in London was very like a convict in Dartmoor prison. For so many hours of the day he was let out to work; for the remainder he could eat or sleep or gaze at the great walls of his prison and listen to the footsteps of those who passed along the apparently unending corridors—the streets of his city.Rupert had at first found relaxation in seeing London from the top of a penny omnibus, in attending football matches, and occasionally visiting the pits of theatres. And then, as he made friends music halls and card parties became the attraction, with occasionally a race meeting near London, followed, perhaps, by a "burst" at a "night club."And the harder he studied to pass his examination the more insistently did his brain demand rest, and, failing rest, excitement. Without pausing to think he had fed it, pandered to desires sometimes unnatural, always unhealthy, and generally expensive.The meeting with Ruby Strode had come too late. At first she appeared in the guise of another form of excitement. But slowly, as he realised her worth and his own stupidity, and discovered that he loved her, he put on the brake.But debts had accumulated; though he gave up card parties and wine parties he found that friendship with an actress of the Ingenue Theatre was an expensive luxury. Falling in love made him reckless; and when he knew that it really was love, pride prevented him from telling Ruby the position of his affairs. He left her to find out for herself.There was one advantage in this. It had proved the sincerity of her affection. She had not realised the seriousness of the situation until the fatal day when Rupert took her down to the races, and laughingly told her that his future life and happiness depended on the favourite winning the big race of the day.That it meant her future life and happiness, too, perhaps had not occurred to him. Men are inclined to overlook the women's point of view in these matters. He did not think, and not until the race was over and he was back in his lodgings in Westminster did he realise the havoc he had wrought on other lives—his father's, his sister's, and the life of the woman he loved.Then the miracle happened. He burnt his boats behind him and left London with a light heart, quite certain he would never make a fool of himself again.And now Sir Reginald Crichton made him realise that his folly might pursue him for some little time. Rupert had made the mistake of thinking that by repentance he could wipe out the past.The start was made for Princetown shortly after breakfast—for which meal Rupert put in a late appearance. He was afraid to face his father. At the same time a feeling of resentment had grown in his heart, quite unreasonably he knew.He had hurt the old man, as sometimes he affectionately called him. He had disappointed him. Not one word of blame had escaped John Dale's lips. As yet he had not questioned Rupert as to the manner of his life in London or asked the reasons which had made him run into debt. But Rupert knew what he felt. It was written on the wrinkled, care-worn face. He had aged in the past twelve hours.Rupert did his best to dismiss Ruby from his thoughts. If his father discovered that he was engaged to be married there would be further complications, and the barrier which had so suddenly risen between them would grow.And there were other reasons why he did not want to think of her; reasons he would not admit to himself, and yet which continually intruded themselves in his brain.Absurd fears; doubts; unwarrantable suspicions."To look at you, my dear fellow, one would think you were being hauled off to Princetown to do seven years penal servitude. For heaven's sake buck up and say something."Despard spoke; they were swinging along the moorland road at a good pace, just dropping down the hill to the valley through which the little Cherry Brook rushes to join the Dart.Marjorie laughed. She was accompanying them as far as the prison, and while they went over it she was going on into the town to do some marketing. She was wearing a short, workman-like little skirt and high lace boots. She carried her hat in her hand and the wind blew through her hair; the sunshine made it gleam like dull gold."I believe Rupert's bored," she said, "and he's already longing for the excitement and gaiety of London. You must find it awfully dull here, Mr. Despard. You don't look a bit like the type of man who would enjoy roughing it—for that's what I suppose you call living in a farmhouse on Dartmoor.""I'm having the time of my life," Despard replied cheerfully. "I was wondering last night whether I could persuade you to take me as a permanent paying guest.""Like the people who stay at the post office and the inn during the summer months? Do you know," she said, looking at him out of her beautiful grey eyes, "I always feel so sorry for those people; they look unhappy and never seem to have anything to do but to drive about in brakes or motor-cars, or, if the day's wet, wander about holding up an umbrella. If I had to choose between the two, I'd rather be a convict in the prisons than a paying guest."Despard shrugged his shoulders. "Well, one never knows one's luck. What do you say, Rupert?"Rupert started. He had not been listening to the conversation. "I can't imagine what pleasure you think you're going to get in looking at a lot of poor brutes, half of whom will probably never know freedom again: thieves, murderers, robbers, and heaven knows what else. The Zoological Gardens in London are depressing enough, heavens knows; this will be worse.""Not a bit of it," Despard replied. "I believe they're awfully well looked after. Sort of glorified rest-cure. As I said just now, one never knows one's luck. You and I might find ourselves en route to Princetown one day, handcuffed between a couple of warders. I always like to be prepared for eventualities. I believe convicts are allowed to choose the work for which they are best adapted or find themselves suited, so keep your eyes open this morning, Rupert, and pick out the softest job."They paused for a few moments on Cherry Brook bridge, gazed into the pool on the left and watched the trout sporting. The waters sang as they tumbled over the granite rocks and swirled beneath the bracken and heather which overhung the peat banks. In the distance a sheep bell tinkled. Now and again one of the wild Dartmoor ponies neighed. The air was sweet with the faint smell of gorse.Rupert sighed. He almost wished he had never left the moorlands. His father had doubtless sent him to London to make a gentleman of him with the best intentions in the world. But it was a mistake. They were moorland folk. The land belonged to them and they to the land. He was not suited to the city or the ways of the men who dwelt in it.A mirthless laugh escaped his lips, and Marjorie looked at him and laid her hand on his. "What's the matter, Rupert? You're not worried, are you, dear.""Oh, he's in love, that's all," Despard grinned. And he looked at Marjorie. "I suppose you've never been in love, Miss Dale, so you can't sympathise with that blessed but unhappy frame of mind."They watched the course of the Cherry Brook as it wound in and out, to and fro, making a complete circle here, almost a triangle there, finally disappearing behind the ridge of hill. There was a wistful look in Marjorie's eyes."I think I've always been in love—in love with life. I suppose that sounds stupid, or sentimental, to you.""Life will fall in love with you one day, and be revenged."She shook her head. "For a woman life is love, and love is life. For a man I suppose it consists of fighting.... She gives life, he takes it.""Rather a queer point of view," Despard laughed."But life is queer, isn't it?" she answered gravely. "If all one reads is true. The greatest nations are the most densely populated, where all the men bear arms—and the women bear children that the men who are killed may be replaced! It does seem a waste, but I suppose one day we shall find something better to do.""Let's get on," Despard suggested. "You've got a pretty stiff hill to tackle. And I'm a town bird, remember, and can't go the pace you can."He rather wished that Rupert had stayed at home so that he could have had atête-à-têtewith Marjorie.Rupert did not seem inclined to take the hint he had given him the previous evening; possibly he knew his reputation with women too well to trust him.To Despard, Marjorie Dale was unique, and her beauty refreshing after the faded and painted women he knew in London. She was a strange mixture of innocence and fearlessness which appealed to him strongly. The fact that he could not understand her was an added attraction. Not an easy woman to make love to, and he knew she would be a very difficult woman to win.For the moment he only wanted to amuse himself, but to do that with any measure of safety or success he knew he would have to superficially play the game. That was why he had hinted to Rupert that he was falling in love with Marjorie.They reached the prison gates just before mid-day. The town itself lay a little distance beyond, with a couple of hotels and a little railway station, and quite a good sprinkling of shops. The two men agreed to meet Marjorie an hour later, and Despard insisted on lunching at the principal hotel.They watched Marjorie out of sight. Ringing the bell outside the great gates, a porter appeared from his lodge, examined the order, and admitted them.They were kept waiting a little while in the porter's lodge. Eventually a warder appeared and asked them to sign their names in a large book which was kept there for the purpose. They had to fill in their places of residence, their professions, and various other details."I almost feel as if I were signing my own warrant," Despard chuckled. He looked at the warder. "I suppose we shall be let out again?""We shall be only too happy to let you go, sir," the man replied without moving a muscle of his clean-shaven, emotionless face.Despard linked his arm through Rupert's as the chief warder led them across the great stone square and put them in charge of a subordinate."For heaven's sake smile, man, or they'll really think you've done time here. That's exactly what you look like.""I can't see that there's anything to smile at. Other people's misfortunes never amuse me.""Think of your own, then," Despard replied, "that will cheer you up. By the way, have you heard from Ruby since you left town?"Rupert's cheeks flushed. He was saved the necessity of replying, by the warder halting them outside another gate. It was opened with much jangling of keys.Though the sun was shining outside it could not penetrate here. The building was almost entirely of granite, cold and grey. There was no relief for the eye anywhere; just harsh granite underfoot, overhead, and on all sides. Rupert, free man though he was, felt a strange sense of repulsion, a childish desire to beat against those granite walls, to try and break them down, to escape.The whole time he was in the building, anywhere within the surrounding walls of the prison, he felt as if he were a prisoner. Now and then he heard the warder explaining. He found it difficult to