CHAPTER XVAlive from the DeadThat evening Mrs. Power was walking along the road which bordered the Farncourt preserves, when her attention was arrested by the sound of groaning on the other side of the wall. For a moment her heart stood still with fear, but she was not naturally timid, and the thought that someone was in trouble urged her to make closer research.She turned in the direction whence the moans came, and peeped over into the plantation. To her horror she saw a man lying on the ground, only a few steps away from her, his face pale as death and streaked with blood."I must go to him," she said to herself, "he looks as if he were dying there, all alone in the wood."Climbing over the low wall, she soon reached his side."Why, it's Ben Green!" she exclaimed in surprise. "How ever has he got into this plight? I'm afraid he is badly hurt, poor fellow. He seems quite unconscious, and I think his arm must be broken, it hangs so limply from the shoulder."She wetted her handkerchief in the rivulet which ran through the coppice, and wiped the stains from his face, then, binding the cool bandage round his forehead, she rose to her feet and started off towards the village."The sooner I get help, the better," she decided. "I can't do him any good by staying with him here."It was not long before the wounded man was carefully borne on a stretcher to his room at "The Bull," and his injuries ascertained by the doctor."He has been badly shot," was the report. "It is a marvel he was not killed on the spot. If one of the pellets had gone a quarter of an inch more to one side, it would have penetrated the brain. As it is, he is suffering from shock and loss of blood, besides the injury to the arm, which was evidently caused by a fall."Tongues were let loose that evening in the little hamlet, as conjectures and suggestions were freely bandied to and fro."I must say it looks queer," remarked Jones, the keeper, as he discussed the situation with a knot of men at the public-house door. "The squire goes to that there wood in the morning with his gun, and refuses to let me come with him, as would only have been natural, for to pick up the birds. Mrs. Power she finds a man shot in that very wood a few hours later, and as all here know, there was no one whom Mr. Field would sooner see put out of the way than this same identical victim. He was in a fine temper when I met him, and it's my belief he has had more to do with this affair than he would care to tell."It was in vain that Mr. Field disclaimed any knowledge of the matter when the constable went up to interview him next morning. The story of the grey cat was scoffed at by the village in general as being an entirely inadequate explanation of the accident, and public feeling waxed more and more indignant against him.The condition of the patient had improved during the night, and a gradual return to consciousness was apparent as the hours went by. Mrs. Power had constituted herself his nurse for the present, there being no one else available who was competent to undertake such a task.Meanwhile Mr. Field's sensations were not enviable as he waited in feverish anxiety for tidings from the sick man's room."If he dies, I'm done for," he said, "for there are no witnesses, and I can't deny that appearances are dead against me, however I may seek to disclaim the deed. Even if he lives, how do I know that he will speak the truth about it? He's got an opportunity now of ruining me altogether, if he chooses only to say the word."It was not till late afternoon that Mrs. Power, on glancing up from her chair, noticed that the invalid had opened his eyes, and was gazing at her with a puzzled look. She went to him and administered a few spoonfuls of the beef-tea which she had ready on the hob."Just lie still and try to go to sleep," she said. "You'll get on all right now."For an hour or more he lay silent, and the watcher thought that he dozed, but she was suddenly startled by a voice from the bed."I've been down to the very gates of death, haven't I?" was the unexpected question."Yes," she replied, "but they are not going to open to you this time, I think. You have turned the corner now, and we expect to have you well again in no time.""I shouldn't have been ready to go through if they had opened," said Ben, ignoring her remark. "They would have been black gates to me, not the golden ones my poor old father saw."Afraid of exciting her patient, Mrs. Power did not answer, hoping that sleep would come to quiet the troubled brain, but after a few moments' pause Ben began again--"When the doctor came this afternoon I know you all thought I was unconscious, but I heard him say, 'Field's got a bad case against him,' as he left the room. I was jolly glad at first, for I'd been wanting to have a handle against him for a long time past. However, when a man's on the brink of the grave, he's bound to think a bit, so I feel I ought to speak up. It certainly was Field who shot me, but he didn't know I was there. I was putting down food for the pheasants, the plantation being a grand place for poaching, and I hid in the bushes as he came by. He fired at a cat, but he got me instead. I was stunned for a while, and then only managed to stagger to the wall, hoping someone would find me as they passed along the road. I thought I was done for when I fell again in the wood.""Do you want to make this known?" asked Mrs. Power. "Suspicions have been very rife in Mr. Field's direction, everyone knowing that he had a grudge against you.""Yes," answered Ben slowly, "I want to make it known. I've had a hard fight inside me this last hour, when you believed I was asleep. I felt I had him at my mercy, and at first I determined that I wouldn't lift up my little finger to help him, knowing that if I died he would probably have to swing for me. It's a solemn thing, though, to know for certain that God is just on the other side of those gates, and that if they open for you, you will have to face Him right there by yourself, and that His holy eyes will search you through and through. Well, somehow things look different when it comes to that, and if I should die I dare not meet Him with a black thought like that in my heart. So I shall be glad if you will tell them all that it was entirely my fault and not Mr. Field's. I had no business to be there at all."In the presence of the landlord, Mrs. Power took down the statement, which, with much difficulty, Ben managed to sign, after which he sank back upon the pillow, wearied with the exertion, and soon fell into a calm and restful sleep.During the days which followed, many a long talk had Ben with his kind and patient nurse. The man's heart was softened by the danger which he had so lately passed through, and his ears were attentive as she sought to lead him to the One his father had known and trusted so well."I should like to make my peace with God," was his cry, "but I've sinned against Him all my life and I'm ashamed to come to Him now.""Nevertheless you may be quite sure of a welcome," replied Mrs. Power. "The wonder is that it isHeWho invites us to make peace with Him--not we who have to wring forgiveness from an unwilling God. He actually pleads with us to come to Him. Listen to what St. Paul says, Ben, 'Now then we are ambassadors for Christ, as though God did beseech you by us: we pray you in Christ's stead, be ye reconciled to God.'""To think of God beseeching us to come to Him," said Ben, "when we have neglected Him so long! It seems too good to be true!""It is only through our Lord Jesus Christ that we can come to Him," answered Mrs. Power. "It is He Who has made it possible for God to forgive. 'He hath made Him to be sin for us, Who knew no sin, that we might be made the righteousness of God in Him.' You remember the old hymn--"I lay my sins on Jesus,The spotless Lamb of God;He bears them all, and frees usFrom the accursed load.""But the choice must be made," added Mrs. Power solemnly. "If we keep our sins we lose our souls.""I would choose Christ," said Ben. "Isn't there a verse that says, 'What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?' I see it all clear now, and I thank Him for having opened up the way for me to come to God. I should like to serve Him, with His help, during what remains to me of my life, if He'll spare me for a little while yet.""'Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered,'" was Mrs. Power's rejoinder. "There are no regrets for those who enter the service of God."It was after this conversation, as Madelaine was walking back to Sea View Cottage in the evening light, that she began to turn her thoughts to the prospects which lay before her and her boy. She had not intended staying so long at Sunbury, having purposed only to remain for the autumn months. Julius' illness, however, had delayed her for a few weeks, and Ben's accident had caused her to postpone her departure still further. Both invalids being now well on the road to recovery, she felt the time had come to bring the quiet country visit to a close."If I could only get a few pupils and set up a small school, I might be able to put aside something towards Robin's future," she said. "He ought to go eventually to some sort of college, whatever profession he takes up, and where the fees are to come from, I don't know."As she walked up the garden path, she saw that the lamp had been lit in the parlour, and that Robin was already busily engaged at tea. The blind had not been drawn down, so that she could distinguish everything plainly."Why, he's got a visitor, the monkey!" she exclaimed. "I wonder who it is that he has invited to keep him company during my absence. 'When the cat's away, the mice do play,' I suppose."A man was sitting with his back to the window, so that it was impossible for Mrs. Power to recognize him from where she stood, but whoever it was, she noticed that Robin was carrying on a most animated conversation with his guest. It appeared also of an amusing character, for presently the stranger threw himself back in his chair, and a merry laugh rang through the room.Madelaine started and the posts of the porch seemed to sway backwards and forwards in front of her, as a film came suddenly before her eyes. She pulled herself together and put up her hand as if to thrust the dizzy feeling from her, then with knees trembling and palpitating heart, she walked into the little passage and threw open the parlour door.The visitor rose with an embarrassed air, and stood grasping the back of a chair as he turned to meet her."It's only a tramp I've made friends with, mother," said Robin. "He has come to say good-bye, and I knew you wouldn't mind me asking him to stay to tea as you were out.""Madelaine!--my own Madelaine!" ejaculated the stranger with a dazed look upon his pale face. "Is it possible--or am I dreaming?""Gerald!--my husband!" was the answering cry, as Madelaine threw herself into his outstretched arms. "Oh, thank God that I have got you again!"In mute astonishment Robin watched the reunited pair, till the first ecstasy of the unexpected meeting was past, and they could turn to him with explanations of the strange scene."Come and welcome your father, Robin," was Madelaine's joyful exclamation, as she put out her hand to the boy. "This is indeed a wonderful day for us. Our lost one has been given back to us as from the dead. How, I do not know. It is enough to feel that he is here."She raised her eyes, brimming with love and tenderness, to feast her gaze once more upon her husband's countenance, clinging closely to him the while, as if she feared some unseen power would spirit him away.She was startled to see the spasm of pain which passed over his features at her words, while a deep groan escaped his lips."Gerald!" she exclaimed, "what is wrong? You look so ill, and as if something dreadful had happened. What can anything matter so long as we are together again?""My darling," said Gerald, with lips that trembled in spite of the effort he made to obtain command over himself, "how can I spoil the joy of this blessed reunion by bringing fresh pain to your dear true heart? And yet I must speak, and tell you all. Madelaine, it had been better for us if we had never met again. Far happier for you would it be if I were really dead, for we must part again, beloved, and that at once. I must still remain to you as one whose name is blotted out of the book of life. To recall me to the world would only mean anguish untold both to you and the boy.""If you think I am going to let you go, Gerald, now that I have got you again, you are very much mistaken," said Madelaine resolutely. "'Where thou goest I will go,' and no arguments will ever shake my determination. Surely my right place is at my husband's side?""You were always braver than I, Madelaine," replied Gerald, "but when you hear all, you may not feel the same towards me as you once did. Let the boy go while I make a clean breast of the past, and then you will be more able to judge of how you will behave in regard to me in the future."CHAPTER XVIFor Conscience' SakeAs Robin left the room, Gerald disengaged himself from his wife's embrace, and stood upon the hearthrug, his two hands extended towards her."Madelaine," he said, and his voice sounded harsh with pain as he spoke, "I shall not keep you in suspense, but tell you the whole terrible truth at once. Look at your husband's hands, and then turn away if you will. They are not fit to touch a hair of your head. The curse of Cain is upon them, for they are guilty--stained with the life-blood of a fellow-man."Madelaine gave a little gasp of horror."It simply can't be true!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Gerald, I can't believe it. You never could have done such a thing. You, so good and gentle! It must all be some ghastly mistake!""It is true, Madelaine, sadly and woefully true," replied Gerald. "I saw him lying there with his poor eyes all glazed and dim. He was an old man too, and had done me no harm. I had no grudge against him, indeed I was his guest at the time when I gave the fatal blow. The awful fact remains that in a fit of drunken rage,--for which God forgive me,--I killed old Wattie, the miner, in his little shanty on the banks of a Californian stream."Madelaine covered her face with her hands as if to shut out some dreadful sight, and sank down on her knees beside the table."O God, forgive him, for he knew not what he did," she moaned. "Oh, lay not this sin to his charge.""You are right in saying that I did not know how the dastardly deed was done," replied her husband. "It was not till I came to my senses again that I was told what the consequences of my act had been. You remember, Madelaine, that drink had never been my temptation, and it was rarely that I joined with others even in a friendly glass. I think the liquor I took in old Wattie's hut must have been singularly fiery, for I have never been overcome in the same way, either before or since. Indeed from that day to this, no drop of strong drink has passed my lips. I don't say this to excuse myself, for I am fully aware that there is no sort of palliation for my sin. I would only have you know, Madelaine, that it was unwittingly done, and gladly would I have given my life to see vitality come back to those powerless limbs again. I helped to carry him into the little room behind, and laid him on his bed. He looked so white and still, as we left him there alone.""Oh, my husband, why did you not tell me this before," asked Madelaine. "Surely you might have trusted me to understand? Why did you leave me without a word, making me think that you were dead?""Because I was a coward," answered Gerald. "I dared not face the consequences of my rash act. I could not have met you without telling you all, and I thought it was the better way both for you and me if I simply disappeared from your sight, making no explanation or excuse. It seemed to me that it would be easier for you to hear the news of my death, than to carry the burden of my crime. I pictured your grief, and thought of the innocent babe who might be branded all his days as the son of a common felon. I tried to end my life that same dark night in the river that flowed so swiftly only a few paces from the door. God in His mercy had other plans for me, unprepared as I was then for coming into His presence, and frustrated the deed which would only have added to the weight of guilt which I already bore. I was cast up on the bank some way down the stream, only to submerge myself in the scarcely less terrible depths of a friendless world, for I had not strength of mind to repeat the attempt to take away my life."Madelaine's face was still buried in her hands as she knelt on silently, but Gerald could see that her frame was shaken by an agony of weeping, while she listened to the sad and shameful tale. It was only with a mighty effort that he was able to continue."There was another reason why I did not tell you all this before. I feared to lose your love, Madelaine, if you ever came to a knowledge of the truth. I felt that I could bear anything rather than your scorn and shrinking, and I knew only too well how richly I deserved such treatment at your hands. A friend who was witness when old Wattie fell, promised to write and tell you how I met my end. He was to say nothing of what had gone before, only to give you to understand that I had been drowned in some far-off river in the west.""Yes," sobbed Madelaine, "that is what I heard. How could anyone be so cruel as to send such false tidings to me, when you were still alive?""He only told you what he believed to be true," answered Gerald. "He