* * * * *The result was brought to John Dale in Charing Cross Hospital by Mr. Redway. The kindly solicitor broke the bad news as best he could. He knew it was no use beating about the bush or trying to deceive the old man. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could say to alleviate the blow. He could only tell him, and in a gentle pressure of the hand try to convey his deep sympathy—and then leave him.Dale said nothing. He prepared himself for the worst, but the news for the moment was almost more than he could bear. He covered his face, so that none should see it.Fate could deal him no more crushing blow. His son—his first-born—his only son!He prayed that death would come and take him, since there was nothing left to live for.It was so Sir Reginald Crichton a few hours later found him and obtained permission to sit by his side until late into the night. He knew words were useless; but the old man was alone in London, apparently without a friend, and he felt that he could not leave him alone in the great hospital."You—why are you here?" John Dale asked at last. "You whom we have wronged so grievously.""I, too, am a father," Sir Reginald replied, bending over him. "I also have one son who is the apple of my eye. This thing might have happened to him, Mr. Dale—to my boy. That's why I am here. We have got to share this thing together."Then for the first time tears shone in Dale's eyes and ran down his cheeks. He tried to speak, but the poor lips trembled and quivered."Your son—is a—gentleman. He could never do anything—mean, Sir Reginald.""One never knows," Crichton replied. "Your boy must have been sorely tempted—if he did it."Dale raised himself in his bed, and dashed the tears from his eyes. "He did it," he cried fiercely, "and he must suffer for his sin. It is just he should pay the penalty. I'm an old man; it won't be easy to hold up my head and face the world now; but I'll do it. I'll fight still!""That's right!" Sir Reginald said cheerily. "You still have something to fight for.... There's your daughter, Mr. Dale."Dale started and dropped back on the pillows, hiding his face again. His daughter Marjorie. Sir Reginald's son loved her—and she loved him.A great wave of hatred for his son swept over him. Not only had he ruined his father, but he would break his sister's heart and ruin her life."I shall have to leave town to-morrow," Sir Reginald said as he took his leave. "But I understand you will be fit to be moved in a few days' time. Mr. Despard wished to be remembered to you, and said he would look in and see you to-morrow; and when you're fit to travel he says he'll take you down to Devonshire himself. He made a proposal to me directly the trial was over which I must say does him great credit. I am not at liberty to say what this thing was, but I hope you will be able to accept it—if not for your own, then for your daughter's sake. We have got to consider her now, Mr. Dale, before ourselves. She is young, and life is still sweet to her."Dale shook his head. "Nothing seems to matter now, Sir Reginald. I can't conceive what proposal Mr. Despard has to make. He is my son's friend, not mine. But as you justly say, I must consider Marjorie. For her I must live and fight in spite of the shame that has fallen upon me."Sir Reginald nodded. "That's right. I think you will find Mr. Despard means well, and sincerely wishes to help you—for Rupert's sake."He turned to go—then stopped. "Have you written or telegraphed to Marjorie—the result of the trial I mean?"Dale shook his head: "She's alone. If she were to hear from the lips of strangers——"Crichton nodded. "I tell you what I'll do; I'll wire to Jim the first thing to-morrow morning and tell him to go over and break the news. They're old friends and playmates. It will be better than if she sees it in the newspapers or gets it from the gossips——"But Dale started up in his bed and stretched out his hands. "No, you mustn't do that, Sir Reginald. You mustn't do it. Your boy must never see my daughter again—never!""Why not?" Sir Reginald asked, laying his hand on the old man's shoulder.Dale looked at him with haggard eyes. "Don't you know? Your son is in love with Marjorie. He wants to make her his wife!"Sir Reginald Crichton started and turned away: "My God!" he said under his breath. "I never suspected that! You're right, Dale, I'm afraid they must never meet again. I'm sorry—but it's impossible. Any thought of marriage. Utterly impossible now!"CHAPTER XIII.THE IRONY OF FATE.Rupert found that four weeks in prison was a lifetime.His experience at Holloway before the trial helped him not at all; though he remembered now, that at the time, it had shocked and horrified him. Yet the cruelty and ugliness had all been on the surface. Looking back on it now, after four weeks of the real thing, with the eyes of a professional, he saw the humorous as well as the dramatic side of it.If Holloway had been under the direction of the manager of a Drury Lane melodrama it could not have been run on lines better calculated to excite the common mind, and arouse the curiosity and the mirth of the vulgar. It had all been very cheap and dramatic. The great gates, barred and bolted in primeval fashion; the uniformed warders and wardresses, obviously chosen for their stature and their lack of humanity. The clanging of bells and the rattling of great bunches of keys. The herding together of guilty and innocent in pen-like places. The coming and going of numerous officials.The real thing was very different. It had not got the glamour of Holloway, or its melodramatic atmosphere with a dash of pantomime. There was an atmosphere of "Abandon hope all ye who enter here," about Wormwood Scrubbs, though the interior of the prison was not so depressing as the exterior—the Scrubbs itself.In about a week's time Rupert began to realise, not only where he was, but what he was. The warders, neither good, bad, nor indifferent, merely machines wrapped up in red tape, did their best to help him in this.The first thing he realised was that he was no longer a man, but a cypher, number three hundred and eighty-one. He was glad he had not a name any longer. The only drawback was that, though unknown in the prisons, he would remain Rupert Dale to the world outside.The next thing that dawned upon him was, that he was a criminal. A jury of his fellow-countrymen had found him guilty. There was nothing to grumble at in that!The difficulty lay in behaving like a guilty man. He had a curious feeling when eventually he was exercised with a batch of other convicts and attended Divine Service, that they resented him. In spite of having his head shaved, in spite of wearing a costume—a cross between a clown's and one beloved by music-hall comedians—he knew he did not look guilty. He was hall-marked with the broad arrow, but it took more than four weeks for the iron of prison life to enter his soul and make him really feel like a criminal; at times wish to be a criminal—until a curious feeling eventually came to him that he really was one—that he only wanted to be free again to prove the fact and show himself in his real colours.But for the first week or two he found himself without emotions, without feelings. Things had turned out as he wished them to. He was satisfied.The woman he loved was free! Even though she had accused herself no one believed her. What his father thought or felt he did not know. He did not want to think—yet. Perhaps nature was kind, and caused the reaction of the excitement and strain of the trial to act as an anæsthetic to his brain.At the periodical visits of his warders, when his food was brought him, when he had to clean out his cell or make his bed, or when he was taken out to exercise, he found himself quite unconsciously speaking to them, trying to enter into conversation. Silence was the first blow that struck him. After five days he began to wonder how he was going to manage five years of it. If it were enforced it would probably send him mad.He tried talking to himself, but that frightened him, and the one-sided conversation soon became brainless. He welcomed the visits of the chaplain until he found that that official considered it his duty to do all the talking. And, moreover, he did not want to talk about anything but the salvation of Rupert's soul. And as the unfortunate man had for years been dodging in and out of prison cells like a ferret in and out of rabbit holes trying to catch souls that were not at home, he had lost all real interest in the game and had fallen back on quoting texts in an unconvincing tone of voice. Certainly he called Three-eighty-one his "dear brother," but Rupert did not believe he meant it, and told him so. And so the chaplain's visits were cut short. The doctor was the only cheery human being in the prison.At first Rupert was exercised alone; as soon as he joined his gang he was slowly initiated into the conversation of eyes, lips, and gestures—the latter by far the most effective and subtle: a movement of a muscle of the face, the slightest elevation or depression of the shoulders, the crook of a finger, or even the pretence of stumbling as a man walked.The desire to learn this conversation saved him at the critical moment of his incarceration. Hour after hour as he lay alone in his prison cell he thought it out, drew imaginary pictures or diagrams on the floor. Like a dumb man every sense became preternaturally sharpened. He learnt how to speak with his eyes as well as his lips. He learnt, too, how to hide his eyes when he was watched or wished to be dumb.He took an interest in the most extraordinary or trivial things. A spider spun its web across two bars of the window in his cell. He took more interest in that spider's larder than probably did the spider itself; it was with mingled feelings of joy and horror that he saw the first fly caught—his feelings were so equally divided between the miserable captive and the other hungry insect. Once the spider dropped down with a silken thread right on his foot. Rupert held his breath, not daring to move a muscle, and he experienced the first thrill since he had been in prison when the tiny thing eventually crawled up his leg and ran across his hand!A day later, when he cleaned out his cell, he was told to wipe away the spider's web. He nearly refused, and the tears actually swam in his eyes as he obeyed.Under his breath he cursed the warder. Had the man no feelings; was he indeed a brute in human shape!For forty-eight hours afterwards he waited for the return of the spider, waited for it to climb down on its silken thread and run across his hand again: but in vain.One day as he exercised with his gang in the prison yard he noticed a man who once or twice before had been his leader in the dreary round—a young fellow with dark eyes, and protruding jaws that had evidently been broken in a fight. He noticed that he was talking to him. A spasmodic movement of his hands told Rupert that he wanted to say something.As they turned Rupert caught his eye and signalled that he was ready to receive a message. He was not yet an adept in this new art of conversation, but his senses were alert and his instincts already preternaturally sharpened. He concentrated his whole mind on his fellow convict, and, perhaps unconsciously, he read his thoughts even before he understood the message which hand and foot, head and shoulders sent with lightning-like rapidity.Translated, it meant that some of them were going to be removed from Wormwood Scrubbs prison."Good," Rupert signalled back. He found himself grinning until he read another signal of "Shut up!" from the blue-eyed convict.The change might be for the worse, but that did not trouble Rupert. There was to be a change! Perhaps a journey somewhere. Outside the prison walls. The silence would be broken.He wanted to shout aloud with joy. The silence would be broken! They would go out into the streets. The streets where there were cabs and omnibuses, and great drays with horses in them, and men and women hurrying to and fro; and children playing. They might even go a journey; in a train through fields and forests. They would see blue sky and perhaps sunshine.He thought of nothing else for the rest of the day; he dreamed of it at night. Next morning hope alternately rose and fell in his heart, refusing to die throughout the day's routine. He continually built pictures of the journey he might take. So far, the effect of prison had been to make him like a child again. Time had ceased to exist; he took no count of days, but the news of the change made him wonder how long he had been at Wormwood Scrubbs. A week, a month, a year?