pay any attention to him.Despard, on the other hand, was interested in everything, asking innumerable questions, watching convicts at work and inspecting their work. Almost every kind of trade seemed to be carried on within the prison walls. Tailors, saddlers, shoemakers, basket-makers. The men sat or stood in rows, each one a certain distance apart from his fellows; and in the middle and at the end of each row was a warder.Absolute silence reigned, a silence that to an imaginative person like Rupert could be felt, almost seen. It seemed to be part of the stone corridors, the granite walls. And granite appeared to be beaten into the convicts' souls until the expression of it was graven on their faces. Like their walls they were cold, grey, silent. Here and there a few retained traces of humanity; others suggested primeval men of the stone age, though they wore no hair on their faces and their heads had been shaven until nothing but innumerable spikes stood erect from the scalp.Each man bent over his work as if he were absorbed in it. Rupert, watching closely, noticed their eyes roved here and there, moving quickly, sometimes fearfully; like the eyes of an animal ever on the watch. Sometimes their lips moved, too, though not a sound escaped them.They passed into the kitchens—here there was blessed warmth again and the smell of newly-baked bread—through innumerable corridors and passages.They were shown into a cell, A.C. 2061. "Just room enough to die"—as Despard humorously expressed it.The cells in which the majority of prisoners were confined were built in the middle of a square, the floors rising one above the other, all securely railed off, so that one warder on guard above, could command a view of every cell in the square.Rupert felt a sense of relief when they reached the porter's lodge again. They had to wait a moment while a gang of convicts marched in through the courtyard. They were accompanied by warders with loaded carbines. They had been at work out on the moorlands, quarrying and farming and digging peat."Well, I hope you're satisfied," Rupert said, when they found themselves walking along the road towards Princetown. "I felt a beast all the time. I only wonder the poor brutes didn't get up and go for us.""Oh, they're happy enough," Despard said carelessly. "But, I confess it's good to be outside again in the air and the sunshine, and, by gad! it has given me an appetite. I hope the local hotel can provide us with something to eat."They met Marjorie just outside the market-place, and though all she wanted was a little bread and cheese and a glass of milk, Despard insisted on ordering a big luncheon and opening a bottle of champagne."We want something to take the taste of the granite out of our mouths," he laughed.Rupert's spirits rose when they started to walk back to Blackthorn Farm. Marjorie found an opportunity of telling him that she had bought herself some material for a new dress, and made several purchases for her wardrobe out of the money he had given her. Her pride and pleasure in having money to spend made him realise how selfish he had been, and he again made a solemn vow that when he returned to London he would work day and night and not spend a penny more than was necessary.Ruby would help him in that, he knew, and he would no longer have any shame in appearing before her in his true light.He had been afraid that when she knew he was a poor man he would lose her. And but for her he would now be ruined!That evening after supper John Dale drew his son aside. Rupert realised that an interview was inevitable, and though he dreaded it he knew that the moment had come. He expected some kind of a lecture, a warning on the folly of gambling and living beyond his means, and an appeal as to his future conduct. He knew his father would not be angry, probably would not even blame him for what he had done. He almost wished he would. It would be easier than kindness and the pain and disappointment he saw in the old man's eyes whenever he looked at him.To his surprise Dale made no reference to the past. He simply told him that Sir Reginald had received a letter that morning from his bankers, and he outlined the contents.The cheque which Rupert had lost and which had since been altered from five to five hundred pounds, had been brought to the bank by a messenger boy, who was given the amount in gold and notes.On enquiry at the office from which the messenger had been despatched, it had been ascertained that a young man had handed the cheque in to the office in an envelope addressed to the bank, and he had called later on for the money, which had been handed him.Rupert listened with a sense of relief. "Have they traced the man?" he asked.Dale shook his head. "Not yet. But, of course, now the affair is in the hands of the police. The manager of the district messenger office where the message was handed in described him as a tall, fair man with a slight moustache, well dressed, and, as far as he remembered, wearing a tall silk hat, and a light overcoat." Dale laid his hand affectionately on his son's shoulder. "Last night, at one dreadful moment, I had a feeling that Sir Reginald suspected you, my boy, so this is a great relief to me."Rupert laughed a little uneasily. "I suppose it did seem rather queer my losing the beastly cheque and Sir Reginald knowing we were so awfully hard up for money. But you see, father, it arrived at a critical moment, just when I was awaiting the result of my exam., knowing I was dreadfully in debt, and I had made up my mind to risk everything by backing the favourite in the big race. The money I had in hand was borrowed money. I know now it was rotten of me and I'm awfully ashamed. I promise you I shan't make a fool of myself again. I've—I've plenty of money to go on with, and if you want any——"Dale shook his head. "I'm old-fashioned, I daresay you'll laugh at me. If I were a rich man I don't say I wouldn't do a bit of gambling myself occasionally. But we're poor, and perhaps that makes me extra proud. Keep your money, my boy; pay all your debts, but don't ask me to take any. I couldn't take money that you had won like that. You had no right to take the risk; therefore, to me it almost seems as if you had no right to the money. But it's too late to go back now, so use what's left, but use it carefully for your own sake."Rupert bowed his head. He made up his mind to make a clean breast of everything, to tell his father about Ruby Strode and his love for her. But just as he was about to speak Dale interrupted him."I'm afraid you'll have to start by going back to town to-morrow morning. Sir Reginald left to-day and he said he was afraid it would be necessary for you to go up. It will only be for a couple of days, I expect, and you'll come straight back here, won't you?"Rupert nodded. "Of course—I'll go if necessary, but I can't see why I should be wanted. I've told Sir Reginald all I know."Dale cleared his throat uneasily. "It's not Sir Reginald, it's the officials at the bank and—Scotland Yard has charge of the affair. They want you to give them an exact account of your movements, what you did and where you went on the day you received and lost the cheque. It's the least you can do under the circumstances, my boy. You see, if the money's not recovered, I shall have to make it good."Rupert nodded and said no more. His heart sank again. Yes, unless the bank recovered the money, whether his father was legally liable or not, Rupert knew that if it meant selling the old homestead and everything he possessed in the world to pay Sir Reginald, he would do so.After all, perhaps he had won only to lose.Before going to bed that night he knocked at the door of Marjorie's room, and he sat on the edge of her bed just as he had been accustomed to do in the old days when they were boy and girl together with not a thought in the world to trouble them, happy and contented in the life and work of the moorlands.At first they talked of little things, things which had lost their importance to Rupert, but still went to make up life for Marjorie. Then she fell to questioning him, asking him about his life in London, and if he were happy."Somehow, you've changed," she confessed. "You don't look as well or so jolly as you used to. There's nothing seriously wrong, is there, old boy?"He shook his head. "I'm all right. I've a secret which I want to tell you soon, but it's one that makes me happy, and I hope it will make you happy, too.... Of course, now you'll guess, but don't say anything. While I'm away I don't want you to be too much alone with Despard. He's all right, but he's a man's man—the sort of fellow who makes love to every pretty woman he sees. He can't help it, you know."Marjorie sat up in her bed and laughed. "Is that a man's man?"Rupert did not reply, but continued: "Last night, as I was coming back from Post Bridge Hall, I saw you and young Crichton pass me on the bridge. I don't want to interfere, dear, but, somehow, I wondered whether—it looked as though you cared for one another, perhaps——"Marjorie's cheeks grew the colour of red roses. And, looking at her, as she sat up in her little white bed, with her auburn hair falling in wild disorder about her shoulders, her sun-kissed arms and neck warm against the white lace of her nightgown, he realised for the first time with something like a shock how very beautiful she was. Being a brother he had taken her for granted. He had only looked at her with a brother's eyes. Now he saw her as a man sees a woman; young, in the first flush of youth with warm blood in her veins, a body moulded and made for love."Yes, we do love one another," she whispered. "He wants me to marry him one day, but I haven't promised yet. Our positions are so different. I'm not good enough for him."Rupert laughed. "You, not good enough!"Marjorie nodded. "That's just what he said when I told him. But it's true. I'm only a farmer's daughter; he's the son of a gentleman. Don't say anything more, dear," as Rupert was about to reply. "Time will tell. If we really care for one another we can both wait until we're quite sure."Bending down Rupert kissed his sister very gently. There were tears in his eyes. He rose from the bed and blew out the candle and the room was in darkness."To tell you the truth, I've been a bit of a rotter since I've been in London," he said, finding it easier to speak in the darkness. "Owing to my stupidity and selfishness, I've got to go up to town to-morrow, but it will only be for a couple of days, and when I come back I'll tell you my secret. For I've fallen in love, Marjorie. I'm beginning to feel as you do—that I'm not good enough for her.... She's wonderful."He groped his way towards the door and opened it."I'm glad, dear," Marjorie whispered. "Good-night.""Good-night," he replied as he shut the door quietly and went to his own room.Perhaps it was true. Marjorie was only the daughter and he the son of a farmer. That was why he had made such a mess of things in London. But his eyes had been opened just in time. Love had opened them.A farmer's son. But his father's ambition should be realised. He would learn to be a man and a gentleman.