saw me swept away by the rushing current, and in a few moments I was out of his sight, lost in the grey gloom of the early dawn. He never imagined that I escaped, and I took good care not to tell him, desiring that all trace of me should be lost. I feared that he might give information against me if I turned up again, knowing as he well did that death in some form was only my due. I am glad however that he fulfilled his promise, so that at least you were not kept in suspense as to what had become of me.""Oh, Gerald, why did you not send for me to join you, when you knew that you would have after all to face life with this dreadful weight upon you?" said Madelaine with a pained look in her honest eyes, as she rose at last from her knees and stood beside her husband. "Why did you not at least give me the option of bearing it with you?""I could not ask you to share such a dark future, dear one," replied Gerald. "My life for the last ten years has been a hideous nightmare, a constant dread of discovery and of the punishment which would inevitably follow. You were far better without me in your innocent ignorance of what had come to pass. Now, Madelaine, there is my confession. I have kept nothing back. The best thing you can do is to let me pass out of your life again, so that you and Robin may continue your quiet way in peace and honour. Even though it tear my heart out to leave you, it is the least atonement I can make for what I have done."Madelaine stood for a moment looking up into her husband's face, then putting both her hands into his, she said softly--"'For better, for worse,' Gerald. I am your wife, and nothing shall ever part us again. Robin and I will go with you to begin over again in some quiet corner, where we may yet be happy together through the blessing of God.""The blessing of God?" questioned Gerald with a sharp note of anguish in his tone, as he put his arms round his wife, and fondly kissed her cheek. "Before I can look for that, I have yet to speak to you of the future, and I must put your love to a still harder test. You are indeed a faithful comrade and a brave, true soul, and you must help me to be strong, for sorely do I need courage. What I have now before me was bad enough to contemplate yesterday, but it is well-nigh unbearable since I have found you and my little son again.""What can be worse than that which you have already told me?" asked Madelaine anxiously. "Be quick and let me hear what it is, so that I may know what I have still to face.""Sit down beside me," said her husband, "and listen as patiently as you can, for the sequel to my crime is a long story and hard to tell."It was indeed a pitiful tale that Gerald Barker unfolded in his wife's ears.Cut off though he had been by his own hand from the old life, his heart yet hungered for news of those he loved, and many a time had he sought to gain tidings of them in the past. Hampered, however, as he was by the continual fear of detection, it was only under a feigned name and by circuitous ways that he could prosecute his search. He told Madelaine how, some months after the tragedy, he had written to the postmaster of the little Canadian town where last their home had been, to find out if she and the child were still in the same place where he had said farewell to them in his departure upon the ill-fated journey. The reply came that so far as the official was aware, they had sailed for England a short time before, leaving no address nor any indication as to their final destination.Believing that his wife would probably return to her former haunts, he made further enquiries in the secluded Hertfordshire village where her father had so long practised as doctor to the countryside. Once again came the disheartening answer that information concerning her could not be supplied, no one of the name of Barker being resident in the neighbourhood."Why, of course not!" exclaimed Madelaine. "The postmaster there was a new man, and had only heard of me as Mrs. Power, so he would not recognize me as the same person about whom you were asking. I must tell you how the change came about, for I have something to confess to you, Gerald, something which I must ask you to forgive. I do hope you will not think I did wrong, but truly it was a difficult matter to decide.""You did perfectly right, Madelaine," replied her husband, when he had heard the story of the generous friend who was raised up so opportunely to care for the helpless ones he had himself deserted in their need. "I am only thankful that you did not suffer more from my selfish cowardice. It has been misery to me to think what you might be enduring, and I powerless to make amends. During all my wanderings I have tried to put by small sums from time to time, hoping that one day I might find out your retreat, and be able to make life easier for you, anonymously at least, even if I were unable to reveal myself as your rightful provider and guard."It was in furtherance of this desire that Gerald had at length taken the voyage to England, trusting that the ten long years which had passed had so effectually altered his appearance, that he could safely revisit the scenes where he might most probably hear news of those he had lost. A morbid terror of recognition had by this time fastened upon him, becoming a second nature, so that he could not easily associate with other men. Thus all his enquiries had ended in disappointment and failure, being only addressed to strangers who would naturally be unable to give him the personal clue which he sought."I went as a last chance to Norwich," he said, "knowing that you had a relative there who might help, but I found that he was dead, and his wife also, so that hope fell to the ground. By this time I was quite worn out by privation and anxiety, so that my heart got affected, and I had such a bad attack that I was obliged to go into hospital for some weeks. It was there that the change came, and I saw my life in the light of Heaven. I realized that I had sinned not only against man but against God. As I lay upon what might have been my death-bed, I made a solemn vow that if I was spared I would go back to California, and give myself up to justice, so as to atone as far as I could for what I had done so many years ago. I determined to delay only long enough to get back my strength, and it was for this reason I decided to come to Sunbury, knowing the pureness of its air, and remembering too the happy days of our short honeymoon here, when we were young and knew not what life held of bitterness for us both."Madelaine's face was strained and grey as she sat listening silently, trying to take in what her husband's words signified, and her parched lips almost refused to utter the question which she strove to ask."Do you mean to say you are going to leave me again, and to deliberately give yourself up to trial and perhaps even death? After all this time too? Oh, Gerald, is it really necessary? It is more than I can possibly bear. Surely there is some other way?""It is the only way," replied Gerald, "there is no other. I have not a shadow of doubt about it. But, oh, my darling, it is a cruel blow to deal you, and to know that it is I who have inflicted this pain upon you is a worse punishment than any that can possibly come to me from the hands of the law."Madelaine made no reply. She sat as if stunned by the terrible future which had opened out before her, following so closely upon the sudden joy. Her hands were tightly clasped together, and she gazed out of the window as one who saw nothing."Madelaine!" exclaimed Gerald suddenly, "is it too great a sacrifice that I am asking you to share? Am I wrong in demanding it of you? We are one, my wife, and you have a right to speak on this matter which concerns us both so intimately. I put it to you--shall I stay so long as you need me, or do you agree that it is right for me to go? Help me to decide, only remember it must be a decision which is made in the presence of God."Madelaine gave a shiver as at length she turned her eyes from the window, and fixed them mournfully upon her husband's face."It is right for you to go, Gerald," she said with a little choking sob. "I will not hold you back. God have you in His keeping, and may He in some way bring light into this black dark night which has settled down upon us all."CHAPTER XVIIWell-founded FearsOne slight reprieve did Gerald and his wife allow themselves, as they talked over their future plans. It was decided that he should not disclose his identity until he had reached the district where the crime had been committed. Until then they would make the most of each other's companionship, Madelaine and Robin going with him to California, so that they might be together as long as possible before the final separation."I must find out about berths and