——It was curious how little he had thought of those he loved. At first, when he had been taken away from the Old Bailey, he had been temporarily overcome by remorse. The night after the trial he had suffered agonies. Yet curiously enough after that night, thoughts of the outside world and those he knew in it had not troubled him much. He had been a coward in so much as he had been afraid to think of his father or his sister—or Ruby.For he could not speak of them. He could not speak of them to a living soul. He could not write to them. If a letter had been permitted it would have been read and censored. So, not daring to write, he dared not think. Nature had been kind, and for weeks his brain had been anæsthetised by the deadly routine, the bare walls of his prison, the sudden and terrible change of environment.This happens to some natures. Thoughts are checked, memory sleeps, but there always comes a rude awakening. To other men it is the first few weeks of imprisonment that are the most terrible. A few never survive; their minds are wrecked, morally and spiritually they are ruined; then their suffering comes to an end.Rupert's awakening came one grey morning when at daybreak he found himself with half a dozen of his fellow convicts paraded in the yard, and, after a breakfast more generous than usual, marched outside the walls of Wormwood Scrubbs and conveyed in a van to an unknown destination—which proved to be Waterloo Station.The thrill of joy he experienced when he found himself standing on the platform surrounded by familiar sights, hearing familiar sounds, his nostrils inhaling familiar smells, was almost instantly followed by a sickening sense of fear. Fear of the unknown!He glanced at the men by his side all wearing the convict dress—the badge of shame. It suddenly struck him how funny they looked. He wondered if he cut as ridiculous a figure. Perhaps there might be some one on the platform whom he knew, some one who would recognise him.He stared with hungry eyes at the few people who passed. Forgetting what he was, he yearned to see a familiar face. And presently he realised that he and the other convicts were being stared at by men who were free.One man made a ribald jest. Others laughed. A few men looked with dull curiosity. A woman shuddered and turned away.Rupert bit his lip. It was not nice. Especially when he realised the handcuffs. He squared his shoulders and held up his head. He was not ashamed. There was nothing to be ashamed of.A newspaper boy passed; on his tray the morning newspapers and the illustrated magazines. Half a dozen pairs of yearning eyes followed him. Probably each convict would have sold his soul for a copy of theMorning Postor theDaily Chronicle. Opposite to where they were lined up, the station wall was covered with posters and play bills and advertisements.The first thing Rupert read was the "Ingenue Theatre," a poster staring at him in six-inch letters. His jaws dropped, and he blinked his eyes to drive away the mist that rose before them.Then the train backed into the station. The warder in charge gave a sharp order. As Rupert swung round in obedience to the command he saw another poster facing him, theFinancial Times, and beneath in huge letters one word—"RADIUM."He started, a frown knitted his brows. For a moment he forgot what he was, where he was. That one word had conjured up the past, swept the fog from his brain."Now, 381, what are you about?"He pulled himself together with an effort and rolled into a third-class compartment of the train with his fellow convicts.Radium! The word seemed to be burning into his brain. He said it aloud and received a sharp reprimand from the warder seated on his left by the window.There rose before his eyes a vision of Dartmoor, the disused tin-mine on his father's farm; Robert Despard and he groping in the semi-blackness up to their knees in water.... Their discovery of pitch-blende—and Despard's belief that, in that old worthless mine, there might lie hidden a fortune.A fortune for his father and his sister. His father whom he had ruined and shamed. And his sister!Again he blinked his eyes, driving away the mist before them. He found himself staring straight at the convict facing him. The man was talking to him. He saw the fingers of his handcuffed hands moving stealthily. He saw his half-closed eyes contracting and expanding. He answered:"Yes?""Dartmoor! Princetown Prison," was the reply he received.Rupert lay back and closed his eyes. He might have guessed. It was the irony of fate. They were taking him home, back to his own land, to Dartmoor.To Princetown Prison. The great monument of granite that broods over the valley of the Dart, from whose barred windows, if a man could gaze, he would see Blackthorn Farm ... and the disused tin-mine with its hidden fortune waiting to be claimed.CHAPTER XIV.THE PARTING OF THE WAYS.The words Sir Reginald had spoken to John Dale when he visited him at Charing Cross hospital after the trial, returned fairly frequently to his mind for many hours afterwards when he reached his own home on Dartmoor."This thing might have happened to my boy." He recalled, too, the old yeoman's reply when he reminded Sir Reginald that his son was a gentleman—and therefore could not do a mean thing.The Dales came of old yeoman stock; they could trace their family back as far, probably further, than the Crichtons. Old Dale was a gentleman right enough, and Crichton knew it would be impossible for him to do anything mean, much less dishonourable. Indeed, he had been the first to warn Sir Reginald that his daughter must never meet the baronet's son again.Sir Reginald did not find it easy to believe that Jim had fallen in love with Marjorie Dale. He had to presume, like all parents, that he had been blind. His boy had never been in the habit of keeping anything from him.Since Jim had grown up and become a man, their relationship had been that of brothers or dear comrades rather than father and son. Jim had always bluntly confessed to the few scrapes and peccadilloes into which he had got, and his tendency had been to exaggerate rather than diminish the few mistakes he had made in life.Probably he had not considered falling in love a mistake. But it is—a grievous one, to the elderly, or to those who have fallen in, been half-drowned, and crawled out again.Even had this terrible tragedy of the altering of the cheque never occurred, Sir Reginald knew he would have found it very difficult to agree to any engagement between his son and the daughter of John Dale.First of all, Jim was much too young to think of marriage. Secondly, when he did marry, it would be some one in his own cast, occupying the same rank in life or a higher one than he. For though Crichton kept his youth, he had already forgotten that he married for love, and,mirabile dictu, had been happy. Thirdly, Jim had apparently been wedded to his profession. He had already done excellent work in the Flying Corps, and his name was down for early promotion. He had received both public and official recognition for the services he had rendered to aerial navigation.Sir Reginald had meant to tackle him at once on his return home and tell him, what he felt sure Jim would have already realised, that it would be impossible for him to see Marjorie again, and, in future, they could not even be friends, much less lovers. He thought the task would be quite an easy one. Of course, he would be sorry for the girl, but she was still young, and would easily find a suitable husband later on in her own class; for Crichton was old-fashioned enough to still believe that marriage was the only suitable profession for a respectable female.But directly he saw Jim he realised that Rupert Dale's conviction had been a serious blow to him. As in duty bound, he walked across to Blackthorn Farm to sympathise with Marjorie, to give her the latest news of her father, and reassure her in case she should be feeling anxious as to his health. He knew as little about women as he did about the Bible. One had brought him into the world, and he believed the other kept him there; but he had never thought it necessary to go deeper into the subject. Both women and Bibles were necessary to the State. The place for both was the home and the church, and he had a good Protestant's profound distrust of the man who had too close an intimacy with, or quoted, either, except in the secret precincts of his own castle or the local cathedral.So, to his surprise, Marjorie greeted him calmly, with a smile, and gave him a cool, steady hand. He said the conventional thing in a conventional tone of voice, but she showed no signs of hysteria, neither did tears once rise to her eyes."I expect your father will be back in two or three days at the latest," he said. "Mr. Despard—one of—er—your brother's friends, is going to bring him down."He had nearly said one of your late brother's friends, but he checked himself in time. Of course, it would have been far better if Rupert had died, and Sir Reginald secretly hoped he would never live to come out of prison."Why is Mr. Despard bringing father home?" Marjorie asked. "Perhaps he was one of Rupert's friends, but he is practically a stranger to us both.""He has been exceedingly kind," Sir Reginald explained. "He is the only man your father knows in London at present. And I may say that he has given practical proof of his kindness and sympathy. He has done something I should like to have done myself—I won't say anything more about it now, but I will only hint that as long as you choose to remain at Blackthorn Farm no one will disturb you.... The property is your own again—for the mortgage will be redeemed."Marjorie said nothing, but Sir Reginald noticed that a frown puckered her forehead."I think Mr. Despard was very glad of the excuse your father's accident gave him to come down here again." He was trying to be tactful, and failing.With a woman's quick instinct Marjorie divined the hidden meaning of what he said. "Mr. Despard is not a man whose acquaintance I care to continue. I don't think father was impressed with him, either.""One can't always judge from appearances. When I first saw him I was certainly not prepossessed in his favour. But he is showing great solicitude for your father in his hour of trial. He is an exceedingly kind-hearted man, and—I know he is looking forward to seeing you again, Miss Dale."It was a feeble effort, and Sir Reginald felt ashamed of it directly afterwards. He held out his hand."If I can be of any service to you please let me know. I'm afraid you may find your position here a little difficult—but I'm sure we shall do our best to help you to forget the—er—the sorrow that has fallen upon you."Marjorie took his hand and held it. Then, raising her head, she looked straight into his eyes. "Tell me, please, do you believe my brother guilty?"Sir Reginald cleared his throat. It was an extraordinary, a stupid question. Had he not felt so sorry for the girl, he would have been irritated."Naturally, you haven't read the newspapers—the evidence. I'm afraid his guilt was proved beyond doubt. Of course, he must have been sorely tempted. The jury would not have found him guilty, my dear young lady, if they had not been absolutely certain of the justice of their verdict.""I'm not asking you what the jury thought. I want to know what you think. For I know that he's innocent. He did not do it."Sir Reginald pressed her hand tightly. He did not know what to say. That was the worst of women, they were so illogical. Rupert Dale had been found guilty by a jury of his own countrymen, therefore, of course, he was guilty."Why do you say you know he's innocent? You can't have proof. If you had——"A curious smile parted Marjorie's lips. She looked at Sir Reginald with sorrow in her eyes, almost pity."How strange men are! They only use their reason, never their instinct. Evidence has hanged many an innocent man, Sir Reginald, hasn't it? Instinct—which for some reason women have cultivated and men