CHAPTER IV.
RADIUM.
Ruby Stroke threw aside the heavy veil she wore and placed her bag on the table. Rupert heard the clink of coins.
"Of course, I've got it," she stammered. "Look! Five hundred pounds. I've brought fifty in gold. I thought, perhaps, it would be more useful than—than notes."
He staggered to her side and looked at the two little bags of gold she had placed on the table. She showed him a roll of notes. He pushed them aside, and pouring the gold out on the table he commenced to count it. It fascinated him. He could not speak.
Presently he began to laugh hysterically. "You are sure there's no mistake?"
"Count it again."
Again he laughed. "I didn't mean that—I mean, it's all right—I can't believe it—that this is ours—all ours." He dropped on to his knees beside her and put his arms around her waist. "Oh, my dear!" he cried, "my dear!"
Ruby smiled. She sat staring at the money with hard, dry eyes. "It was rather stupid to bring so much gold perhaps," she said in an unsteady voice. "But I thought you could pay some of your bills with it. And—you are so careless. You might lose notes just as you lost that cheque yesterday."
She picked up the crisp bundle of notes on the table. "I'm going to take charge of these, and later on pay them into your bank. So that when you return from Devonshire, you'll find quite a nice little nest-egg.... Now, give me a cup of tea, and then I'll pack for you. You've only got about three hours."
It did not take Ruby long to pack. Rupert watched her and gave instructions as to what he would take, but to which, woman like, she paid no attention.
"I've got lots of old clothes at the farm," Rupert said. "We shall spend all our time fishing and shooting. Gad! I'll take old Despard down our tin-mine. Probably, it's little better than a swimming-bath now!"
Rupert was in high spirits. Ruby encouraged him to talk, and smiled as she listened.
"Is Mr. Despard going down with you?" she asked.
Rupert nodded.
"Then you won't mind if I don't see you off at Paddington?" She glanced at the watch on her wrist. "I've got an appointment at half-past one, so it would be difficult anyway."
"You don't like Despard, do you?" Rupert said; "yet he's very fond of you."
"Yes, I know he is. I wish he wasn't."
But Rupert only pinched her cheek playfully. He did not understand. Ruby wanted to tell him that Despard had made love to her, to put him on his guard, but she was afraid to speak more clearly. She did not want to make him jealous, and she was afraid lest the two men should quarrel. So no more was said. They bade one another good-bye in the little sitting-room where so many happy hours had been spent—and where such great events had happened.
"I shall not be away more than a week or two," Rupert said as he kissed her. "I suppose you will be in town all the summer?"
"Probably," she answered evasively. "Anyway, I shall be here when you return. Enjoy yourself and don't worry."
She kissed him again and again, clinging tightly to him, unable to tear herself away now that the hour had come.
"Why, there are tears on your cheek!" Rupert whispered, brushing them away. "You mustn't be sad: our future never looked so rosy. Look here, I shall tell my father I'm engaged to be married. I didn't mean to do so until I'd passed my examination, but it's only fair to you. And we can afford to get married now! You've got those notes safely?"
She nodded, and smiled through her tears. "I can pay them into the bank to-morrow."
And then, giving him a final embrace, she hurried away. Rupert stood at the front door and watched her out of sight. He wondered why she did not turn round and wave him farewell again as she always had when they parted.
A few hours later as he was borne rapidly in the direction of Devonshire with his friend, Robert Despard, he had temporarily forgotten Ruby Strode. When the train on the branch line from Newton Abbott stopped at Moreton he saw his sister waiting for him on the platform. A wave of boyish pride swept over him as he introduced Marjorie to Robert Despard. Two years had changed her considerably. She was a woman now, and beautiful. At the same time he was conscious of the humble dress she wore, the thick cotton stockings, and rather ungainly boots. Conscience pricked him again, and he felt a touch of remorse.
The money she should have spent in pretty clothes he had been wasting in London! He felt he wanted to apologise, too, for the old-fashioned dog-cart waiting outside and the sturdy, rough-haired Dartmoor pony harnessed to the shafts. But Despard had no eyes for anything but Marjorie Dale's beauty. He was unable to take his eyes off her, and Rupert noticed the colour rushing to her cheeks as they drove along.
Despard had a certain way with women. He treated them with a queer mixture of deference and gallantry. He knew how to pay a compliment with subtlety. For the first time Rupert realised there were two distinct sides to his character. And before the long drive across the moorland was over—still blazing with yellow gorse and bloom—he again wished he had not asked Despard to stay with them.
Old John Allen Dale was waiting at the door of the queer, tumble-down, thatched-roofed building which had been the home of the Dales for generations. He took Rupert in his arms and held him closely, then, with an apology, turned to greet Robert Despard. His manner had all the old-world courtesy of the yeoman farmer.
"By Jove, you live off the map, and no mistake!" Despard cried looking round him.
He gazed at the strange, almost forbidding-looking farmhouse, at the great tors surrounding it on all sides. He listened to the river Dart as it sang its wild way to the sea, the only song among those rugged hills.
"Don't you feel jolly lonely sometimes?" he said to Marjorie.
She shook her head. "I haven't time. And I've known nothing better."
She took his kit-bag from the dog-cart, and before he could stop her she had carried it upstairs to his room.
"There is nothing better," John Dale said dreamily. And he linked his arm affectionately through Rupert's. "Well, my boy, you needn't say anything, I see by your face that you've passed your examination. The world is at your feet now to conquer. You're going to do great things, eh?"
Rupert gave a quick glance at Despard. But the latter merely winked, then, turning on his heel, entered the farm. Rupert heard him mount the stairs in search of Marjorie.
Rupert squared his shoulders and looked his father full in the face. "I'm sorry, guv'nor, but you must have the truth. I've failed again."
John Allen Dale winced as if some one had struck him a blow. The strong, determined jaws met tightly, but he said nothing.
"I'm going up again in November," Rupert continued. "And I know I shall pass. It's not an idle boast, guv'nor. I can, and I will."
The old man laid his hands on the young man's shoulders. He spoke bravely and proudly, yet there was a tremor in his voice:
"Rupert, lad, I know you've done your best, and I'm not blaming you. It's a severe blow because—well, you'd better know now—the money's come to an end! I've pinched and screwed, gladly; but the savings of the last fifty years have all gone. They were little enough. The farm doesn't raise enough to keep us in food and clothes. I've even had to raise money and mortgage the old place. I couldn't pay your fees for the examination again, much less your board and lodging in London."
"I know," Rupert replied gently, though he had not dreamed it was as bad as that. And once again remorse seized him. Once again he wondered what he would have done if it had not been for Ruby Strode.
He would have died a coward's death and left his father and sister to suffer shame and dishonour.
It was some little time before he could find his voice and tell his father that he need not worry about the money.
"I don't want you to question me, guv'nor, but I've had a bit of luck and made enough to keep myself for another year or two in London. I can let you have plenty to go on with, too."