the dates of sailing," said Gerald, "and in the meanwhile, we had better go to London or Liverpool, where we can easily lose ourselves in the crowd.""Why not remain here?" asked his wife. "It is such a quiet little place, and people have got accustomed to look upon you as an ordinary lodger, who has been delayed by illness in Mrs. Potter's rooms. No one here would ever dream of associating you with what happened ten years ago on the other side of the world."Gerald's brow clouded."Sunbury is one of the most dangerous spots on earth for me at the present time," he replied. "Two men only were witnesses of my deed, and one of them has lately come to live here. If he should happen to come across me, there is nothing to hinder him from handing me over at once to the nearest magistrate, in which case the few precious days that still remain to us would be lost. I heard about him at the inn when I first arrived, and it was because of this that I so hastily decided to leave the place. I was on my way to the station when I came upon Robin's castle, and falling asleep there from sheer exhaustion, was found by the boys next morning when they came to play. If it had not been for the illness brought on by exposure and drenching on the night of the storm, I should have been across the sea by this time, so as to place as many miles as possible between him and me. When I plead guilty at the bar, I wish to do so of my own free will, not because force has been brought to bear upon me from outside.""Who can it be?" asked Madelaine anxiously. "Surely no one would do you any harm after all these years.""I should be utterly helpless in his hands if he chose to lodge an accusation against me," answered Gerald. "His name is Thomas Field. He was in Wattie's hut the night on which I killed the old man, and he saw the whole thing. He was with me when I took my mad plunge into the river, and therefore imagines me to be dead, but he would certainly recognize me if I stayed on here. You told me he fulfilled his promise of writing to tell you of my death. Did he not give you his name when he wrote?""I got a short letter from a man who signed himself, T.A.F.," said Madelaine. "He sent back your watch and chain at the same time. Why, of course those are Mr. Thomas Algernon Field's initials! How strange that I never connected them before! He gave me no address, so I was never able to write and ask for further details.""Did he return nothing but the watch?" enquired her husband. "There were some papers I left for him to forward also.""He enclosed your diary," replied Madelaine, "but he said your papers had been lost in the river when you were drowned.""Surely I could not have been absent-minded enough to put them into my pocket again!" exclaimed Gerald. "I am certain that I handed them over to him in the hut, but the truth is that I was in such a state of mind at the time, that I may have picked them up again without knowing it. They were documents concerning a piece of land that I had staked out away up in the wilds as a sort of speculation, and I asked him to advise you about it. It wasn't worth very much, and probably would have turned out a failure as most of my ventures have done, but I wanted you to know it was there, in case you might have made a few pounds on it. I should like to ask Field about it, only that I dare not face him again.""Oh, Gerald," rejoined Madelaine, "I would not trust that man! He looks as if he could be cruel as well as hard. Do not run the risk of putting your life into his power. Let us fly while we can, for you are liable to meet him at any moment, and you might be snatched from me almost before our little time together is begun.""To tell you the truth, I have met him already," said her husband, "but he evidently took me for a spirit, believing that I had done away with myself so long before."Gerald proceeded to give his wife an account of the unexpected meeting at the entrance of the little house in the wood, when the flash of lightning had suddenly revealed the two old acquaintances to each other, and Field had dashed the supposed apparition to the ground."I was barely able to crawl to good Mrs. Potter's," he continued, "but she took me in, and there I have been until to-day, when I ventured out for the first time, longing for another glimpse of the little angel-messenger who had tended me so lovingly in his leafy bower. No wonder that I loved the lad, seeing he was my own son!"It was late according to the primitive habits of Sunbury when Gerald at last rose to leave."I must go back now to my worthy landlady," he remarked, "or she will wonder what has become of me. I will come over early in the morning, and we can make arrangements to leave for London to-morrow afternoon. Please God, Madelaine, we shall have some blessed days together, before we need to part again.""I shall be thankful when we are off," said his trembling wife. "Do be careful, Gerald, and keep out of Mr. Field's way. I don't like to think of you showing your face at all while you are here.""I'll take good care, dearest," he replied, "so don't you worry. Now I must just run up and take a peep at little Robin before I go. Oh, Madelaine, if you only knew how I have hungered for a sight of you and the child! I can't think how it was that my instinct did not tell me who he was, when he came to me in the wood. It was the name that put me off.""I could not call him 'Gerald,' even though we christened him so," explained Madelaine, as she stood beside her husband, looking down at the sleeping boy. "It was too precious a word to be used for anyone but you, and I got to speak of him as 'Robin' that first winter after we came to England, because of his bright eyes and rosy cheeks, and the name has stuck to him ever since."The interview next morning was satisfactorily concluded, and Gerald was on his way back to Mrs. Potter's house.His heart was lighter than it had been for many a long day, as he walked through the wood. Although a terribly dark cloud loomed ahead, a rainbow seemed to have thrown itself across the grey and troubled sky, and rays of love and hope shone all around.It was still early, not yet nine o'clock, and he was congratulating himself on having encountered no one either on his way to or from Sea View Cottage. One more bend in the woodland path, and Mrs. Potter's chimneys would be in sight.He swung round the turn, and almost collided with a man who was walking briskly in the opposite direction to which he was himself going.Words of apology rose to his lips, but they died away in dismay before they were uttered.He was face to face with Thomas Field."So it was you after all, and no ghost!" exclaimed the squire. "How is it that you have turned up here, Barker? What do you want with me, dogging my footsteps like this?"To Gerald's surprise Field's countenance had assumed an expression of the utmost fear and dislike, as he suddenly realized who it was that had thus encountered him."I must have given him an uncommonly bad shock that night when I came upon him during the storm," thought Gerald, as his mind took a rapid survey of the past. "He looks perfectly terrified at the mere sight of me, though it is I who have cause to be frightened of him, not he of me. I suppose it's because he has so long accustomed himself to think of me as dead.""You were my friend once, Field," he added aloud, "and I must throw myself on your mercy again. I have no wish to intrude my presence upon you. Let me disappear, as you did before, to be lost in the waters of oblivion. I ask no more than to be left to go my way unquestioned and alone."A look of relief overspread the millionaire's features, and his aggressively domineering manner reasserted itself."Well, Barker," he said roughly, "many a time have I wondered if I was right in letting you slip through the fingers of justice as I did that night. Death by drowning was too easy a way of escape for a man who had murdered another in the cold-blooded fashion in which you finished off old Wattie. My duty, no doubt, is to report you, now that I know you are again at large."Gerald winced at the coarse cruelty of the words, and his thoughts flew to Madelaine and the boy. Would the cup be dashed from his lips, just when he was about to taste the sweetness of life for the last time?"I have long ago repented of my sin," he replied humbly, "and strong drink has been put far from me since that day. It brought misery enough then to make me shun it for ever. I have suffered, Field, and I know I have been forgiven by my God. I can but ask man to have pity likewise.""You don't deserve it," was the harsh reply, "but I suppose I can't hit a fellow when he's down, so I'll give you one more chance. I shall not hand you over to the law this time, but I tell you plainly if I find you loafing about here again, you'll