have neglected—tells me that my brother is innocent. I know. You will never know."Sir Reginald shrugged his shoulders. It was impossible to say anything. Argument would be useless and unkind. He pressed her hand again and was turning away when she stopped him."I also know why you came over to see me to-day."Sir Reginald flushed. "I came to——""To tell me that you will not allow an engagement between myself and Jim. He has told you, or you have found out, that we love one another."Sir Reginald dropped her hand. His body stiffened. He looked at her sternly. "Your father told me. My boy has said nothing. This is the first time in his life he has ever had a secret from me. I suppose you wished it kept a secret?"She shook her head."I haven't spoken to him yet," Sir Reginald continued, his voice hardening. "But, of course, as I hope you will realise, it's impossible, utterly impossible, that there can be any engagement between you. You must not see each other again. I'm very sorry, Miss Dale; but leaving this unfortunate affair of your brother's out of the question altogether, I should have looked with strong disapproval on any engagement of marriage, however remote. Jim is much too young——""To love?" she interjected quickly. "Surely youth is the time for love!" Then she gave a bitter laugh. "But, of course, you've forgotten.""My boy has his future to consider, his profession. He has only just started in life. Surely you must see, Miss Dale, that any alliance between you would ruin his career for ever."She bowed her head. "To be married to a girl whose brother is a convict. To marry the sister of the man who robbed her husband's father. Yes, I quite see it's impossible."She looked at him proudly and there was defiance in her eyes. "I am sure my father would never permit it, Sir Reginald, and as I am his only daughter and not yet of age, I suppose I should have to obey him. Yet, surely, it's for Jim to say what he'll do. You haven't spoken to him yet?""Not yet. I haven't had an opportunity."Sir Reginald was beginning to feel uncomfortable. "Has he said anything to you—since the result of the trial, I mean?""As to our future? Not a word," she replied. "But it's for him to decide. I shall not try to persuade him either way, though if I thought it would be better for him were we never to meet again, I might be persuaded to give way even in opposition to his wishes. I can't say yet. I haven't had time to think.... I've suffered, Sir Reginald. Rupert and I were more to each other than most brothers and sisters, perhaps. But Jim is more to me than father or mother. He's all the world to me.""Yes, yes, of course. But——""It's for he and me to decide," Marjorie said again. "This blow that has fallen, this shame, which I suppose attaches to my name, affects only him and me. Not you nor my father, not you nor anyone else in the world. We two must settle it, no one else."She bowed gravely, and Sir Reginald turned away without speaking again. There was nothing more to be said. He did not go straight home, he took a long walk. His wishes had never been opposed, and he had not expected opposition now.What would his son say?Directly after luncheon he broached the subject by asking when his leave was up."In about a week's time, guv'nor! Why, are you in a hurry to get rid of me?"Sir Reginald stood with his back to the great oak fireplace in the large panel dining-room, and with fingers that were not quite steady lit a cigar."When I bid Dale good-bye at Charing Cross Hospital before leaving London he told me your secret, Jim. I was sorry to hear it from a stranger's lips. You've never kept anything from me before."Jim nodded. "I'm sorry, sir. It was a secret I'll admit. Love is different—to other things, and I wanted to be sure of myself and sure of her.""That's all right. But this unfortunate affair has, of course, altered everything. I saw Marjorie this morning. I went over to sympathise with her and see if we could do anything to help her. She broached the subject.""About our marriage?"Sir Reginald looked at the end of his cigar. "There can be no question of marriage now.""Why not?""My boy!"There was a long silence. Father and son looked into one another's eyes. The father was the first to lower his gaze."I love her, sir.""Yes, of course." Sir Reginald coughed. "I'm sorry for you. But you're young. You—you don't know your own mind."Again a short silence. "Has anything I ever did at school or after I left school, at Sandhurst or at home or since I joined the Flying Corps, suggested to you that I don't know my own mind? That I am fickle or changeable?""No." Sir Reginald was not used to being questioned by his son. He was off his guard."I've never shown myself a coward in any way, father?"The old man started, came a step nearer to his boy and looked at him again. And his eyes lighted as he smiled. "Good heavens, Jim, you a coward! My dear boy!""I don't mean just physically," Jim continued. "No normal, healthy man's afraid, of course. I suppose it's the danger of my job that gives it a zest. I've never shown myself to be the other sort of coward, either, I hope?"Sir Reginald just held out his hand."Wouldn't it be cowardly, then, to desert the woman I love just at the moment she most wants me? I don't mean that she just wants my love, but she wants my protection. The protection my name can give her. We have a clean record, we Crichtons, haven't we? I shall be smirching it if I desert the woman I promised to marry just because her brother's turned out a bad egg.""A convict. A felon.""Yes, yes, but it would make no difference had he been a murderer."Sir Reginald turned away. His cigar fell into the grate, he leaned his arms on the mantelshelf and buried his face between his hands."What do you propose to do?" he asked eventually."To announce our engagement at once. Or, if that decision does not meet with her or your approval, to wait a little while and then announce it. I've given her my word, and I'm going to keep it. I'm sorry, father, if it hurts you, but you must see that I'm right.""I don't see it!" Sir Reginald cried fiercely. Then, after a few moments' silence, "Do you know what it means if you persist in marrying her? It means your career will be ended. You will have to send in your papers.""I don't think so."Sir Reginald turned round. "There can be no question. Do you mean to say if you married a convict's sister you would be tolerated in any regiment, in any decent society?"Jim sighed. "I don't know. Perhaps you're right. After all, aviation is not confined to the army. I can still do my job. The world's a big place, father."He stood by Sir Reginald's side and laid his hand on his shoulder."I'm sorry if I've hurt you, dad. But, leaving my feelings out of the question, putting aside society, even love, I feel it's my duty to keep my word, my duty to protect the woman who loves me."Sir Reginald nodded his head. He looked at his son through a mist. "Have you thought of your duty to me? Your duty to society, then—to the State?""The fact that I love will not prevent me doing all three. The woman I love is straight, clean, honourable. She has done nothing of which to be ashamed. If because of this woman you and society and the State refuse my services"—he shrugged his shoulders—"as I said, the world is large, father. I'm young, and I can fight."The old man held out his arms. "You're young and you'll forget. She'll forget, too, Jim. My boy, you don't know what you're doing. Why, she's only a girl. Inside of a year, she'll forget it. There are lots of men——" He stopped, hesitated, and looked at his son again. "Why, that fellow, Mr. Despard, who was down here a little while ago, I know he's in love with her——"Jim stopped him with a gesture. "Don't say any more, father. I don't think you quite understand. I've made up my mind. I've given my word and I'm going to keep it. I'll do everything in my power not to hurt you. But nothing, no one, will come between the woman I love and me."Sir Reginald Crichton dropped into a chair and sat huddled up, staring across the room. Jim stood by his side and put his arm around his shoulder. A long time they waited, but neither of them spoke. Each knew there was nothing more to be said.Youth and age had travelled side by side for a long time, until at last they had reached the inevitable barrier, the place where the road divided.The parting of the ways. To try to go on together meant destruction, yet the old man would not believe it. The young man, whose sight was clearer and whose heart was bolder, knew.CHAPTER XV.ESCAPE.The great convict prison of Princetown stands on the wildest part of Dartmoor, nearly fifteen hundred feet above the sea, surrounded by wild, rock-strewn tors, whose heather-covered slopes stretch for miles in every direction. Four main roads cross the moor from Plymouth to Moretonhampstead, and Tavistock to Ashburton. These unite at Two Bridges, where they cross the river Dart.In the triangle formed by the Plymouth and Tavistock roads which divide at Two Bridges lie the prison farms. This land has been reclaimed from the moors with years of heavy toil by the convicts. Only those who by good behaviour have earned a conduct badge are taken for work on the farms, where they have more freedom and even the chance of stolen conversation. Although the rule of silence is not relaxed, it is impossible for the warders, who stand on guard at every vantage point around the field in which the men are working, to hear; and the art of speaking without moving the lips is practised by every convict.Nearly six months had passed since Rupert had stepped from the train between two warders on to the tiny platform at Princetown, and for six months the prison walls had hidden from his longing eyes the moor that was his home.But eventually the day came when he was taken outside the prison walls to work in the fields. As he was marched with his gang through the great gates soon after the sunrise of an early summer morning he remembered with a curious tightening of his heart-strings another morning—he had forgotten how long ago—when he had entered those very gates with his friend Robert Despard.They had come to look over the prison, to stare at the prisoners.He choked back a laugh, and the convict marching on his left half turned his head and gave him a look of warning. They had reached the cross roads and the next moment halted outside the gate that led to the fields—for the convicts were never marched further along the road than was necessary.Rupert looked back at the risk of reprimand. It was at this very spot that his sister Marjorie had left them, going on into Princetown to do the week's shopping—and to buy herself a present with the money Rupert had given her!He stared dry-eyed along the broad highway. Tears never dimmed his eyes now, as they had done at first.Reaction had come long ago. He had gone through the fire and had come out hardened. For a little while his sufferings had been unbearable. He had prayed for death. Even his love for Ruby Strode had not been sufficient to give him a hold on life.In the great convict prison day and night had been merged into one. There had been no break to the dreadful monotony and the everlasting silence. Time had not been composed of days and nights, but of hours; hours of minutes, minutes of seconds—and each second had been an eternity.Part of his torture had been in thinking of the sufferings of those he loved. Of the woman who had tried to save him, and whose great love had brought him to this pass; of his father and sister, who, perhaps, would never hold up their heads again, ostracised by the so-called decent people.He did not even know how they managed to live, whether they had enough money to keep body and soul together. And it was that thought that sometimes nearly drove him mad.The old man who had sacrificed everything for his sake to make a gentleman of him; his beautiful little sister, who had been standing on the threshold of life with the dawn of love in her heart. He had robbed her, too, of life and of love.Over and over again he had pictured Marjorie and his father sitting in the old kitchen of the little farmhouse alone, afraid even to look at one another, afraid to talk. Shunned by all their neighbours. Poverty facing them, perhaps starvation, the farm going to rot and ruin before their eyes. And yet, had they but known, a fortune waited for them in that old, disused tin-mine. No one knew anything about it but his friend, Robert Despard.His eyes had been opened too late, and he knew what sort of a friend Despard was. He did not even dare hope that the man who had taken their hospitality would play the game and tell John Dale of the vast possibilities that were hidden in the mine on his property. He would keep the knowledge to himself and take advantage of it ... and of Marjorie!