"Not borrowed money, not made by gambling?" John Dale asked. "But I needn't ask you, Rupert. It was money honestly earned, I know."
Rupert dared not confess how he had obtained it. "It came through a friend," he said unsteadily. "I can't tell you more now, father, but I will one day. I only want you to know that you needn't worry. I shan't fail you. I promise."
Dale took his son's hand in his great, horny fist and pressed it tightly. "I know that, I know that, my boy."
The first thing Rupert did with the money Ruby had given him was to repay Despard the twenty-five pounds he owed him. The second was to hand Marjorie fifteen pounds—ten for housekeeping expenses, and five for herself. She was overwhelmed, and at first refused to take it. To her it seemed like a fortune.
"You needn't tell the guv'nor," Rupert said, "though he knows I've made a bit. But if he's in want of anything just buy it for him—say it's a present from me. Get yourself a nice frock and some pretty shoes."
Rupert felt afraid that the rough fare and humble life at Blackthorn Farm would bore or disgust his friend, but he soon found that he was wrong. Despard settled down to the new mode of life as if he had been thoroughly used to it. He was up soon after daybreak helping Marjorie to milk the cows; watching her scald the cream and make the butter, and he insisted on being taught how to do these things himself. He made himself useful about the farm, too, and quite won John Dale's heart. He proved himself nearly as good a shot at the rabbits as Rupert, though he quite failed to catch the cunning Devonshire trout, and frankly admitted that it bored him to throw a fly.
"I want to look at this old tin-mine of yours," he announced one day; and he asked Dale for particulars about it, as to how long it had been worked, why it had failed, and the state it was now in.
"It has failed because there wasn't enough tin to make it worth while working," Dale told him. "We thought we were going to make a fortune out of it, but it turned out the other way."
Despard nodded and stroked his black moustache thoughtfully. "I know something about the Cornish mines, and I've got a bit of money in one or two of them. As you know, they restarted working a year or two ago, and they're doing well now. There might still be money in yours, Mr. Dale."
"You're welcome to all you can find," the old man laughed.
Rupert and Robert Despard spent the whole of one afternoon exploring the mine. The examination was not made without danger and difficulty. To Rupert's surprise very little water had penetrated the main shaft, and Despard pointed out that the river and the surrounding bog-land probably acted as drainage. It was easy to find traces of tin in the tunnel right up to where the working had ceased.
"It ought to have paid to follow this up," Despard said thoughtfully. "A case of too much capital or too little. Or else the engineer was a duffer."
"You don't think it would pay to erect a new plant and start operations again, do you?" Rupert said eagerly.
Despard shrugged his shoulders. "The risk would be too great. If it were a gold mine, now, people would fall over one another to put money into it. Or the magic word, radium!"
Despard stopped suddenly, and raising the light he carried glanced into Rupert's face. He had been scraping and poking about in the bed of the tunnel while he talked, using a short, pick-like instrument he had commandeered from the farm.
He held out a small piece of black substance having something of the colour and consistency of tar. He told Rupert to examine it closely. The latter did so.
"Well?" Despard cried sharply. There was a trace of nervous excitement in his voice which Rupert had never heard before.
"Well?" the latter said.
"Good Lord! no wonder you've been plucked three times!" Despard cried. "Don't you know what this stuff is?"
Rupert examined it again. "Rather like pitch-blende."
"Yes—something," Despard sneered.
A sharp cry escaped Rupert's lips. He bent down and examined the black, sticky substance more carefully.
"It is pitch-blende!"
"Extinguish the light," Despard said sharply.
Rupert obeyed. A long time they stood in the darkness. Presently Despard commenced to dig and scrape the surface and sides of the tunnel. After a little while he struck a match and re-lit the lantern.
"That was expecting rather too much," he whispered.
They collected the pitch-blende they had found, and putting it into his handkerchief Despard dropped it into his pocket.
"I'll examine this and test it to-night. But don't say anything about it, not even to your father. Just because we've found pitch-blende it doesn't mean there's radium. But—they have found traces in some of the Cornish mines, you know."
Marjorie was waiting for them at the surface of the mine. She gave a shriek as she saw them, for their clothes were torn and discoloured, and they were wet through.
"Well, how much tin did you find?" she asked jokingly. "Are you going to make our fortunes?"
Despard looked at her. "Supposing I were to make a fortune for you, what reward should I get?"
"Oh, fifty per cent. of the profits," she laughed, lowering her eyes.
"I shouldn't ask that," he whispered. "I should want something money couldn't buy."
When they reached the farmhouse supper was waiting. It was growing dark, and work was over for the day. John Dale had not returned home.
"We had better wait," Marjorie suggested, "He's never late. Probably he has gone up to Post Bridge Hall to see Sir Reginald Crichton on business."
The mention of Reginald Crichton's name reminded Rupert of what his father had told him about having to mortgage the property. Supposing there was anything in their discovery that afternoon the mortgage would have to be paid off before anything else was done. He went up to Despard's room and suggested that while they were waiting for supper they should examine the sample of pitch-blende they had taken from the mine.
Despard locked the door and laid the mass of putty-like substance on the table. "To get a proper test we ought to take or send it up to town," he said. "But there's one simple method——"
He was interrupted by Marjorie calling to Rupert. "You're wanted at Post Bridge Hall at once," she told him. "Father is there, and they've sent a servant over to ask you to go up."
Rupert swore under his breath. "What on earth can the matter be? You don't think anything has happened to—the old man?"
Marjorie shook her head. "I don't think so. The message is simply that you're wanted."
Rupert put on his hat and hurried down the path which led to the main road. Crossing Post Bridge he turned to the right and soon found himself in the avenue that led to the Hall. It was situated fairly high up under the shadow of the tors and surrounded by trees. Lights shone cheerfully from all the windows. Before he could ring the front-door bell Sir Reginald Crichton stepped out and met him.
"Sorry to trouble you," he said curtly; "but the matter is rather important. Do you mind coming up to my study?"
Rupert followed, wondering what had happened. To his relief he saw his father standing with his back to the fireplace.
Sir Reginald shut the door, then sitting down an old oak bureau motioned Rupert to a seat. But the latter remained standing.
"Perhaps you will explain," said Sir Reginald, looking at John Dale.
Rupert looked from one man to the other, and he noticed that his father's face was pale, the features drawn. Before speaking Dale cleared his throat nervously.
"It's about that cheque I sent you eight days ago. Just before you left London. A cheque for five pounds which Sir Reginald drew and made payable to me. It wasn't crossed, so I endorsed it and sent it to you."
Rupert nodded. "Yes, I received it."
"And cashed it?" Sir Reginald spoke.
Rupert started. "No, I——" Again he looked from one man to the other. He felt suddenly guilty. "As a matter of fact, I'm sorry to say I lost it."
"Lost it? You never told me." Dale spoke. "Of course you wrote to the bank?"
Rupert bit his lip. "I forgot all about it—in the excitement of packing up and coming home."
John Dale was about to speak, but Crichton held up his hand. "Did the loss of five pounds mean so little to you, then?" he asked Rupert.
The latter moistened his lips. His sense of guilt increased, though he had only been guilty of gross carelessness. Yet, how could he explain the situation?
"I was fearfully rushed and worried at the time," he said, fumbling for words. "As a matter of fact, the morning I received it I went to the races, and I only discovered the loss when I got back. I must have pulled it out of my bag with some letters and papers. I hope—nothing is wrong?"
Sir Reginald leant forward and stretched out his hand. "Look at this, sir."
Rupert took the slip of paper he held out. It was a cheque. He saw written across the back of it his father's name. He looked at the face of the cheque.
"Pay John Allen Dale or bearer the sum of five hundred pounds." Then underneath in figures "£500 0s. 0d."
"Exactly," Crichton said. Rising to his feet he stood in front of Rupert and looked at him searchingly. "Your father sent you a cheque for five pounds. Since it left your possession the pounds have been changed to five hundred. That sum was paid out by my bankers. Naturally, I want an explanation. Your father sent it to you. You admit having received it, and say you lost it. I'm afraid that explanation doesn't satisfy me."
"You don't mean to say you think——"
Rupert flared up, then stopped.
Five hundred pounds! The significance of the amount suddenly struck him. The amount Ruby Strode had won for him over Ambuscade. Once again he saw himself sitting in his rooms in Westminster facing ruin; he saw himself take his revolver from the drawer and hold it to his breast. Then he felt the arms of the woman he loved round him; he heard her voice telling him it was a coward's way. And when he told her it was the only way, she confessed that she had secretly backed the outsider and won him five hundred pounds.