have to pay for it. My conscience will not permit me to let you off so easily a third time, so you had better keep out of my way. I'll give you a friendly tip, though, before you go. You have more occasion perhaps than you know to avoid Sunbury. I'm not the only man here who holds the key to your past. Probably you have your own reasons for banishing from your mind the fact that you were ever acquainted with Blustering Ben, the hunter, but he will not so quickly forget you. He was a chum of old Wattie's too, so he would not be so lenient as I am, supposing he caught sight of you here. You know what he saw last time you met, so take my advice and don't run your neck into the noose sooner than is necessary. The faster you make yourself scarce the better for everyone.""Thank you," said Gerald, though his spirit chafed at the insulting speech. "I had no idea Ben was in Sunbury. I have certainly no wish to meet him again."CHAPTER XVIIIJudge Simmons AgainMr. Field turned to go, but he was arrested by a question from Gerald, which made him pause once more."There is one thing I should like to ask before we part," he said. "Did I not leave some papers with you that dreadful night? I remember speaking to you about them before I went down to the river.""You babbled to me about some claim which you had patented," answered Mr. Field, "and told me what you meant to do with it, but I can't say your head was exactly clear that evening; and all papers, if there were any, went the same way as yourself, plump into the water. You left nothing with me. I took the trouble, however, to ask some fellows who came from that part of the country, and they told me you had been regularly taken in about it--the whole property was not worth a cent. So you need not cry over spilt milk. By the way, they know all about old Wattie up there, so it would be wiser not to make too many enquiries in that quarter."It was on the tip of Gerald's tongue to ask why Mr. Field had not even mentioned the matter to Madelaine when he wrote, but he checked himself in time. If the land was really of no value, it was not worth bringing his wife's name into the conversation. Better to let the matter drop, and leave well alone."I have no wish to rake up old stories," he said. "Only I thought there was no harm in asking you about the papers, seeing I had mentioned them to you before. I pass now out of your life for ever."So saying he turned abruptly and continued his interrupted course towards the edge of the wood.Mr. Field watched him until he disappeared behind the trees, then, with knit brow and a preoccupied look he slowly made his way back to Farncourt. He was met by Julius at the lodge gates."You are late for breakfast, father," said the boy. "Why did you go out before you had had anything to eat?""I could not sleep last night," was the answer, "and I thought half an hour's stroll might give me an appetite, as I am not feeling very fit. I was longer than I meant to be.""It seems a day for early walks," said Julius. "Robin has been up to see me already. Oh, father, isn't it dreadful? He and Mrs. Power are going away this afternoon by the four o'clock train. He said they had to meet someone in London, I think it was, so they were leaving a few days sooner than they meant to do. I shall miss them awfully, especially Robin. It will be just horrid without him."The boy's lips quivered as he spoke, and he tried manfully to keep back the tears which would well up in his eyes. The last month or two had been the happiest that the lonely child had ever spent, in the companionship of his cheery little friend and the protecting tenderness with which Madelaine had welcomed him into her large and loving heart. Even in the midst of his own conflicting thoughts, Mr. Field felt touched by the lad's evident distress, and endeavoured to comfort him as best he could."Never mind, Julius," he said. "I'm going to make some changes before long, so perhaps you won't miss Robin so much as you think. This place doesn't seem to suit me very well. I believe it is too near the sea, so I am going to try how I get on further inland. I have seen a very good estate advertised for sale about which I intend to enquire, and you may find other friends there who may make up to you for your loss. Besides, I have quite made up my mind that it is full time to send you to school. I can't stand any more tutors, and it is not good for you going moping about here by yourself. How would you like to go to Eton or Harrow, or some other first-class place like that? I'll see that you don't want for pocket-money, my boy, so that you can foot it with the best of them, and lord it over the lords if so you will."Mr. Field chuckled over his joke, but though for a moment a gleam of comfort lightened the gloomy horizon of the lad, the thought of losing Robin settled again upon him like a cloud."It would be simply ripping to go to school if only Robin could come too," he said. "I wish Mrs. Power would send him with me, but I'm afraid they're rather poor, so perhaps they couldn't afford it. They asked me to spend the morning with them at Sea View Cottage, father, that's why Robin came up so soon, in case I should be going out in the motor, and they would not be able to say good-bye.""You may certainly go, Julius," replied Mr. Field. "Mrs. Power has been a good friend to us, and contrary to my custom I shall call on her myself to thank her for all her kindness to you.""Robin is going to give Peter his liberty before he goes," remarked Julius. "You know he was only a baby wild rabbit that old Timothy caught in his garden, so he will be quite pleased to live a free life again. We are first going to give him a feast of everything that he likes best, and then we shall take him to our hut in the wood and let him loose there. Robin says that if we tunnel out a little hole in the wall, Peter may perhaps believe it is a real rabbit's burrow and make a home there. Of course the roof is all tumbled in now, so it is no use as a house for us, but it makes it all the better for Peter, as he can hide so easily under the fallen branches. Robin does think of such delightful things!"Breakfast was over and Mr. Field had gone into his study to write some letters. He had not been there many minutes when the footman entered and informed him that two gentlemen were waiting to see him in the drawing-room."Who are they?" he asked impatiently."I don't know, sir," replied the man. "They did not give any names.""As Julius said, this seems a day on which people are early astir," muttered Mr. Field to himself. "I wish callers would not come bothering round at this time of day. I wonder who they can be."The visitors were admiring the view from the window when he entered the room, and he was almost at their side before they realized he was there."Judge Simmons and Elihu Pratt!" he exclaimed as they turned towards him. "Whatever brings you here together at this hour?""We should be glad of a little conversation with you, Mr. Field," replied the judge. "There is a certain matter about which my friend and I have been making enquiries, and we believe that you may be able to throw some light upon it.""What is the subject under consideration?" asked Mr. Field, nervously requesting his guests to be seated. "Is it your young ward's speculations in Mexico? I remember you were doubtful as regards his ventures in the silver line last time you were here.""I am glad to say he is doing well," replied Judge Simmons, "but it is not about him that we came. You may not perhaps have heard that Mr. Elihu Pratt has lately been appointed District Attorney for the locality in which the Good Hope mine lies. He is now engaged in investigating the titles of the various mining claims about there, and he finds some difficulty in connection with the deeds to your property. It so chanced that I was interesting myself concerning the bit of land acquired by my former acquaintance, Gerald Barker, and not being able to reconcile several conflicting facts, we determined to call upon you together, both of us happening to be over in England just now. No doubt you will be able to make it clear, but we shall be much obliged if you will kindly do so."Mr. Field moistened his lips before he spoke, and hastily mopped his forehead with his handkerchief."I have my title deeds all right," he said. "I can show them to you if you like, but there is nothing conflicting about them, so far as I know.""You remember, sir," continued the judge, "that when I called upon you before, you were at some pains to convince me that Gerald Barker's claim was in quite another valley to yours--a valley possessing the same strange geological features as that in which your mine is situated--although your little boy gave contrary evidence, much to your displeasure. Now, Mr. Field, I was with Barker