—Rupert's sister—whom he had professed to fall in love with.The convicts were crossing a patch of moorland towards the fields in which they were to work; the soft turf was beneath Rupert's feet, the blue sky above his head, the scent of gorse, already blossoming, in his nostrils. The sweet sounds and sights and scents stirred his blood. He gazed down into the valley across the Dart. There lay Two Bridges, almost a stone's throw away. Beyond, Post Bridge. He almost fancied he could see Blackthorn Farm! Were they still there, his loved ones, ekeing out a lonely, miserable existence, or had shame driven them away, and had the home they owned been taken? With a fortune lying hidden beneath the land!Sometimes he had wondered whether the story Despard told him about the traces of radium in the pitch-blende had been an hallucination on his part. But long ago, a month or two after his arrival at Princetown, he had made up his mind and sworn a solemn oath that he would wait for a chance of escape. He knew that no convict had ever succeeded in getting right away, but now and then some unfortunate had hidden on the moors for many days before he was captured.Knowing the country as he did it would be easy for Rupert, if he could make a dash for freedom, to get to Blackthorn Farm, see his father and tell him what lay hidden in the old mine just outside his very door. The place was mortgaged to Sir Reginald, and in that fact lay the one chance that Despard had been unable to either purchase or lease it. He would have to wait until Sir Reginald foreclosed and then buy it from him.Every week that passed, every day, meant that the chance of the fortune was slipping away from his father. Rupert knew by the time of the year that more than nine months had passed since he had been tried and sentenced. Unless he escaped within the year it would be too late.It might be too late now, but it was worth the risk. To get out from the prison cell, or from the great walls that surrounded the prison itself, was practically impossible. His only hope had lain in being sent to work in the quarries or fields.And now the chance had come. It seemed as if Providence had sent it.Suddenly the word "Halt!" rang out. Automatically Rupert stopped. The convicts were lined up and their numbers called over. Rupert raised his eyes.The man on his left was speaking to him again—using his usual signals—a man who had often been his companion in exercise within the prison walls and whose one idea, curiously enough, had also been escape.Rupert did not look at him. His fists were clenched, every muscle in his body was tight and taut. It required all his self-restraint not to make a dash then and there. He looked up: the blue sky flecked with fleecy clouds was above him, the sweet smell of new-mown hay was everywhere in the air; the soft bleating of sheep and the barking of a dog came faintly down the breeze from Beardown Hill, and along the white dusty road he could see the carrier's cart crawling to Post Bridge."No. 381, get on with your work!"The raucous voice of the warder brought him back to the fact that work was about to commence. As he lifted the hay on his fork he gazed around. The black forms of the warders stood like silhouettes against the sky, their rifles glinting in the sun, a wall as formidable, as impassable, as those of the prison behind him.By a lucky chance the convict who was raking by him now was his pal, No. 303. He had been plying him with questions of roads, paths, and distances to the nearest railway stations, and only yesterday had offered to make an attempt with him to escape. He was a small man with flaxen hair, which now stood up in a short, stiff stubble like a closely-mown cornfield, and the blue, dreamy eyes, whose kindly glance belied the broad arrows which covered every portion of his costume, made one wonder how this kindly little gentleman had earned the ten years, four of which had failed to stamp the convict brand upon his face. In all their many opportunities for secret conversation he had never confided in Rupert his crime or his name.He was a mystery, but his willingness and his ready obedience, his haunting smile and kindly blue eyes, had made him a favourite with the warders, who treated him with a lack of harshness that almost amounted to kindness. And as he worked as though his life depended upon it, and always with the same sad smile, he was allowed more freedom of movement within the limits of the warder's chain than any other convict.Once or twice during the day, whenever they were close together, No. 303 questioned Rupert as to the part of the moorlands they were on, how far from Princetown or Moretonhampstead."Keep your eyes open, the chance may come to-day."But Rupert shook his head. What chance had they, surrounded by armed men, in the broad light of day? True, there was always the chance of a fog, and though in the spring they were fairly common, as the summer advanced their appearance was rare.To-day the heat was oppressive, and though the sun shone in a cloudless sky a thin, almost imperceptible, haze hung over the tors, and the peaks shone with a curious light. Rupert noted this, for it sometimes was the precursor of a summer fog, and when these fogs did come they appeared suddenly, without warning—and as suddenly disappeared.In the afternoon a slight breeze, which now and then had blown from the hills, died down. There was not a breath of air. It was with a sigh of relief that even the warders saw the sun sink beneath the bank of grey cloud that had covered the western sky.The perspiration poured down the convicts' faces as they worked, and the warders began to throw anxious glances behind them where Great Tor had already disappeared in an ominous cloud-bank, which rolled down its slopes like cotton-wool. The field in which they were working was the furthest one from the prison, and just above Two Bridges, which lay at the bottom of a steep slope of rough grass. The field was separated from the road by another one, and a high wall without any gates ran down the whole length of the road.The head warder pulled out his watch. It was a quarter to five. He glanced at the low, white clouds which the least puff of wind might at any moment bring down and blot out the landscape.He sounded his whistle, and the convicts at once began to form up and the guard to close in. There was a few moments' delay while the rakes and forks were collected and the waggon brought up from the end of the field."Stand next me," No. 303 whispered to Rupert. "Our chance has come. You won't fail me!"Rupert, whose knowledge of the moor told him that escape was impossible for one as ignorant of his surroundings as poor 303, stooped down to tie his shoelace. "For God's sake, don't be a fool! Summer fogs are no good, I can't——""No. 381, stand up! All present, chief."The chief warder immediately gave the order to march, and the whole party moved up the centre of the field towards the prison, the warders marching beside their charges and the armed guard about thirty paces away extended so as to completely surround them.Further conversation was rendered impossible. A faint breeze began to stir the still air, bringing a damp mist, which beat in their faces. Rupert, with his eyes fixed on the ground, began to pray that the approaching fog might not blow away. A chance had come—for him. His heart went out in tender sympathy to the poor soul who could not face the long dreary years of his punishment yet to come, while his mind was torn in two by an agony of doubt.He, who knew the moors so well, did not believe for a moment that, alone and unhampered, he could escape; even if they could hide on the moors for a day or two, capture in the end was inevitable. All he wanted was to get to Blackthorn Farm; but 303 wanted to get clear away.Within a few minutes telephones and telegraphs would inform every town and village in the two counties, every railway station would be watched, every egress barred; every constable in Devon and Cornwall would block all roads.Suddenly the voice of the chief warder ordering the convicts to close up broke in upon his thoughts, and looking up he saw that the prison had disappeared—nothing but a white sea of fog lay all around, and even the walls of the field a few yards away were almost invisible! They were only two fields now from the prison, and the gang checked for a moment as the last gate but one was reached.Rupert was almost the centre of the gang, and he noticed that his own warder, who was just in front, was only just visible in spite of his dark uniform.As he reached the gate 303 gripped him by the arm, dropped on his knees behind the wall and disappeared. At this moment the chief warder gave the order to halt, and his heart flew into his mouth, for he thought 303's action had been seen. But the sound of some one shouting at the horses, and the chief warder's voice raised in angry question, reassured him.Without thinking of what he was doing he dropped on his face and crawled rapidly down the side of the wall. At the same moment the order to march was given and the noisy beating of his heart was drowned by the creaking of the waggon as it lumbered past.He lay perfectly still, flattened against the wall. He wondered why he heard no shot or other indication that they had been seen. The rear guards passed within six feet of him, and when their black forms were swallowed up by the white fog, he realised that their absence from the gang would not be discovered until they reached the prison.Leaping to his feet he ran along the wall, and almost immediately fell over 303, who was crouching against it."Quick, for God's sake follow me!" he whispered. "We must make for Beardown. This fog may blow away at any moment."They ran like hares; scrambling over the walls, falling into holes, stumbling on rocks, Rupert intent only on reaching Wistman's wood before the fog lifted.He had nothing to guide him but the knowledge of the direction in which he originally started from the wall and the moorman's instinct to prevent him from travelling in a circle, which is the inevitable fate of every one lost in a fog.They dropped on to a road, Tavistock Road. "Come on, we are right now!" Rupert cried excitedly.They scrambled over the wall and raced down the steep hillside. Suddenly they saw the gleam of water below them, bushes and stones appeared. They had left the fog behind, the valley was clear.As they plunged across the river and breasted the steep hill they saw the blessed fog shutting out Beardown Farm and all the tors above it."Quick! we must get up with the fog before we are seen. Thank God, there is no one in sight!"But poor 303 was no moorman, and he was already dropping behind."I can't do it, 381; go on without me!"Rupert turned back and, taking him by the arm, pulled him down into a little hollow behind a huge furze-bush and laid him on his back."You're only winded; we have run over a mile; you'll get your second wind in a minute," he whispered. "But we must not wait here a moment longer than absolutely necessary. If the fog should lift now, we are certain to be taken. I am going to make for Hartland Tor, which is close to my father's house; there is an old, disused mine below the tor in which we can hide for the present."Boom! A dull explosion echoed across the hills."What's that?" exclaimed 303."The alarm," Rupert replied. "We have not a moment to lose."
* * * * *
The result was brought to John Dale in Charing Cross Hospital by Mr. Redway. The kindly solicitor broke the bad news as best he could. He knew it was no use beating about the bush or trying to deceive the old man. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could say to alleviate the blow. He could only tell him, and in a gentle pressure of the hand try to convey his deep sympathy—and then leave him.