He began to tremble. His body became wet with perspiration. He heard his father's voice raised apprehensively.
"Rupert, my boy. Speak, for God's sake, speak! Say you know nothing about it."
Rupert raised his face and tried to look at his father. He did not see him; he only saw the face of the woman he loved. She had confessed she loved him better than life itself.
"Speak!" John Dale cried, his voice rising. "Speak!"
"Speak!" Sir Reginald Crichton echoed. "Confess that you are either guilty—or not guilty."
CHAPTER V.
THE ACCUSATION.
Rupert pulled himself together and looked at Sir Reginald. "I have nothing to say, sir."
"Nothing to say!" Clenching his fists Dale strode towards his son as if intending to strike him.
With a gesture Sir Reginald stopped the old man and waved him back. "Gently, gently! You must keep calm, Mr. Dale. I am sure, on consideration, your son will see the advisability of making a clean breast of this affair."
Old John Dale controlled himself and stood quite still, folding his arms across his chest. Until now he had scarcely taken his eyes off his son's face. He was afraid to look any longer lest instead of the boy he had loved and for whom he had worked and made so many sacrifices—he saw a thief, a criminal.
There followed a silence. To each man present it seemed interminably long, but neither father nor son dared break it. They were standing almost opposite one another. The younger man held himself very erect, his head thrown back; he was looking straight at Sir Reginald Crichton, resentment in his eyes. Sir Reginald, seated at his bureau, was obviously embarrassed and ill at ease. Judging from appearances their positions should have been reversed.
"Come, won't you speak?" the latter said in a more kindly voice. "For your father's sake, Mr. Rupert, and your sister's—as well as for your own."
"I have told you I have nothing more to say. I know nothing about it."
Sir Reginald raised his eyebrows, and picking up a pencil commenced to tap it thoughtfully on the edge of the bureau.
There was another long silence. Twice Dale tried to speak and failed. His great frame was shaken. He took a couple of steps towards his son and laid a hand on his shoulder.
"I know you didn't do it, my boy," he said in a voice that was no longer under control. "Maybe, you're ashamed of yourself for having lost it; or, more like, you had it stolen, and perhaps you have a feeling you might be able to point out the thief, only you don't like to speak for fear of making a mistake.... Unjust accusation...." His voice faltered. "I know you're innocent, Rupert, thank God, I know that."
Rupert turned his head and looked at his father for one moment. For the first time in his life he saw tears in the old man's eyes. He turned his back on him as the blood rushed to his face. It was almost more than he could bear.
Of course, he was innocent, and it was impossible to conceive anyone, least of all his father, believing him guilty of such a mean and dastardly trick. A crime worse than theft or robbery.
He experienced a revulsion of feeling. He knew if he had spoken out at once and confessed exactly what had happened the morning he had received the cheque, both Sir Reginald and his father would have believed him. But, in spite of the brave words old Dale had just spoken, and in spite of Sir Reginald's patience, Rupert knew that already they mistrusted him. At the back of the heart of one was suspicion amounting perhaps to certainty. At the back of the heart of the other was fear.
"Do you believe I altered the amount on the cheque?" he asked Sir Reginald.
"I have asked you what you know about it. Until you give me a direct reply I must naturally suspend judgment. I should certainly find it very hard to believe you guilty of such a crime."
"It was I who sent for you," Dale whispered, "directly Sir Reginald told me what had happened and showed me the cheque."
Rupert looked from one man to the other. There was fear in his heart, too. A nameless fear. He had only to say outright what he knew about the matter, tell them exactly what had occurred the day he received his father's letter containing the cheque, and they would believe him.
They would believe him, but their suspicions would naturally be shifted to another quarter. He would have to confess that he had been in debt, that he had gone to the races, that he had won a large sum of money, exactly five hundred pounds—exactly the amount to which the cheque he had just seen had been altered.
Sir Reginald was still drumming with the end of his pencil on the edge of the bureau. "I'm sure you'll answer me a few questions, Mr. Rupert. They'll be brief and to the point, and I hope your answers will be the same."
Rupert nodded. "I've already told you I've nothing to say. If you believe me to be innocent why do you want to question me?"
Sir Reginald shrugged his shoulders. Drawing forward a sheet of paper he picked up a pen and dipped it in the ink.
"On what date did you receive this cheque?"
Rupert told him. He answered sharply in a high-pitched tone of voice. He felt he was on the defensive, and he resented the feeling.
"I presume you looked at it?" Rupert nodded. "You saw the amount for which it was drawn? What was the amount?"
"Five pounds."
"What did you do with it?"
"I can't remember. I think I left it on the table with my father's letter."
"What were your movements that morning?"
"I don't see what these questions have got to do with——"
Again he felt his father's hand on his shoulder gripping it tightly. "Answer Sir Reginald, my boy, no matter what he asks you. You can have nothing to hide from him. Tell him frankly everything you did that day, no matter what it was.... We are men, we were young once; we shall understand."
Rupert stared across the dimly-lit room. The curtains had not been drawn across the windows, and outside he could see a cluster of fir-trees silhouetted against the sky, a glimpse of the white road bounded on either side by stone walls, and, beyond, the line of moorlands. The twilight had almost gone, and the stars were shining in the sky. He was conscious of a great silence surrounding the house, the silence which always brooded over the hills.
Not so many hours ago the roar of London had echoed in his ears, and he had sat in the windows of the lodging-house in Westminster and watched the river of life rushing torrent-like at his feet. Like a swimmer eager to test his strength, he had flung himself into it and been swept away.
"We are waiting," Sir Reginald Crichton said.
"I don't know that I did anything in particular," Rupert replied. "I was awaiting the result of my examination. I was out most of the day: it was when I came back that I missed the cheque."
"I suppose you had plenty of money to pay the bill at your lodgings and fare down here, or you would have cashed it immediately?" Sir Reginald suggested.
"In the last letter you wrote me, Rupert, you told me you were rather hard up. That's why I sent you the whole of Sir Reginald's cheque, though I was rather pressed for money myself."
Dale spoke under his breath, almost in a whisper. He knew he was not helping his son by what he said, but the truth was dearer to him than anything else. And only by truth could his son be cleared and the mystery surrounding the cheque solved.
"I had been lucky," Rupert stammered. "I had made a little bit—at racing."
Sir Reginald dropped his pen and moved his chair back. "Oh, so you go in for racing! Forgive me for being interfering, but I shouldn't have thought you could have afforded that. You must be aware that some time ago your father was forced to mortgage most of the land surrounding his farm, and that I am the mortgagee?"
"I told you I had been lucky."
"And that's the reason you treated the cheque your father sent you so carelessly—for, you knew in sending it that he and your sister were depriving themselves of many of the necessities of life."
Rupert lost his temper. Sir Reginald was making him feel a cur, making suggestions which he had no right to make; poisoning his father's mind against him.
"If you want to know everything, it was the day the cheque arrived that I made a bit," he blurted out. "I'd got a few pounds in my pocket, money I'd borrowed from my friend Despard. He's staying with us now. If you want corroborative evidence. I went down to the races and backed the winner. I suppose in the excitement of the moment I must have pulled the cheque out of my pocket and lost it on the racecourse."
Sir Reginald sighed. It might have been a sigh of satisfaction or of doubt. "Why couldn't you have told us this before? If, as seems very probable, you lost it at the races, it is easy to conceive that some one picked it up, saw his opportunity, and very cleverly altering the figures took it to the bank next morning." He rose to his feet. "Of course, I shall have to go up to London and put it into the hands of the police. I'm afraid I shall need your help. They are sure to want from you the time you travelled to the racecourse and back, the enclosure you patronised, and so forth. I can rely on your giving me all the help in your power, I am sure."
"I have told you I know nothing," Rupert cried, turning on his heel. "I can only tell the police the same thing." He picked up his hat. "Have you finished your examination?"
Sir Reginald bowed. "I'm sorry if it has been unpleasant. But I could not help myself. And it would hardly have been fair to you or your father if I had made enquiries behind your back."
Rupert nodded, and crossing the room unsteadily opened the door. "Are you coming, father?" he asked the old man, without looking at him.