when he staked his claim, and I have just returned from a visit to the 'Good Hope.'""Well, what of that?" was the blunt rejoinder."They are one and the self-same place," answered Judge Simmons gravely, casting a penetrating glance upon the man before him."I never said they were not," snapped Mr. Field. "I only told you there were lots of cliffs of that formation about there. It was simply my boy's rude way of contradicting that made me so angry with him.""There is no rock anywhere in the countryside similar to that which overlooks the Good Hope mine," broke in Mr. Pratt, speaking for the first time. "I find, moreover, that the land on which you, as reputed owner, pay taxes, is identical with the claim patented some ten years back by Gerald Barker. The Registrar's books fail to record any transfer of the property. How did it happen to come into your possession?""Barker sold it to me, if you want to know," answered Mr. Field, indignantly. "It is really intolerable to be cross-questioned in this fashion. If you were not a government official I would kick you out of the house for daring to insult me by your dastardly insinuations. You may examine the patent for yourself, if that will satisfy you, and also the transfer which Barker signed with his own hand, in which he gave up all his rights to me.""I should like to see them," was Mr. Pratt's only reply.The millionaire hesitated for a moment and the colour fled from his cheeks, but recovering himself quickly he invited them to accompany him into the study, where he proceeded to unlock his safe and spread out some documents before them on the table."There is no doubt that this is Barker's patent," remarked Mr. Pratt. "Now for the transfer. I see we have here the signatures of two witnesses, Benjamin Green and Walter Long, as well as that of Gerald Barker. It is also signed by Caleb Denham, who describes himself as a Notary Public, and whose seal, according to custom, is appended here. Have you any idea where the witnesses are now?""Benjamin Green is a rolling stone, always knocking about the world," was the reply, "and old Walter or Wattie, as he was called, is dead."Mr. Pratt glanced across at Judge Simmons."This transfer is dated the day after that on which Barker was drowned," he said quietly."How do you know so exactly when that took place?" questioned Mr. Field."His wife has supplied us with the information," answered the judge. "I have here a copy of your own letter to her.""Ass that I was!" muttered Mr. Field under his breath. Aloud he added, "It is easy to make a mistake like that in the backwoods, where every day is alike.""These little mistakes sometimes need to be enquired into," rejoined Judge Simmons. "We shall have to look up this same Benjamin Green and find out what he has to say about it. It is fortunate that we have an independent witness in this case, although it is unusual to have other names besides that of a lawyer subscribed to a similar deed."Mr. Field bit his lip with vexation. "I have over-reached myself there," was the thought which passed rapidly through his mind. "I believed it would make it all the safer if I had those two signatures as well as Caleb's, but they may prove my undoing. All the same, I don't think I could have got the old shyster to put his seal to it if their names hadn't been there, so they served my turn after all."In an injured voice he next addressed the judge."Surely," he exclaimed, "you can rely on the statement of a Notary Public without having to get proofs of his veracity.""I happen to know that this particular Caleb Denham has just been convicted as an unprincipled and dishonest scoundrel," answered Judge Simmons. "He is now undergoing a well-merited term in jail because of his illicit practices. I would not give a button for his word.""By the way," he added, turning again to the letter before him, "when I saw you last you gave me to understand that it was only a report of Barker's death which had reached you, but it is mentioned here that you yourself saw him swept away by the river. These statements seem rather conflicting. Was anyone else there at the time?""No," replied Mr. Field. "We were quite alone when the accident happened.""Are you prepared to swear that you have given a strictly accurate account of the whole incident?" asked the judge, his keen eyes fixed on Mr. Field's agitated face. "I cannot deny that appearances are very much against you. It is a queer thing that Barker should have disappeared in this mysterious manner just at the very time that you became possessed of his papers. When we questioned Mrs. Power about it this morning, I thought she seemed rather to hesitate when I asked her if she had any reason to doubt the truth of your report.""Mrs. Power!" ejaculated Mr. Field. "Whatever has she got to do with it?""You are evidently ignorant of the fact that she is Gerald Barker's widow, she having changed her name on account of some stipulation in a will," replied Judge Simmons. "We traced her by the information given to us by a servant of the old gentleman who left her the money. Finding that she was at present staying in Sunbury, we had an interview with her this morning before we came on to you.""It is apparent that Mrs. Power has not let out to them that Barker is alive," was the thought that flashed across Mr. Field's mind. "She has evidently been in touch with her husband all along, but is terrified at the idea of him being taken up for the crime. I never should have believed that she could be so cunning as to hoodwink me like this. I suppose she has set these men to catch me out. I'll be even with her though, and with Barker too!""Look here," he said in a bullying tone, "this Mrs. Power, or Barker, or whatever she chooses to call herself--does she mean to make a fuss about these papers which there is no doubt her husband signed? Because, if so, will you please go back to her with a message. Tell her from me that silence is the price of silence. If she wants me to hold my tongue she had better not provoke me too far. I put myself unreservedly into her hands. If after giving her this message she still wants you to take up the cudgels for her, I confess I shall be surprised. She is more likely to go down on her knees, begging me not to disclose her secret to the world. You think perhaps you are doing her a service, but she may end by crying, 'Save me from my friends!'""This is a most extraordinary threat!" exclaimed the judge. "You had better explain yourself more fully.""I shall have great pleasure in doing so," answered Mr. Field. "Doubtless you are not aware that her husband's last public act was to kill a defenceless old man in cold blood--this very same Walter Long whose signature is on this paper. It was a false report which got about concerning Barker's death. True he tried to drown himself in despair when he realized what he had done--I saw him leap into the river with my own eyes, and honestly believed him to have perished that day--but it seems he managed to reach the bank again some way further down the stream. He has been a fugitive from justice ever since. It was only this morning that I learnt he was still alive. I happen, moreover, to know where he is hiding at the present moment, and you may tell Mrs. Power that if she pesters me with questions about the property which I honourably came by, I shall know well enough how to be avenged!"
CHAPTER XV
Alive from the Dead
That evening Mrs. Power was walking along the road which bordered the Farncourt preserves, when her attention was arrested by the sound of groaning on the other side of the wall. For a moment her heart stood still with fear, but she was not naturally timid, and the thought that someone was in trouble urged her to make closer research.
She turned in the direction whence the moans came, and peeped over into the plantation. To her horror she saw a man lying on the ground, only a few steps away from her, his face pale as death and streaked with blood.
"I must go to him," she said to herself, "he looks as if he were dying there, all alone in the wood."
Climbing over the low wall, she soon reached his side.
"Why, it's Ben Green!" she exclaimed in surprise. "How ever has he got into this plight? I'm afraid he is badly hurt, poor fellow. He seems quite unconscious, and I think his arm must be broken, it hangs so limply from the shoulder."
She wetted her handkerchief in the rivulet which ran through the coppice, and wiped the stains from his face, then, binding the cool bandage round his forehead, she rose to her feet and started off towards the village.
"The sooner I get help, the better," she decided. "I can't do him any good by staying with him here."
It was not long before the wounded man was carefully borne on a stretcher to his room at "The Bull," and his injuries ascertained by the doctor.