Dale said nothing. He prepared himself for the worst, but the news for the moment was almost more than he could bear. He covered his face, so that none should see it.
Fate could deal him no more crushing blow. His son—his first-born—his only son!
He prayed that death would come and take him, since there was nothing left to live for.
It was so Sir Reginald Crichton a few hours later found him and obtained permission to sit by his side until late into the night. He knew words were useless; but the old man was alone in London, apparently without a friend, and he felt that he could not leave him alone in the great hospital.
"You—why are you here?" John Dale asked at last. "You whom we have wronged so grievously."
"I, too, am a father," Sir Reginald replied, bending over him. "I also have one son who is the apple of my eye. This thing might have happened to him, Mr. Dale—to my boy. That's why I am here. We have got to share this thing together."
Then for the first time tears shone in Dale's eyes and ran down his cheeks. He tried to speak, but the poor lips trembled and quivered.
"Your son—is a—gentleman. He could never do anything—mean, Sir Reginald."
"One never knows," Crichton replied. "Your boy must have been sorely tempted—if he did it."
Dale raised himself in his bed, and dashed the tears from his eyes. "He did it," he cried fiercely, "and he must suffer for his sin. It is just he should pay the penalty. I'm an old man; it won't be easy to hold up my head and face the world now; but I'll do it. I'll fight still!"
"That's right!" Sir Reginald said cheerily. "You still have something to fight for.... There's your daughter, Mr. Dale."
Dale started and dropped back on the pillows, hiding his face again. His daughter Marjorie. Sir Reginald's son loved her—and she loved him.
A great wave of hatred for his son swept over him. Not only had he ruined his father, but he would break his sister's heart and ruin her life.
"I shall have to leave town to-morrow," Sir Reginald said as he took his leave. "But I understand you will be fit to be moved in a few days' time. Mr. Despard wished to be remembered to you, and said he would look in and see you to-morrow; and when you're fit to travel he says he'll take you down to Devonshire himself. He made a proposal to me directly the trial was over which I must say does him great credit. I am not at liberty to say what this thing was, but I hope you will be able to accept it—if not for your own, then for your daughter's sake. We have got to consider her now, Mr. Dale, before ourselves. She is young, and life is still sweet to her."
Dale shook his head. "Nothing seems to matter now, Sir Reginald. I can't conceive what proposal Mr. Despard has to make. He is my son's friend, not mine. But as you justly say, I must consider Marjorie. For her I must live and fight in spite of the shame that has fallen upon me."
Sir Reginald nodded. "That's right. I think you will find Mr. Despard means well, and sincerely wishes to help you—for Rupert's sake."
He turned to go—then stopped. "Have you written or telegraphed to Marjorie—the result of the trial I mean?"
Dale shook his head: "She's alone. If she were to hear from the lips of strangers——"
Crichton nodded. "I tell you what I'll do; I'll wire to Jim the first thing to-morrow morning and tell him to go over and break the news. They're old friends and playmates. It will be better than if she sees it in the newspapers or gets it from the gossips——"
But Dale started up in his bed and stretched out his hands. "No, you mustn't do that, Sir Reginald. You mustn't do it. Your boy must never see my daughter again—never!"
"Why not?" Sir Reginald asked, laying his hand on the old man's shoulder.
Dale looked at him with haggard eyes. "Don't you know? Your son is in love with Marjorie. He wants to make her his wife!"
Sir Reginald Crichton started and turned away: "My God!" he said under his breath. "I never suspected that! You're right, Dale, I'm afraid they must never meet again. I'm sorry—but it's impossible. Any thought of marriage. Utterly impossible now!"
CHAPTER XIII.
THE IRONY OF FATE.
Rupert found that four weeks in prison was a lifetime.
His experience at Holloway before the trial helped him not at all; though he remembered now, that at the time, it had shocked and horrified him. Yet the cruelty and ugliness had all been on the surface. Looking back on it now, after four weeks of the real thing, with the eyes of a professional, he saw the humorous as well as the dramatic side of it.
If Holloway had been under the direction of the manager of a Drury Lane melodrama it could not have been run on lines better calculated to excite the common mind, and arouse the curiosity and the mirth of the vulgar. It had all been very cheap and dramatic. The great gates, barred and bolted in primeval fashion; the uniformed warders and wardresses, obviously chosen for their stature and their lack of humanity. The clanging of bells and the rattling of great bunches of keys. The herding together of guilty and innocent in pen-like places. The coming and going of numerous officials.
The real thing was very different. It had not got the glamour of Holloway, or its melodramatic atmosphere with a dash of pantomime. There was an atmosphere of "Abandon hope all ye who enter here," about Wormwood Scrubbs, though the interior of the prison was not so depressing as the exterior—the Scrubbs itself.
In about a week's time Rupert began to realise, not only where he was, but what he was. The warders, neither good, bad, nor indifferent, merely machines wrapped up in red tape, did their best to help him in this.
The first thing he realised was that he was no longer a man, but a cypher, number three hundred and eighty-one. He was glad he had not a name any longer. The only drawback was that, though unknown in the prisons, he would remain Rupert Dale to the world outside.
The next thing that dawned upon him was, that he was a criminal. A jury of his fellow-countrymen had found him guilty. There was nothing to grumble at in that!
The difficulty lay in behaving like a guilty man. He had a curious feeling when eventually he was exercised with a batch of other convicts and attended Divine Service, that they resented him. In spite of having his head shaved, in spite of wearing a costume—a cross between a clown's and one beloved by music-hall comedians—he knew he did not look guilty. He was hall-marked with the broad arrow, but it took more than four weeks for the iron of prison life to enter his soul and make him really feel like a criminal; at times wish to be a criminal—until a curious feeling eventually came to him that he really was one—that he only wanted to be free again to prove the fact and show himself in his real colours.
But for the first week or two he found himself without emotions, without feelings. Things had turned out as he wished them to. He was satisfied.
The woman he loved was free! Even though she had accused herself no one believed her. What his father thought or felt he did not know. He did not want to think—yet. Perhaps nature was kind, and caused the reaction of the excitement and strain of the trial to act as an anæsthetic to his brain.
At the periodical visits of his warders, when his food was brought him, when he had to clean out his cell or make his bed, or when he was taken out to exercise, he found himself quite unconsciously speaking to them, trying to enter into conversation. Silence was the first blow that struck him. After five days he began to wonder how he was going to manage five years of it. If it were enforced it would probably send him mad.
He tried talking to himself, but that frightened him, and the one-sided conversation soon became brainless. He welcomed the visits of the chaplain until he found that that official considered it his duty to do all the talking. And, moreover, he did not want to talk about anything but the salvation of Rupert's soul. And as the unfortunate man had for years been dodging in and out of prison cells like a ferret in and out of rabbit holes trying to catch souls that were not at home, he had lost all real interest in the game and had fallen back on quoting texts in an unconvincing tone of voice. Certainly he called Three-eighty-one his "dear brother," but Rupert did not believe he meant it, and told him so. And so the chaplain's visits were cut short. The doctor was the only cheery human being in the prison.
At first Rupert was exercised alone; as soon as he joined his gang he was slowly initiated into the conversation of eyes, lips, and gestures—the latter by far the most effective and subtle: a movement of a muscle of the face, the slightest elevation or depression of the shoulders, the crook of a finger, or even the pretence of stumbling as a man walked.
The desire to learn this conversation saved him at the critical moment of his incarceration. Hour after hour as he lay alone in his prison cell he thought it out, drew imaginary pictures or diagrams on the floor. Like a dumb man every sense became preternaturally sharpened. He learnt how to speak with his eyes as well as his lips. He learnt, too, how to hide his eyes when he was watched or wished to be dumb.
He took an interest in the most extraordinary or trivial things. A spider spun its web across two bars of the window in his cell. He took more interest in that spider's larder than probably did the spider itself; it was with mingled feelings of joy and horror that he saw the first fly caught—his feelings were so equally divided between the miserable captive and the other hungry insect. Once the spider dropped down with a silken thread right on his foot. Rupert held his breath, not daring to move a muscle, and he experienced the first thrill since he had been in prison when the tiny thing eventually crawled up his leg and ran across his hand!
A day later, when he cleaned out his cell, he was told to wipe away the spider's web. He nearly refused, and the tears actually swam in his eyes as he obeyed.
Under his breath he cursed the warder. Had the man no feelings; was he indeed a brute in human shape!
For forty-eight hours afterwards he waited for the return of the spider, waited for it to climb down on its silken thread and run across his hand again: but in vain.
One day as he exercised with his gang in the prison yard he noticed a man who once or twice before had been his leader in the dreary round—a young fellow with dark eyes, and protruding jaws that had evidently been broken in a fight. He noticed that he was talking to him. A spasmodic movement of his hands told Rupert that he wanted to say something.
As they turned Rupert caught his eye and signalled that he was ready to receive a message. He was not yet an adept in this new art of conversation, but his senses were alert and his instincts already preternaturally sharpened. He concentrated his whole mind on his fellow convict, and, perhaps unconsciously, he read his thoughts even before he understood the message which hand and foot, head and shoulders sent with lightning-like rapidity.
Translated, it meant that some of them were going to be removed from Wormwood Scrubbs prison.
"Good," Rupert signalled back. He found himself grinning until he read another signal of "Shut up!" from the blue-eyed convict.
The change might be for the worse, but that did not trouble Rupert. There was to be a change! Perhaps a journey somewhere. Outside the prison walls. The silence would be broken.
He wanted to shout aloud with joy. The silence would be broken! They would go out into the streets. The streets where there were cabs and omnibuses, and great drays with horses in them, and men and women hurrying to and fro; and children playing. They might even go a journey; in a train through fields and forests. They would see blue sky and perhaps sunshine.