"You can go on, Rupert, I'll follow presently," Dale replied.
Once outside Rupert walked quickly down the drive, past the dark, great clump of fir-trees and along the rough granite-made road until he turned into the main Princetown road and reached Post Bridge. A little way up the hill the lights of the inn twinkled through the darkness. The waters of the East Dart purled beneath him. As they rushed over the rocks the foam glittered in the starshine. A bat swept past his face, its wings humming faintly. He leant his arms on the stone parapet of the bridge and gazed down into the crooning waters.
He was innocent, but he knew that up at Post Bridge Hall there was one man who believed him guilty of a despicable crime, and that one man his own father, who, not knowing what to believe, doubted him. His own father, himself the soul of honour, as proud of his good name as was perhaps the greatest man in the land.
His father, a man of the soil, whose greatest ambition had been to turn his son into a man of the world, a gentleman, to give him a profession, a start in life, an independence. For that he had made many and great sacrifices, even to the mortgaging of the land he owned and which his forefathers had loved and cultivated. And his only other child being a daughter he had expected her to make many, and perhaps as great, sacrifices also.
Was this to be the end? Rupert asked himself. The family name and honour dragged through the mire, their affairs the gossip of the newspapers of the Devon towns and villages, to find himself accused and perhaps forced to defend himself.
Of course, he could prove his innocence—he heard himself laugh. For a moment it all seemed so absurd. He felt he had been behaving like a coward and a fool in not frankly confessing that he had gone the way of nearly all young men in London, got into debt, gambled, fallen in love, and saved himself by one of those strange tricks of fortune which happen once and again in a lifetime. He drew himself up and looked at the sky blazing with stars now, the million eyes of the night.
He had held his peace because he loved. Because if he spoke he would have to drag the name of the woman he loved into the affair. She would be sent for, questioned, and bullied; the police would examine her. They would find out that she had gone to the races with him and put the sum of exactly five pounds on Ambuscade at a hundred to one, winning the fatal amount for which the cheque had been altered—five hundred pounds.
Fortune had smiled on him, but it had kissed the one cheek only to smite the other. Of course, Ruby knew nothing about the missing cheque, and could not help him in any way. It would be contemptible to drag her name into it.
Even if it came to a question—his honour or hers. And his honour meant his father's and sister's.
Presently he heard footsteps approaching, and he moved farther along the bridge down the side of the hill to the water's edge. Every one for miles around knew him, and it was not the moment he wanted to be recognised or asked futile questions about his life in London—how he had enjoyed himself, or whether he had passed his examination.
The people crossed the bridge, walking very slowly. Now and then their voices rose above the sound of the river. He looked over his shoulder; a man and a woman, and as they passed he recognised his sister Marjorie and young Lieutenant James Crichton, Sir Reginald's only son, who was spending his leave at home. They were walking close together, arm in arm, and in Crichton's right hand his sister's left hand was firmly clasped.
He saw their faces for a moment in the starlight, and in that moment he knew they were lovers. He waited until they were out of sight, then he hurried back to the farm.
Sir Reginald Crichton's son was in love with his sister Marjorie. Here was a fresh complication which at first seemed to add to the tragedy which threatened him. "Jim" and he had been old friends as boys. Crichton was his senior, and when he left Woolwich and was eventually attached to the Royal Flying Corps, they lost sight of one another. Presently, Rupert's discovery suggested a loophole of escape—if matters turned out badly for him. If Jim Crichton and Marjorie were engaged to be married Sir Reginald might be persuaded not to push enquiries concerning the altered cheque too far!
There was something not quite pleasant in the thought, and he dismissed it. But before he had reached his home it had returned again. He entered the parlour; the lamp was burning on the table, the peat fire glowed in the grate.
Despard sat in the arm-chair before it, his feet stretched on to the mantelshelf, a pipe between his lips. An old-fashioned photograph album was on his knees. Rupert walked to his side and bent over his shoulders.
"What on earth are you looking at?" he asked with exaggerated carelessness.
Despard pointed to an amateur photograph of Marjorie. She was seated on a stool in one of the fields milking a cow.
"Rather good, isn't it?" Rupert said. "The local parson took it last year."
Despard nodded. "It would make a very fine picture. It's the sort of thing which, if properly done, would create a sensation in our Academy." He knocked his pipe out into the grate. "Do you know your sister's a jolly sight too pretty and too intelligent to be shut up in a wild, God-forsaken place like this? It's criminal, old man. When you go back to London, you ought to take her with you; give her a chance of mixing with decent people and seeing life, eh?"
"She's happy enough here," Rupert said uneasily.
Despard smiled and closed the book. "She would be happier in London. See if you really can't take her back with you, Rupert.... Perhaps I'd better confess at once that I've fallen in love with her! It's sudden, I know, and, of course, I shouldn't dream of breathing a word to her yet. But—one good turn deserves another, and if you get a chance put in a word for me, will you?"
CHAPTER VI.
FORGERY.
Before leaving London, Rupert, at Despard's suggestion, had applied for an order to go over the convict prisons at Princetown. It arrived the morning following the interview with Sir Reginald Crichton.
Perhaps because he had lived under the shadow of the prisons all his life, the idea of visiting them (as strangers and tourists from the cities often did) never occurred to him. The great granite building standing on the top of the hill above the West Dart, ugly, ominous, a blot on nature, man's menace to mankind, had never interested him or caused him to think for a moment of the unfortunate beings who were incarcerated there. It was just a landmark, almost part of the life of the moorlands. He knew that originally, in the days long past, French prisoners of war had been kept there, the men against whom his ancestors had fought. It was some time after the war was over and peace declared that it had been rebuilt and turned into a penal establishment.
Despard wanted to go over it for reasons Rupert could not understand; but he agreed to take him with just the same tolerance with which Despard himself might have shown the Tower of London or Madame Tussaud's to his sister Marjorie.
As a matter of fact, now that the order had come and Despard was anxious to make use of it at once, Rupert felt grateful. It served as an excuse to spend the day away from the farm—and the Crichton family. They made him feel, if not exactly guilty, at least ashamed of himself. He had passed a sleepless night, and during the long, silent hours he had examined his conscience and not found it as clean as it had been the last time he slept in that little room overlooking the valley of the Dart.
Life in London was complex: by his own actions he had made it more complicated, and by his ignorance of men and women and the ways of the world. It seemed as if he had never had time in the city to examine himself or to consider his actions, scarcely time to think.
The only rest for the worker in London is excitement. Down here on the moorlands it was good to be alone—if one had eyes to see, ears to hear, and a soul to understand nature.
In London loneliness was a terrible thing: loneliness of streets that had no end, of walls that could not be scaled, of windows through which one might gaze and find no perspective.
A lonely man in London was very like a convict in Dartmoor prison. For so many hours of the day he was let out to work; for the remainder he could eat or sleep or gaze at the great walls of his prison and listen to the footsteps of those who passed along the apparently unending corridors—the streets of his city.
Rupert had at first found relaxation in seeing London from the top of a penny omnibus, in attending football matches, and occasionally visiting the pits of theatres. And then, as he made friends music halls and card parties became the attraction, with occasionally a race meeting near London, followed, perhaps, by a "burst" at a "night club."
And the harder he studied to pass his examination the more insistently did his brain demand rest, and, failing rest, excitement. Without pausing to think he had fed it, pandered to desires sometimes unnatural, always unhealthy, and generally expensive.
The meeting with Ruby Strode had come too late. At first she appeared in the guise of another form of excitement. But slowly, as he realised her worth and his own stupidity, and discovered that he loved her, he put on the brake.
But debts had accumulated; though he gave up card parties and wine parties he found that friendship with an actress of the Ingenue Theatre was an expensive luxury. Falling in love made him reckless; and when he knew that it really was love, pride prevented him from telling Ruby the position of his affairs. He left her to find out for herself.
There was one advantage in this. It had proved the sincerity of her affection. She had not realised the seriousness of the situation until the fatal day when Rupert took her down to the races, and laughingly told her that his future life and happiness depended on the favourite winning the big race of the day.
That it meant her future life and happiness, too, perhaps had not occurred to him. Men are inclined to overlook the women's point of view in these matters. He did not think, and not until the race was over and he was back in his lodgings in Westminster did he realise the havoc he had wrought on other lives—his father's, his sister's, and the life of the woman he loved.