"He has been badly shot," was the report. "It is a marvel he was not killed on the spot. If one of the pellets had gone a quarter of an inch more to one side, it would have penetrated the brain. As it is, he is suffering from shock and loss of blood, besides the injury to the arm, which was evidently caused by a fall."
Tongues were let loose that evening in the little hamlet, as conjectures and suggestions were freely bandied to and fro.
"I must say it looks queer," remarked Jones, the keeper, as he discussed the situation with a knot of men at the public-house door. "The squire goes to that there wood in the morning with his gun, and refuses to let me come with him, as would only have been natural, for to pick up the birds. Mrs. Power she finds a man shot in that very wood a few hours later, and as all here know, there was no one whom Mr. Field would sooner see put out of the way than this same identical victim. He was in a fine temper when I met him, and it's my belief he has had more to do with this affair than he would care to tell."
It was in vain that Mr. Field disclaimed any knowledge of the matter when the constable went up to interview him next morning. The story of the grey cat was scoffed at by the village in general as being an entirely inadequate explanation of the accident, and public feeling waxed more and more indignant against him.
The condition of the patient had improved during the night, and a gradual return to consciousness was apparent as the hours went by. Mrs. Power had constituted herself his nurse for the present, there being no one else available who was competent to undertake such a task.
Meanwhile Mr. Field's sensations were not enviable as he waited in feverish anxiety for tidings from the sick man's room.
"If he dies, I'm done for," he said, "for there are no witnesses, and I can't deny that appearances are dead against me, however I may seek to disclaim the deed. Even if he lives, how do I know that he will speak the truth about it? He's got an opportunity now of ruining me altogether, if he chooses only to say the word."
It was not till late afternoon that Mrs. Power, on glancing up from her chair, noticed that the invalid had opened his eyes, and was gazing at her with a puzzled look. She went to him and administered a few spoonfuls of the beef-tea which she had ready on the hob.
"Just lie still and try to go to sleep," she said. "You'll get on all right now."
For an hour or more he lay silent, and the watcher thought that he dozed, but she was suddenly startled by a voice from the bed.
"I've been down to the very gates of death, haven't I?" was the unexpected question.
"Yes," she replied, "but they are not going to open to you this time, I think. You have turned the corner now, and we expect to have you well again in no time."
"I shouldn't have been ready to go through if they had opened," said Ben, ignoring her remark. "They would have been black gates to me, not the golden ones my poor old father saw."
Afraid of exciting her patient, Mrs. Power did not answer, hoping that sleep would come to quiet the troubled brain, but after a few moments' pause Ben began again--
"When the doctor came this afternoon I know you all thought I was unconscious, but I heard him say, 'Field's got a bad case against him,' as he left the room. I was jolly glad at first, for I'd been wanting to have a handle against him for a long time past. However, when a man's on the brink of the grave, he's bound to think a bit, so I feel I ought to speak up. It certainly was Field who shot me, but he didn't know I was there. I was putting down food for the pheasants, the plantation being a grand place for poaching, and I hid in the bushes as he came by. He fired at a cat, but he got me instead. I was stunned for a while, and then only managed to stagger to the wall, hoping someone would find me as they passed along the road. I thought I was done for when I fell again in the wood."
"Do you want to make this known?" asked Mrs. Power. "Suspicions have been very rife in Mr. Field's direction, everyone knowing that he had a grudge against you."
"Yes," answered Ben slowly, "I want to make it known. I've had a hard fight inside me this last hour, when you believed I was asleep. I felt I had him at my mercy, and at first I determined that I wouldn't lift up my little finger to help him, knowing that if I died he would probably have to swing for me. It's a solemn thing, though, to know for certain that God is just on the other side of those gates, and that if they open for you, you will have to face Him right there by yourself, and that His holy eyes will search you through and through. Well, somehow things look different when it comes to that, and if I should die I dare not meet Him with a black thought like that in my heart. So I shall be glad if you will tell them all that it was entirely my fault and not Mr. Field's. I had no business to be there at all."
In the presence of the landlord, Mrs. Power took down the statement, which, with much difficulty, Ben managed to sign, after which he sank back upon the pillow, wearied with the exertion, and soon fell into a calm and restful sleep.
During the days which followed, many a long talk had Ben with his kind and patient nurse. The man's heart was softened by the danger which he had so lately passed through, and his ears were attentive as she sought to lead him to the One his father had known and trusted so well.
"I should like to make my peace with God," was his cry, "but I've sinned against Him all my life and I'm ashamed to come to Him now."
"Nevertheless you may be quite sure of a welcome," replied Mrs. Power. "The wonder is that it isHeWho invites us to make peace with Him--not we who have to wring forgiveness from an unwilling God. He actually pleads with us to come to Him. Listen to what St. Paul says, Ben, 'Now then we are ambassadors for Christ, as though God did beseech you by us: we pray you in Christ's stead, be ye reconciled to God.'"
"To think of God beseeching us to come to Him," said Ben, "when we have neglected Him so long! It seems too good to be true!"
"It is only through our Lord Jesus Christ that we can come to Him," answered Mrs. Power. "It is He Who has made it possible for God to forgive. 'He hath made Him to be sin for us, Who knew no sin, that we might be made the righteousness of God in Him.' You remember the old hymn--
"I lay my sins on Jesus,The spotless Lamb of God;He bears them all, and frees usFrom the accursed load."
"I lay my sins on Jesus,The spotless Lamb of God;He bears them all, and frees usFrom the accursed load."
"I lay my sins on Jesus,
The spotless Lamb of God;
The spotless Lamb of God;
He bears them all, and frees us
From the accursed load."
From the accursed load."
"But the choice must be made," added Mrs. Power solemnly. "If we keep our sins we lose our souls."
"I would choose Christ," said Ben. "Isn't there a verse that says, 'What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?' I see it all clear now, and I thank Him for having opened up the way for me to come to God. I should like to serve Him, with His help, during what remains to me of my life, if He'll spare me for a little while yet."
"'Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered,'" was Mrs. Power's rejoinder. "There are no regrets for those who enter the service of God."
It was after this conversation, as Madelaine was walking back to Sea View Cottage in the evening light, that she began to turn her thoughts to the prospects which lay before her and her boy. She had not intended staying so long at Sunbury, having purposed only to remain for the autumn months. Julius' illness, however, had delayed her for a few weeks, and Ben's accident had caused her to postpone her departure still further. Both invalids being now well on the road to recovery, she felt the time had come to bring the quiet country visit to a close.
"If I could only get a few pupils and set up a small school, I might be able to put aside something towards Robin's future," she said. "He ought to go eventually to some sort of college, whatever profession he takes up, and where the fees are to come from, I don't know."
As she walked up the garden path, she saw that the lamp had been lit in the parlour, and that Robin was already busily engaged at tea. The blind had not been drawn down, so that she could distinguish everything plainly.
"Why, he's got a visitor, the monkey!" she exclaimed. "I wonder who it is that he has invited to keep him company during my absence. 'When the cat's away, the mice do play,' I suppose."