He thought of nothing else for the rest of the day; he dreamed of it at night. Next morning hope alternately rose and fell in his heart, refusing to die throughout the day's routine. He continually built pictures of the journey he might take. So far, the effect of prison had been to make him like a child again. Time had ceased to exist; he took no count of days, but the news of the change made him wonder how long he had been at Wormwood Scrubbs. A week, a month, a year?——
It was curious how little he had thought of those he loved. At first, when he had been taken away from the Old Bailey, he had been temporarily overcome by remorse. The night after the trial he had suffered agonies. Yet curiously enough after that night, thoughts of the outside world and those he knew in it had not troubled him much. He had been a coward in so much as he had been afraid to think of his father or his sister—or Ruby.
For he could not speak of them. He could not speak of them to a living soul. He could not write to them. If a letter had been permitted it would have been read and censored. So, not daring to write, he dared not think. Nature had been kind, and for weeks his brain had been anæsthetised by the deadly routine, the bare walls of his prison, the sudden and terrible change of environment.
This happens to some natures. Thoughts are checked, memory sleeps, but there always comes a rude awakening. To other men it is the first few weeks of imprisonment that are the most terrible. A few never survive; their minds are wrecked, morally and spiritually they are ruined; then their suffering comes to an end.
Rupert's awakening came one grey morning when at daybreak he found himself with half a dozen of his fellow convicts paraded in the yard, and, after a breakfast more generous than usual, marched outside the walls of Wormwood Scrubbs and conveyed in a van to an unknown destination—which proved to be Waterloo Station.
The thrill of joy he experienced when he found himself standing on the platform surrounded by familiar sights, hearing familiar sounds, his nostrils inhaling familiar smells, was almost instantly followed by a sickening sense of fear. Fear of the unknown!
He glanced at the men by his side all wearing the convict dress—the badge of shame. It suddenly struck him how funny they looked. He wondered if he cut as ridiculous a figure. Perhaps there might be some one on the platform whom he knew, some one who would recognise him.
He stared with hungry eyes at the few people who passed. Forgetting what he was, he yearned to see a familiar face. And presently he realised that he and the other convicts were being stared at by men who were free.
One man made a ribald jest. Others laughed. A few men looked with dull curiosity. A woman shuddered and turned away.
Rupert bit his lip. It was not nice. Especially when he realised the handcuffs. He squared his shoulders and held up his head. He was not ashamed. There was nothing to be ashamed of.
A newspaper boy passed; on his tray the morning newspapers and the illustrated magazines. Half a dozen pairs of yearning eyes followed him. Probably each convict would have sold his soul for a copy of theMorning Postor theDaily Chronicle. Opposite to where they were lined up, the station wall was covered with posters and play bills and advertisements.
The first thing Rupert read was the "Ingenue Theatre," a poster staring at him in six-inch letters. His jaws dropped, and he blinked his eyes to drive away the mist that rose before them.
Then the train backed into the station. The warder in charge gave a sharp order. As Rupert swung round in obedience to the command he saw another poster facing him, theFinancial Times, and beneath in huge letters one word—"RADIUM."
He started, a frown knitted his brows. For a moment he forgot what he was, where he was. That one word had conjured up the past, swept the fog from his brain.
"Now, 381, what are you about?"
He pulled himself together with an effort and rolled into a third-class compartment of the train with his fellow convicts.
Radium! The word seemed to be burning into his brain. He said it aloud and received a sharp reprimand from the warder seated on his left by the window.
There rose before his eyes a vision of Dartmoor, the disused tin-mine on his father's farm; Robert Despard and he groping in the semi-blackness up to their knees in water.... Their discovery of pitch-blende—and Despard's belief that, in that old worthless mine, there might lie hidden a fortune.
A fortune for his father and his sister. His father whom he had ruined and shamed. And his sister!
Again he blinked his eyes, driving away the mist before them. He found himself staring straight at the convict facing him. The man was talking to him. He saw the fingers of his handcuffed hands moving stealthily. He saw his half-closed eyes contracting and expanding. He answered:
"Yes?"
"Dartmoor! Princetown Prison," was the reply he received.
Rupert lay back and closed his eyes. He might have guessed. It was the irony of fate. They were taking him home, back to his own land, to Dartmoor.
To Princetown Prison. The great monument of granite that broods over the valley of the Dart, from whose barred windows, if a man could gaze, he would see Blackthorn Farm ... and the disused tin-mine with its hidden fortune waiting to be claimed.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE PARTING OF THE WAYS.
The words Sir Reginald had spoken to John Dale when he visited him at Charing Cross hospital after the trial, returned fairly frequently to his mind for many hours afterwards when he reached his own home on Dartmoor.
"This thing might have happened to my boy." He recalled, too, the old yeoman's reply when he reminded Sir Reginald that his son was a gentleman—and therefore could not do a mean thing.
The Dales came of old yeoman stock; they could trace their family back as far, probably further, than the Crichtons. Old Dale was a gentleman right enough, and Crichton knew it would be impossible for him to do anything mean, much less dishonourable. Indeed, he had been the first to warn Sir Reginald that his daughter must never meet the baronet's son again.
Sir Reginald did not find it easy to believe that Jim had fallen in love with Marjorie Dale. He had to presume, like all parents, that he had been blind. His boy had never been in the habit of keeping anything from him.
Since Jim had grown up and become a man, their relationship had been that of brothers or dear comrades rather than father and son. Jim had always bluntly confessed to the few scrapes and peccadilloes into which he had got, and his tendency had been to exaggerate rather than diminish the few mistakes he had made in life.
Probably he had not considered falling in love a mistake. But it is—a grievous one, to the elderly, or to those who have fallen in, been half-drowned, and crawled out again.
Even had this terrible tragedy of the altering of the cheque never occurred, Sir Reginald knew he would have found it very difficult to agree to any engagement between his son and the daughter of John Dale.
First of all, Jim was much too young to think of marriage. Secondly, when he did marry, it would be some one in his own cast, occupying the same rank in life or a higher one than he. For though Crichton kept his youth, he had already forgotten that he married for love, and,mirabile dictu, had been happy. Thirdly, Jim had apparently been wedded to his profession. He had already done excellent work in the Flying Corps, and his name was down for early promotion. He had received both public and official recognition for the services he had rendered to aerial navigation.
Sir Reginald had meant to tackle him at once on his return home and tell him, what he felt sure Jim would have already realised, that it would be impossible for him to see Marjorie again, and, in future, they could not even be friends, much less lovers. He thought the task would be quite an easy one. Of course, he would be sorry for the girl, but she was still young, and would easily find a suitable husband later on in her own class; for Crichton was old-fashioned enough to still believe that marriage was the only suitable profession for a respectable female.
But directly he saw Jim he realised that Rupert Dale's conviction had been a serious blow to him. As in duty bound, he walked across to Blackthorn Farm to sympathise with Marjorie, to give her the latest news of her father, and reassure her in case she should be feeling anxious as to his health. He knew as little about women as he did about the Bible. One had brought him into the world, and he believed the other kept him there; but he had never thought it necessary to go deeper into the subject. Both women and Bibles were necessary to the State. The place for both was the home and the church, and he had a good Protestant's profound distrust of the man who had too close an intimacy with, or quoted, either, except in the secret precincts of his own castle or the local cathedral.
So, to his surprise, Marjorie greeted him calmly, with a smile, and gave him a cool, steady hand. He said the conventional thing in a conventional tone of voice, but she showed no signs of hysteria, neither did tears once rise to her eyes.
"I expect your father will be back in two or three days at the latest," he said. "Mr. Despard—one of—er—your brother's friends, is going to bring him down."
He had nearly said one of your late brother's friends, but he checked himself in time. Of course, it would have been far better if Rupert had died, and Sir Reginald secretly hoped he would never live to come out of prison.
"Why is Mr. Despard bringing father home?" Marjorie asked. "Perhaps he was one of Rupert's friends, but he is practically a stranger to us both."
"He has been exceedingly kind," Sir Reginald explained. "He is the only man your father knows in London at present. And I may say that he has given practical proof of his kindness and sympathy. He has done something I should like to have done myself—I won't say anything more about it now, but I will only hint that as long as you choose to remain at Blackthorn Farm no one will disturb you.... The property is your own again—for the mortgage will be redeemed."
Marjorie said nothing, but Sir Reginald noticed that a frown puckered her forehead.
"I think Mr. Despard was very glad of the excuse your father's accident gave him to come down here again." He was trying to be tactful, and failing.
With a woman's quick instinct Marjorie divined the hidden meaning of what he said. "Mr. Despard is not a man whose acquaintance I care to continue. I don't think father was impressed with him, either."
"One can't always judge from appearances. When I first saw him I was certainly not prepossessed in his favour. But he is showing great solicitude for your father in his hour of trial. He is an exceedingly kind-hearted man, and—I know he is looking forward to seeing you again, Miss Dale."
It was a feeble effort, and Sir Reginald felt ashamed of it directly afterwards. He held out his hand.
"If I can be of any service to you please let me know. I'm afraid you may find your position here a little difficult—but I'm sure we shall do our best to help you to forget the—er—the sorrow that has fallen upon you."
Marjorie took his hand and held it. Then, raising her head, she looked straight into his eyes. "Tell me, please, do you believe my brother guilty?"
Sir Reginald cleared his throat. It was an extraordinary, a stupid question. Had he not felt so sorry for the girl, he would have been irritated.
"Naturally, you haven't read the newspapers—the evidence. I'm afraid his guilt was proved beyond doubt. Of course, he must have been sorely tempted. The jury would not have found him guilty, my dear young lady, if they had not been absolutely certain of the justice of their verdict."
"I'm not asking you what the jury thought. I want to know what you think. For I know that he's innocent. He did not do it."
Sir Reginald pressed her hand tightly. He did not know what to say. That was the worst of women, they were so illogical. Rupert Dale had been found guilty by a jury of his own countrymen, therefore, of course, he was guilty.
"Why do you say you know he's innocent? You can't have proof. If you had——"
A curious smile parted Marjorie's lips. She looked at Sir Reginald with sorrow in her eyes, almost pity.
"How strange men are! They only use their reason, never their instinct. Evidence has hanged many an innocent man, Sir Reginald, hasn't it? Instinct—which for some reason women have cultivated and men have neglected—tells me that my brother is innocent. I know. You will never know."