Then the miracle happened. He burnt his boats behind him and left London with a light heart, quite certain he would never make a fool of himself again.
And now Sir Reginald Crichton made him realise that his folly might pursue him for some little time. Rupert had made the mistake of thinking that by repentance he could wipe out the past.
The start was made for Princetown shortly after breakfast—for which meal Rupert put in a late appearance. He was afraid to face his father. At the same time a feeling of resentment had grown in his heart, quite unreasonably he knew.
He had hurt the old man, as sometimes he affectionately called him. He had disappointed him. Not one word of blame had escaped John Dale's lips. As yet he had not questioned Rupert as to the manner of his life in London or asked the reasons which had made him run into debt. But Rupert knew what he felt. It was written on the wrinkled, care-worn face. He had aged in the past twelve hours.
Rupert did his best to dismiss Ruby from his thoughts. If his father discovered that he was engaged to be married there would be further complications, and the barrier which had so suddenly risen between them would grow.
And there were other reasons why he did not want to think of her; reasons he would not admit to himself, and yet which continually intruded themselves in his brain.
Absurd fears; doubts; unwarrantable suspicions.
"To look at you, my dear fellow, one would think you were being hauled off to Princetown to do seven years penal servitude. For heaven's sake buck up and say something."
Despard spoke; they were swinging along the moorland road at a good pace, just dropping down the hill to the valley through which the little Cherry Brook rushes to join the Dart.
Marjorie laughed. She was accompanying them as far as the prison, and while they went over it she was going on into the town to do some marketing. She was wearing a short, workman-like little skirt and high lace boots. She carried her hat in her hand and the wind blew through her hair; the sunshine made it gleam like dull gold.
"I believe Rupert's bored," she said, "and he's already longing for the excitement and gaiety of London. You must find it awfully dull here, Mr. Despard. You don't look a bit like the type of man who would enjoy roughing it—for that's what I suppose you call living in a farmhouse on Dartmoor."
"I'm having the time of my life," Despard replied cheerfully. "I was wondering last night whether I could persuade you to take me as a permanent paying guest."
"Like the people who stay at the post office and the inn during the summer months? Do you know," she said, looking at him out of her beautiful grey eyes, "I always feel so sorry for those people; they look unhappy and never seem to have anything to do but to drive about in brakes or motor-cars, or, if the day's wet, wander about holding up an umbrella. If I had to choose between the two, I'd rather be a convict in the prisons than a paying guest."
Despard shrugged his shoulders. "Well, one never knows one's luck. What do you say, Rupert?"
Rupert started. He had not been listening to the conversation. "I can't imagine what pleasure you think you're going to get in looking at a lot of poor brutes, half of whom will probably never know freedom again: thieves, murderers, robbers, and heaven knows what else. The Zoological Gardens in London are depressing enough, heavens knows; this will be worse."
"Not a bit of it," Despard replied. "I believe they're awfully well looked after. Sort of glorified rest-cure. As I said just now, one never knows one's luck. You and I might find ourselves en route to Princetown one day, handcuffed between a couple of warders. I always like to be prepared for eventualities. I believe convicts are allowed to choose the work for which they are best adapted or find themselves suited, so keep your eyes open this morning, Rupert, and pick out the softest job."
They paused for a few moments on Cherry Brook bridge, gazed into the pool on the left and watched the trout sporting. The waters sang as they tumbled over the granite rocks and swirled beneath the bracken and heather which overhung the peat banks. In the distance a sheep bell tinkled. Now and again one of the wild Dartmoor ponies neighed. The air was sweet with the faint smell of gorse.
Rupert sighed. He almost wished he had never left the moorlands. His father had doubtless sent him to London to make a gentleman of him with the best intentions in the world. But it was a mistake. They were moorland folk. The land belonged to them and they to the land. He was not suited to the city or the ways of the men who dwelt in it.
A mirthless laugh escaped his lips, and Marjorie looked at him and laid her hand on his. "What's the matter, Rupert? You're not worried, are you, dear."
"Oh, he's in love, that's all," Despard grinned. And he looked at Marjorie. "I suppose you've never been in love, Miss Dale, so you can't sympathise with that blessed but unhappy frame of mind."
They watched the course of the Cherry Brook as it wound in and out, to and fro, making a complete circle here, almost a triangle there, finally disappearing behind the ridge of hill. There was a wistful look in Marjorie's eyes.
"I think I've always been in love—in love with life. I suppose that sounds stupid, or sentimental, to you."
"Life will fall in love with you one day, and be revenged."
She shook her head. "For a woman life is love, and love is life. For a man I suppose it consists of fighting.... She gives life, he takes it."
"Rather a queer point of view," Despard laughed.
"But life is queer, isn't it?" she answered gravely. "If all one reads is true. The greatest nations are the most densely populated, where all the men bear arms—and the women bear children that the men who are killed may be replaced! It does seem a waste, but I suppose one day we shall find something better to do."
"Let's get on," Despard suggested. "You've got a pretty stiff hill to tackle. And I'm a town bird, remember, and can't go the pace you can."
He rather wished that Rupert had stayed at home so that he could have had atête-à-têtewith Marjorie.
Rupert did not seem inclined to take the hint he had given him the previous evening; possibly he knew his reputation with women too well to trust him.
To Despard, Marjorie Dale was unique, and her beauty refreshing after the faded and painted women he knew in London. She was a strange mixture of innocence and fearlessness which appealed to him strongly. The fact that he could not understand her was an added attraction. Not an easy woman to make love to, and he knew she would be a very difficult woman to win.
For the moment he only wanted to amuse himself, but to do that with any measure of safety or success he knew he would have to superficially play the game. That was why he had hinted to Rupert that he was falling in love with Marjorie.
They reached the prison gates just before mid-day. The town itself lay a little distance beyond, with a couple of hotels and a little railway station, and quite a good sprinkling of shops. The two men agreed to meet Marjorie an hour later, and Despard insisted on lunching at the principal hotel.
They watched Marjorie out of sight. Ringing the bell outside the great gates, a porter appeared from his lodge, examined the order, and admitted them.
They were kept waiting a little while in the porter's lodge. Eventually a warder appeared and asked them to sign their names in a large book which was kept there for the purpose. They had to fill in their places of residence, their professions, and various other details.
"I almost feel as if I were signing my own warrant," Despard chuckled. He looked at the warder. "I suppose we shall be let out again?"
"We shall be only too happy to let you go, sir," the man replied without moving a muscle of his clean-shaven, emotionless face.
Despard linked his arm through Rupert's as the chief warder led them across the great stone square and put them in charge of a subordinate.
"For heaven's sake smile, man, or they'll really think you've done time here. That's exactly what you look like."
"I can't see that there's anything to smile at. Other people's misfortunes never amuse me."
"Think of your own, then," Despard replied, "that will cheer you up. By the way, have you heard from Ruby since you left town?"
Rupert's cheeks flushed. He was saved the necessity of replying, by the warder halting them outside another gate. It was opened with much jangling of keys.
Though the sun was shining outside it could not penetrate here. The building was almost entirely of granite, cold and grey. There was no relief for the eye anywhere; just harsh granite underfoot, overhead, and on all sides. Rupert, free man though he was, felt a strange sense of repulsion, a childish desire to beat against those granite walls, to try and break them down, to escape.
The whole time he was in the building, anywhere within the surrounding walls of the prison, he felt as if he were a prisoner. Now and then he heard the warder explaining. He found it difficult to pay any attention to him.
Despard, on the other hand, was interested in everything, asking innumerable questions, watching convicts at work and inspecting their work. Almost every kind of trade seemed to be carried on within the prison walls. Tailors, saddlers, shoemakers, basket-makers. The men sat or stood in rows, each one a certain distance apart from his fellows; and in the middle and at the end of each row was a warder.
Absolute silence reigned, a silence that to an imaginative person like Rupert could be felt, almost seen. It seemed to be part of the stone corridors, the granite walls. And granite appeared to be beaten into the convicts' souls until the expression of it was graven on their faces. Like their walls they were cold, grey, silent. Here and there a few retained traces of humanity; others suggested primeval men of the stone age, though they wore no hair on their faces and their heads had been shaven until nothing but innumerable spikes stood erect from the scalp.