Sir Reginald shrugged his shoulders. It was impossible to say anything. Argument would be useless and unkind. He pressed her hand again and was turning away when she stopped him.
"I also know why you came over to see me to-day."
Sir Reginald flushed. "I came to——"
"To tell me that you will not allow an engagement between myself and Jim. He has told you, or you have found out, that we love one another."
Sir Reginald dropped her hand. His body stiffened. He looked at her sternly. "Your father told me. My boy has said nothing. This is the first time in his life he has ever had a secret from me. I suppose you wished it kept a secret?"
She shook her head.
"I haven't spoken to him yet," Sir Reginald continued, his voice hardening. "But, of course, as I hope you will realise, it's impossible, utterly impossible, that there can be any engagement between you. You must not see each other again. I'm very sorry, Miss Dale; but leaving this unfortunate affair of your brother's out of the question altogether, I should have looked with strong disapproval on any engagement of marriage, however remote. Jim is much too young——"
"To love?" she interjected quickly. "Surely youth is the time for love!" Then she gave a bitter laugh. "But, of course, you've forgotten."
"My boy has his future to consider, his profession. He has only just started in life. Surely you must see, Miss Dale, that any alliance between you would ruin his career for ever."
She bowed her head. "To be married to a girl whose brother is a convict. To marry the sister of the man who robbed her husband's father. Yes, I quite see it's impossible."
She looked at him proudly and there was defiance in her eyes. "I am sure my father would never permit it, Sir Reginald, and as I am his only daughter and not yet of age, I suppose I should have to obey him. Yet, surely, it's for Jim to say what he'll do. You haven't spoken to him yet?"
"Not yet. I haven't had an opportunity."
Sir Reginald was beginning to feel uncomfortable. "Has he said anything to you—since the result of the trial, I mean?"
"As to our future? Not a word," she replied. "But it's for him to decide. I shall not try to persuade him either way, though if I thought it would be better for him were we never to meet again, I might be persuaded to give way even in opposition to his wishes. I can't say yet. I haven't had time to think.... I've suffered, Sir Reginald. Rupert and I were more to each other than most brothers and sisters, perhaps. But Jim is more to me than father or mother. He's all the world to me."
"Yes, yes, of course. But——"
"It's for he and me to decide," Marjorie said again. "This blow that has fallen, this shame, which I suppose attaches to my name, affects only him and me. Not you nor my father, not you nor anyone else in the world. We two must settle it, no one else."
She bowed gravely, and Sir Reginald turned away without speaking again. There was nothing more to be said. He did not go straight home, he took a long walk. His wishes had never been opposed, and he had not expected opposition now.
What would his son say?
Directly after luncheon he broached the subject by asking when his leave was up.
"In about a week's time, guv'nor! Why, are you in a hurry to get rid of me?"
Sir Reginald stood with his back to the great oak fireplace in the large panel dining-room, and with fingers that were not quite steady lit a cigar.
"When I bid Dale good-bye at Charing Cross Hospital before leaving London he told me your secret, Jim. I was sorry to hear it from a stranger's lips. You've never kept anything from me before."
Jim nodded. "I'm sorry, sir. It was a secret I'll admit. Love is different—to other things, and I wanted to be sure of myself and sure of her."
"That's all right. But this unfortunate affair has, of course, altered everything. I saw Marjorie this morning. I went over to sympathise with her and see if we could do anything to help her. She broached the subject."
"About our marriage?"
Sir Reginald looked at the end of his cigar. "There can be no question of marriage now."
"Why not?"
"My boy!"
There was a long silence. Father and son looked into one another's eyes. The father was the first to lower his gaze.
"I love her, sir."
"Yes, of course." Sir Reginald coughed. "I'm sorry for you. But you're young. You—you don't know your own mind."
Again a short silence. "Has anything I ever did at school or after I left school, at Sandhurst or at home or since I joined the Flying Corps, suggested to you that I don't know my own mind? That I am fickle or changeable?"
"No." Sir Reginald was not used to being questioned by his son. He was off his guard.
"I've never shown myself a coward in any way, father?"
The old man started, came a step nearer to his boy and looked at him again. And his eyes lighted as he smiled. "Good heavens, Jim, you a coward! My dear boy!"
"I don't mean just physically," Jim continued. "No normal, healthy man's afraid, of course. I suppose it's the danger of my job that gives it a zest. I've never shown myself to be the other sort of coward, either, I hope?"
Sir Reginald just held out his hand.
"Wouldn't it be cowardly, then, to desert the woman I love just at the moment she most wants me? I don't mean that she just wants my love, but she wants my protection. The protection my name can give her. We have a clean record, we Crichtons, haven't we? I shall be smirching it if I desert the woman I promised to marry just because her brother's turned out a bad egg."
"A convict. A felon."
"Yes, yes, but it would make no difference had he been a murderer."
Sir Reginald turned away. His cigar fell into the grate, he leaned his arms on the mantelshelf and buried his face between his hands.
"What do you propose to do?" he asked eventually.
"To announce our engagement at once. Or, if that decision does not meet with her or your approval, to wait a little while and then announce it. I've given her my word, and I'm going to keep it. I'm sorry, father, if it hurts you, but you must see that I'm right."
"I don't see it!" Sir Reginald cried fiercely. Then, after a few moments' silence, "Do you know what it means if you persist in marrying her? It means your career will be ended. You will have to send in your papers."
"I don't think so."
Sir Reginald turned round. "There can be no question. Do you mean to say if you married a convict's sister you would be tolerated in any regiment, in any decent society?"
Jim sighed. "I don't know. Perhaps you're right. After all, aviation is not confined to the army. I can still do my job. The world's a big place, father."
He stood by Sir Reginald's side and laid his hand on his shoulder.
"I'm sorry if I've hurt you, dad. But, leaving my feelings out of the question, putting aside society, even love, I feel it's my duty to keep my word, my duty to protect the woman who loves me."
Sir Reginald nodded his head. He looked at his son through a mist. "Have you thought of your duty to me? Your duty to society, then—to the State?"
"The fact that I love will not prevent me doing all three. The woman I love is straight, clean, honourable. She has done nothing of which to be ashamed. If because of this woman you and society and the State refuse my services"—he shrugged his shoulders—"as I said, the world is large, father. I'm young, and I can fight."
The old man held out his arms. "You're young and you'll forget. She'll forget, too, Jim. My boy, you don't know what you're doing. Why, she's only a girl. Inside of a year, she'll forget it. There are lots of men——" He stopped, hesitated, and looked at his son again. "Why, that fellow, Mr. Despard, who was down here a little while ago, I know he's in love with her——"
Jim stopped him with a gesture. "Don't say any more, father. I don't think you quite understand. I've made up my mind. I've given my word and I'm going to keep it. I'll do everything in my power not to hurt you. But nothing, no one, will come between the woman I love and me."
Sir Reginald Crichton dropped into a chair and sat huddled up, staring across the room. Jim stood by his side and put his arm around his shoulder. A long time they waited, but neither of them spoke. Each knew there was nothing more to be said.
Youth and age had travelled side by side for a long time, until at last they had reached the inevitable barrier, the place where the road divided.
The parting of the ways. To try to go on together meant destruction, yet the old man would not believe it. The young man, whose sight was clearer and whose heart was bolder, knew.
CHAPTER XV.
ESCAPE.
The great convict prison of Princetown stands on the wildest part of Dartmoor, nearly fifteen hundred feet above the sea, surrounded by wild, rock-strewn tors, whose heather-covered slopes stretch for miles in every direction. Four main roads cross the moor from Plymouth to Moretonhampstead, and Tavistock to Ashburton. These unite at Two Bridges, where they cross the river Dart.
In the triangle formed by the Plymouth and Tavistock roads which divide at Two Bridges lie the prison farms. This land has been reclaimed from the moors with years of heavy toil by the convicts. Only those who by good behaviour have earned a conduct badge are taken for work on the farms, where they have more freedom and even the chance of stolen conversation. Although the rule of silence is not relaxed, it is impossible for the warders, who stand on guard at every vantage point around the field in which the men are working, to hear; and the art of speaking without moving the lips is practised by every convict.
Nearly six months had passed since Rupert had stepped from the train between two warders on to the tiny platform at Princetown, and for six months the prison walls had hidden from his longing eyes the moor that was his home.
But eventually the day came when he was taken outside the prison walls to work in the fields. As he was marched with his gang through the great gates soon after the sunrise of an early summer morning he remembered with a curious tightening of his heart-strings another morning—he had forgotten how long ago—when he had entered those very gates with his friend Robert Despard.
They had come to look over the prison, to stare at the prisoners.
He choked back a laugh, and the convict marching on his left half turned his head and gave him a look of warning. They had reached the cross roads and the next moment halted outside the gate that led to the fields—for the convicts were never marched further along the road than was necessary.
Rupert looked back at the risk of reprimand. It was at this very spot that his sister Marjorie had left them, going on into Princetown to do the week's shopping—and to buy herself a present with the money Rupert had given her!
He stared dry-eyed along the broad highway. Tears never dimmed his eyes now, as they had done at first.
Reaction had come long ago. He had gone through the fire and had come out hardened. For a little while his sufferings had been unbearable. He had prayed for death. Even his love for Ruby Strode had not been sufficient to give him a hold on life.
In the great convict prison day and night had been merged into one. There had been no break to the dreadful monotony and the everlasting silence. Time had not been composed of days and nights, but of hours; hours of minutes, minutes of seconds—and each second had been an eternity.
Part of his torture had been in thinking of the sufferings of those he loved. Of the woman who had tried to save him, and whose great love had brought him to this pass; of his father and sister, who, perhaps, would never hold up their heads again, ostracised by the so-called decent people.
He did not even know how they managed to live, whether they had enough money to keep body and soul together. And it was that thought that sometimes nearly drove him mad.
The old man who had sacrificed everything for his sake to make a gentleman of him; his beautiful little sister, who had been standing on the threshold of life with the dawn of love in her heart. He had robbed her, too, of life and of love.
Over and over again he had pictured Marjorie and his father sitting in the old kitchen of the little farmhouse alone, afraid even to look at one another, afraid to talk. Shunned by all their neighbours. Poverty facing them, perhaps starvation, the farm going to rot and ruin before their eyes. And yet, had they but known, a fortune waited for them in that old, disused tin-mine. No one knew anything about it but his friend, Robert Despard.
His eyes had been opened too late, and he knew what sort of a friend Despard was. He did not even dare hope that the man who had taken their hospitality would play the game and tell John Dale of the vast possibilities that were hidden in the mine on his property. He would keep the knowledge to himself and take advantage of it ... and of Marjorie!—Rupert's sister—whom he had professed to fall in love with.
The convicts were crossing a patch of moorland towards the fields in which they were to work; the soft turf was beneath Rupert's feet, the blue sky above his head, the scent of gorse, already blossoming, in his nostrils. The sweet sounds and sights and scents stirred his blood. He gazed down into the valley across the Dart. There lay Two Bridges, almost a stone's throw away. Beyond, Post Bridge. He almost fancied he could see Blackthorn Farm! Were they still there, his loved ones, ekeing out a lonely, miserable existence, or had shame driven them away, and had the home they owned been taken? With a fortune lying hidden beneath the land!
Sometimes he had wondered whether the story Despard told him about the traces of radium in the pitch-blende had been an hallucination on his part. But long ago, a month or two after his arrival at Princetown, he had made up his mind and sworn a solemn oath that he would wait for a chance of escape. He knew that no convict had ever succeeded in getting right away, but now and then some unfortunate had hidden on the moors for many days before he was captured.
Knowing the country as he did it would be easy for Rupert, if he could make a dash for freedom, to get to Blackthorn Farm, see his father and tell him what lay hidden in the old mine just outside his very door. The place was mortgaged to Sir Reginald, and in that fact lay the one chance that Despard had been unable to either purchase or lease it. He would have to wait until Sir Reginald foreclosed and then buy it from him.
Every week that passed, every day, meant that the chance of the fortune was slipping away from his father. Rupert knew by the time of the year that more than nine months had passed since he had been tried and sentenced. Unless he escaped within the year it would be too late.
It might be too late now, but it was worth the risk. To get out from the prison cell, or from the great walls that surrounded the prison itself, was practically impossible. His only hope had lain in being sent to work in the quarries or fields.
And now the chance had come. It seemed as if Providence had sent it.
Suddenly the word "Halt!" rang out. Automatically Rupert stopped. The convicts were lined up and their numbers called over. Rupert raised his eyes.
The man on his left was speaking to him again—using his usual signals—a man who had often been his companion in exercise within the prison walls and whose one idea, curiously enough, had also been escape.
Rupert did not look at him. His fists were clenched, every muscle in his body was tight and taut. It required all his self-restraint not to make a dash then and there. He looked up: the blue sky flecked with fleecy clouds was above him, the sweet smell of new-mown hay was everywhere in the air; the soft bleating of sheep and the barking of a dog came faintly down the breeze from Beardown Hill, and along the white dusty road he could see the carrier's cart crawling to Post Bridge.
"No. 381, get on with your work!"
The raucous voice of the warder brought him back to the fact that work was about to commence. As he lifted the hay on his fork he gazed around. The black forms of the warders stood like silhouettes against the sky, their rifles glinting in the sun, a wall as formidable, as impassable, as those of the prison behind him.
By a lucky chance the convict who was raking by him now was his pal, No. 303. He had been plying him with questions of roads, paths, and distances to the nearest railway stations, and only yesterday had offered to make an attempt with him to escape. He was a small man with flaxen hair, which now stood up in a short, stiff stubble like a closely-mown cornfield, and the blue, dreamy eyes, whose kindly glance belied the broad arrows which covered every portion of his costume, made one wonder how this kindly little gentleman had earned the ten years, four of which had failed to stamp the convict brand upon his face. In all their many opportunities for secret conversation he had never confided in Rupert his crime or his name.
He was a mystery, but his willingness and his ready obedience, his haunting smile and kindly blue eyes, had made him a favourite with the warders, who treated him with a lack of harshness that almost amounted to kindness. And as he worked as though his life depended upon it, and always with the same sad smile, he was allowed more freedom of movement within the limits of the warder's chain than any other convict.
Once or twice during the day, whenever they were close together, No. 303 questioned Rupert as to the part of the moorlands they were on, how far from Princetown or Moretonhampstead.
"Keep your eyes open, the chance may come to-day."
But Rupert shook his head. What chance had they, surrounded by armed men, in the broad light of day? True, there was always the chance of a fog, and though in the spring they were fairly common, as the summer advanced their appearance was rare.
To-day the heat was oppressive, and though the sun shone in a cloudless sky a thin, almost imperceptible, haze hung over the tors, and the peaks shone with a curious light. Rupert noted this, for it sometimes was the precursor of a summer fog, and when these fogs did come they appeared suddenly, without warning—and as suddenly disappeared.
In the afternoon a slight breeze, which now and then had blown from the hills, died down. There was not a breath of air. It was with a sigh of relief that even the warders saw the sun sink beneath the bank of grey cloud that had covered the western sky.
The perspiration poured down the convicts' faces as they worked, and the warders began to throw anxious glances behind them where Great Tor had already disappeared in an ominous cloud-bank, which rolled down its slopes like cotton-wool. The field in which they were working was the furthest one from the prison, and just above Two Bridges, which lay at the bottom of a steep slope of rough grass. The field was separated from the road by another one, and a high wall without any gates ran down the whole length of the road.
The head warder pulled out his watch. It was a quarter to five. He glanced at the low, white clouds which the least puff of wind might at any moment bring down and blot out the landscape.
He sounded his whistle, and the convicts at once began to form up and the guard to close in. There was a few moments' delay while the rakes and forks were collected and the waggon brought up from the end of the field.
"Stand next me," No. 303 whispered to Rupert. "Our chance has come. You won't fail me!"
Rupert, whose knowledge of the moor told him that escape was impossible for one as ignorant of his surroundings as poor 303, stooped down to tie his shoelace. "For God's sake, don't be a fool! Summer fogs are no good, I can't——"
"No. 381, stand up! All present, chief."
The chief warder immediately gave the order to march, and the whole party moved up the centre of the field towards the prison, the warders marching beside their charges and the armed guard about thirty paces away extended so as to completely surround them.
Further conversation was rendered impossible. A faint breeze began to stir the still air, bringing a damp mist, which beat in their faces. Rupert, with his eyes fixed on the ground, began to pray that the approaching fog might not blow away. A chance had come—for him. His heart went out in tender sympathy to the poor soul who could not face the long dreary years of his punishment yet to come, while his mind was torn in two by an agony of doubt.
He, who knew the moors so well, did not believe for a moment that, alone and unhampered, he could escape; even if they could hide on the moors for a day or two, capture in the end was inevitable. All he wanted was to get to Blackthorn Farm; but 303 wanted to get clear away.
Within a few minutes telephones and telegraphs would inform every town and village in the two counties, every railway station would be watched, every egress barred; every constable in Devon and Cornwall would block all roads.
Suddenly the voice of the chief warder ordering the convicts to close up broke in upon his thoughts, and looking up he saw that the prison had disappeared—nothing but a white sea of fog lay all around, and even the walls of the field a few yards away were almost invisible! They were only two fields now from the prison, and the gang checked for a moment as the last gate but one was reached.
Rupert was almost the centre of the gang, and he noticed that his own warder, who was just in front, was only just visible in spite of his dark uniform.
As he reached the gate 303 gripped him by the arm, dropped on his knees behind the wall and disappeared. At this moment the chief warder gave the order to halt, and his heart flew into his mouth, for he thought 303's action had been seen. But the sound of some one shouting at the horses, and the chief warder's voice raised in angry question, reassured him.
Without thinking of what he was doing he dropped on his face and crawled rapidly down the side of the wall. At the same moment the order to march was given and the noisy beating of his heart was drowned by the creaking of the waggon as it lumbered past.
He lay perfectly still, flattened against the wall. He wondered why he heard no shot or other indication that they had been seen. The rear guards passed within six feet of him, and when their black forms were swallowed up by the white fog, he realised that their absence from the gang would not be discovered until they reached the prison.
Leaping to his feet he ran along the wall, and almost immediately fell over 303, who was crouching against it.
"Quick, for God's sake follow me!" he whispered. "We must make for Beardown. This fog may blow away at any moment."
They ran like hares; scrambling over the walls, falling into holes, stumbling on rocks, Rupert intent only on reaching Wistman's wood before the fog lifted.
He had nothing to guide him but the knowledge of the direction in which he originally started from the wall and the moorman's instinct to prevent him from travelling in a circle, which is the inevitable fate of every one lost in a fog.
They dropped on to a road, Tavistock Road. "Come on, we are right now!" Rupert cried excitedly.
They scrambled over the wall and raced down the steep hillside. Suddenly they saw the gleam of water below them, bushes and stones appeared. They had left the fog behind, the valley was clear.
As they plunged across the river and breasted the steep hill they saw the blessed fog shutting out Beardown Farm and all the tors above it.
"Quick! we must get up with the fog before we are seen. Thank God, there is no one in sight!"
But poor 303 was no moorman, and he was already dropping behind.
"I can't do it, 381; go on without me!"
Rupert turned back and, taking him by the arm, pulled him down into a little hollow behind a huge furze-bush and laid him on his back.
"You're only winded; we have run over a mile; you'll get your second wind in a minute," he whispered. "But we must not wait here a moment longer than absolutely necessary. If the fog should lift now, we are certain to be taken. I am going to make for Hartland Tor, which is close to my father's house; there is an old, disused mine below the tor in which we can hide for the present."
Boom! A dull explosion echoed across the hills.
"What's that?" exclaimed 303.
"The alarm," Rupert replied. "We have not a moment to lose."