Each man bent over his work as if he were absorbed in it. Rupert, watching closely, noticed their eyes roved here and there, moving quickly, sometimes fearfully; like the eyes of an animal ever on the watch. Sometimes their lips moved, too, though not a sound escaped them.
They passed into the kitchens—here there was blessed warmth again and the smell of newly-baked bread—through innumerable corridors and passages.
They were shown into a cell, A.C. 2061. "Just room enough to die"—as Despard humorously expressed it.
The cells in which the majority of prisoners were confined were built in the middle of a square, the floors rising one above the other, all securely railed off, so that one warder on guard above, could command a view of every cell in the square.
Rupert felt a sense of relief when they reached the porter's lodge again. They had to wait a moment while a gang of convicts marched in through the courtyard. They were accompanied by warders with loaded carbines. They had been at work out on the moorlands, quarrying and farming and digging peat.
"Well, I hope you're satisfied," Rupert said, when they found themselves walking along the road towards Princetown. "I felt a beast all the time. I only wonder the poor brutes didn't get up and go for us."
"Oh, they're happy enough," Despard said carelessly. "But, I confess it's good to be outside again in the air and the sunshine, and, by gad! it has given me an appetite. I hope the local hotel can provide us with something to eat."
They met Marjorie just outside the market-place, and though all she wanted was a little bread and cheese and a glass of milk, Despard insisted on ordering a big luncheon and opening a bottle of champagne.
"We want something to take the taste of the granite out of our mouths," he laughed.
Rupert's spirits rose when they started to walk back to Blackthorn Farm. Marjorie found an opportunity of telling him that she had bought herself some material for a new dress, and made several purchases for her wardrobe out of the money he had given her. Her pride and pleasure in having money to spend made him realise how selfish he had been, and he again made a solemn vow that when he returned to London he would work day and night and not spend a penny more than was necessary.
Ruby would help him in that, he knew, and he would no longer have any shame in appearing before her in his true light.
He had been afraid that when she knew he was a poor man he would lose her. And but for her he would now be ruined!
That evening after supper John Dale drew his son aside. Rupert realised that an interview was inevitable, and though he dreaded it he knew that the moment had come. He expected some kind of a lecture, a warning on the folly of gambling and living beyond his means, and an appeal as to his future conduct. He knew his father would not be angry, probably would not even blame him for what he had done. He almost wished he would. It would be easier than kindness and the pain and disappointment he saw in the old man's eyes whenever he looked at him.
To his surprise Dale made no reference to the past. He simply told him that Sir Reginald had received a letter that morning from his bankers, and he outlined the contents.
The cheque which Rupert had lost and which had since been altered from five to five hundred pounds, had been brought to the bank by a messenger boy, who was given the amount in gold and notes.
On enquiry at the office from which the messenger had been despatched, it had been ascertained that a young man had handed the cheque in to the office in an envelope addressed to the bank, and he had called later on for the money, which had been handed him.
Rupert listened with a sense of relief. "Have they traced the man?" he asked.
Dale shook his head. "Not yet. But, of course, now the affair is in the hands of the police. The manager of the district messenger office where the message was handed in described him as a tall, fair man with a slight moustache, well dressed, and, as far as he remembered, wearing a tall silk hat, and a light overcoat." Dale laid his hand affectionately on his son's shoulder. "Last night, at one dreadful moment, I had a feeling that Sir Reginald suspected you, my boy, so this is a great relief to me."
Rupert laughed a little uneasily. "I suppose it did seem rather queer my losing the beastly cheque and Sir Reginald knowing we were so awfully hard up for money. But you see, father, it arrived at a critical moment, just when I was awaiting the result of my exam., knowing I was dreadfully in debt, and I had made up my mind to risk everything by backing the favourite in the big race. The money I had in hand was borrowed money. I know now it was rotten of me and I'm awfully ashamed. I promise you I shan't make a fool of myself again. I've—I've plenty of money to go on with, and if you want any——"
Dale shook his head. "I'm old-fashioned, I daresay you'll laugh at me. If I were a rich man I don't say I wouldn't do a bit of gambling myself occasionally. But we're poor, and perhaps that makes me extra proud. Keep your money, my boy; pay all your debts, but don't ask me to take any. I couldn't take money that you had won like that. You had no right to take the risk; therefore, to me it almost seems as if you had no right to the money. But it's too late to go back now, so use what's left, but use it carefully for your own sake."
Rupert bowed his head. He made up his mind to make a clean breast of everything, to tell his father about Ruby Strode and his love for her. But just as he was about to speak Dale interrupted him.
"I'm afraid you'll have to start by going back to town to-morrow morning. Sir Reginald left to-day and he said he was afraid it would be necessary for you to go up. It will only be for a couple of days, I expect, and you'll come straight back here, won't you?"
Rupert nodded. "Of course—I'll go if necessary, but I can't see why I should be wanted. I've told Sir Reginald all I know."
Dale cleared his throat uneasily. "It's not Sir Reginald, it's the officials at the bank and—Scotland Yard has charge of the affair. They want you to give them an exact account of your movements, what you did and where you went on the day you received and lost the cheque. It's the least you can do under the circumstances, my boy. You see, if the money's not recovered, I shall have to make it good."
Rupert nodded and said no more. His heart sank again. Yes, unless the bank recovered the money, whether his father was legally liable or not, Rupert knew that if it meant selling the old homestead and everything he possessed in the world to pay Sir Reginald, he would do so.
After all, perhaps he had won only to lose.
Before going to bed that night he knocked at the door of Marjorie's room, and he sat on the edge of her bed just as he had been accustomed to do in the old days when they were boy and girl together with not a thought in the world to trouble them, happy and contented in the life and work of the moorlands.
At first they talked of little things, things which had lost their importance to Rupert, but still went to make up life for Marjorie. Then she fell to questioning him, asking him about his life in London, and if he were happy.
"Somehow, you've changed," she confessed. "You don't look as well or so jolly as you used to. There's nothing seriously wrong, is there, old boy?"
He shook his head. "I'm all right. I've a secret which I want to tell you soon, but it's one that makes me happy, and I hope it will make you happy, too.... Of course, now you'll guess, but don't say anything. While I'm away I don't want you to be too much alone with Despard. He's all right, but he's a man's man—the sort of fellow who makes love to every pretty woman he sees. He can't help it, you know."
Marjorie sat up in her bed and laughed. "Is that a man's man?"
Rupert did not reply, but continued: "Last night, as I was coming back from Post Bridge Hall, I saw you and young Crichton pass me on the bridge. I don't want to interfere, dear, but, somehow, I wondered whether—it looked as though you cared for one another, perhaps——"
Marjorie's cheeks grew the colour of red roses. And, looking at her, as she sat up in her little white bed, with her auburn hair falling in wild disorder about her shoulders, her sun-kissed arms and neck warm against the white lace of her nightgown, he realised for the first time with something like a shock how very beautiful she was. Being a brother he had taken her for granted. He had only looked at her with a brother's eyes. Now he saw her as a man sees a woman; young, in the first flush of youth with warm blood in her veins, a body moulded and made for love.
"Yes, we do love one another," she whispered. "He wants me to marry him one day, but I haven't promised yet. Our positions are so different. I'm not good enough for him."
Rupert laughed. "You, not good enough!"
Marjorie nodded. "That's just what he said when I told him. But it's true. I'm only a farmer's daughter; he's the son of a gentleman. Don't say anything more, dear," as Rupert was about to reply. "Time will tell. If we really care for one another we can both wait until we're quite sure."
Bending down Rupert kissed his sister very gently. There were tears in his eyes. He rose from the bed and blew out the candle and the room was in darkness.
"To tell you the truth, I've been a bit of a rotter since I've been in London," he said, finding it easier to speak in the darkness. "Owing to my stupidity and selfishness, I've got to go up to town to-morrow, but it will only be for a couple of days, and when I come back I'll tell you my secret. For I've fallen in love, Marjorie. I'm beginning to feel as you do—that I'm not good enough for her.... She's wonderful."
He groped his way towards the door and opened it.
"I'm glad, dear," Marjorie whispered. "Good-night."
"Good-night," he replied as he shut the door quietly and went to his own room.
Perhaps it was true. Marjorie was only the daughter and he the son of a farmer. That was why he had made such a mess of things in London. But his eyes had been opened just in time. Love had opened them.
A farmer's son. But his father's ambition should be realised. He would learn to be a man and a gentleman.