A man was sitting with his back to the window, so that it was impossible for Mrs. Power to recognize him from where she stood, but whoever it was, she noticed that Robin was carrying on a most animated conversation with his guest. It appeared also of an amusing character, for presently the stranger threw himself back in his chair, and a merry laugh rang through the room.
Madelaine started and the posts of the porch seemed to sway backwards and forwards in front of her, as a film came suddenly before her eyes. She pulled herself together and put up her hand as if to thrust the dizzy feeling from her, then with knees trembling and palpitating heart, she walked into the little passage and threw open the parlour door.
The visitor rose with an embarrassed air, and stood grasping the back of a chair as he turned to meet her.
"It's only a tramp I've made friends with, mother," said Robin. "He has come to say good-bye, and I knew you wouldn't mind me asking him to stay to tea as you were out."
"Madelaine!--my own Madelaine!" ejaculated the stranger with a dazed look upon his pale face. "Is it possible--or am I dreaming?"
"Gerald!--my husband!" was the answering cry, as Madelaine threw herself into his outstretched arms. "Oh, thank God that I have got you again!"
In mute astonishment Robin watched the reunited pair, till the first ecstasy of the unexpected meeting was past, and they could turn to him with explanations of the strange scene.
"Come and welcome your father, Robin," was Madelaine's joyful exclamation, as she put out her hand to the boy. "This is indeed a wonderful day for us. Our lost one has been given back to us as from the dead. How, I do not know. It is enough to feel that he is here."
She raised her eyes, brimming with love and tenderness, to feast her gaze once more upon her husband's countenance, clinging closely to him the while, as if she feared some unseen power would spirit him away.
She was startled to see the spasm of pain which passed over his features at her words, while a deep groan escaped his lips.
"Gerald!" she exclaimed, "what is wrong? You look so ill, and as if something dreadful had happened. What can anything matter so long as we are together again?"
"My darling," said Gerald, with lips that trembled in spite of the effort he made to obtain command over himself, "how can I spoil the joy of this blessed reunion by bringing fresh pain to your dear true heart? And yet I must speak, and tell you all. Madelaine, it had been better for us if we had never met again. Far happier for you would it be if I were really dead, for we must part again, beloved, and that at once. I must still remain to you as one whose name is blotted out of the book of life. To recall me to the world would only mean anguish untold both to you and the boy."
"If you think I am going to let you go, Gerald, now that I have got you again, you are very much mistaken," said Madelaine resolutely. "'Where thou goest I will go,' and no arguments will ever shake my determination. Surely my right place is at my husband's side?"
"You were always braver than I, Madelaine," replied Gerald, "but when you hear all, you may not feel the same towards me as you once did. Let the boy go while I make a clean breast of the past, and then you will be more able to judge of how you will behave in regard to me in the future."
CHAPTER XVI
For Conscience' Sake
As Robin left the room, Gerald disengaged himself from his wife's embrace, and stood upon the hearthrug, his two hands extended towards her.
"Madelaine," he said, and his voice sounded harsh with pain as he spoke, "I shall not keep you in suspense, but tell you the whole terrible truth at once. Look at your husband's hands, and then turn away if you will. They are not fit to touch a hair of your head. The curse of Cain is upon them, for they are guilty--stained with the life-blood of a fellow-man."
Madelaine gave a little gasp of horror.
"It simply can't be true!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Gerald, I can't believe it. You never could have done such a thing. You, so good and gentle! It must all be some ghastly mistake!"
"It is true, Madelaine, sadly and woefully true," replied Gerald. "I saw him lying there with his poor eyes all glazed and dim. He was an old man too, and had done me no harm. I had no grudge against him, indeed I was his guest at the time when I gave the fatal blow. The awful fact remains that in a fit of drunken rage,--for which God forgive me,--I killed old Wattie, the miner, in his little shanty on the banks of a Californian stream."
Madelaine covered her face with her hands as if to shut out some dreadful sight, and sank down on her knees beside the table.
"O God, forgive him, for he knew not what he did," she moaned. "Oh, lay not this sin to his charge."
"You are right in saying that I did not know how the dastardly deed was done," replied her husband. "It was not till I came to my senses again that I was told what the consequences of my act had been. You remember, Madelaine, that drink had never been my temptation, and it was rarely that I joined with others even in a friendly glass. I think the liquor I took in old Wattie's hut must have been singularly fiery, for I have never been overcome in the same way, either before or since. Indeed from that day to this, no drop of strong drink has passed my lips. I don't say this to excuse myself, for I am fully aware that there is no sort of palliation for my sin. I would only have you know, Madelaine, that it was unwittingly done, and gladly would I have given my life to see vitality come back to those powerless limbs again. I helped to carry him into the little room behind, and laid him on his bed. He looked so white and still, as we left him there alone."
"Oh, my husband, why did you not tell me this before," asked Madelaine. "Surely you might have trusted me to understand? Why did you leave me without a word, making me think that you were dead?"
"Because I was a coward," answered Gerald. "I dared not face the consequences of my rash act. I could not have met you without telling you all, and I thought it was the better way both for you and me if I simply disappeared from your sight, making no explanation or excuse. It seemed to me that it would be easier for you to hear the news of my death, than to carry the burden of my crime. I pictured your grief, and thought of the innocent babe who might be branded all his days as the son of a common felon. I tried to end my life that same dark night in the river that flowed so swiftly only a few paces from the door. God in His mercy had other plans for me, unprepared as I was then for coming into His presence, and frustrated the deed which would only have added to the weight of guilt which I already bore. I was cast up on the bank some way down the stream, only to submerge myself in the scarcely less terrible depths of a friendless world, for I had not strength of mind to repeat the attempt to take away my life."
Madelaine's face was still buried in her hands as she knelt on silently, but Gerald could see that her frame was shaken by an agony of weeping, while she listened to the sad and shameful tale. It was only with a mighty effort that he was able to continue.
"There was another reason why I did not tell you all this before. I feared to lose your love, Madelaine, if you ever came to a knowledge of the truth. I felt that I could bear anything rather than your scorn and shrinking, and I knew only too well how richly I deserved such treatment at your hands. A friend who was witness when old Wattie fell, promised to write and tell you how I met my end. He was to say nothing of what had gone before, only to give you to understand that I had been drowned in some far-off river in the west."
"Yes," sobbed Madelaine, "that is what I heard. How could anyone be so cruel as to send such false tidings to me, when you were still alive?"
"He only told you what he believed to be true," answered Gerald. "He saw me swept away by the rushing current, and in a few moments I was out of his sight, lost in the grey gloom of the early dawn. He never imagined that I escaped, and I took good care not to tell him, desiring that all trace of me should be lost. I feared that he might give information against me if I turned up again, knowing as he well did that death in some form was only my due. I am glad however that he fulfilled his promise, so that at least you were not kept in suspense as to what had become of me."
"Oh, Gerald, why did you not send for me to join you, when you knew that you would have after all to face life with this dreadful weight upon you?" said Madelaine with a pained look in her honest eyes, as she rose at last from her knees and stood beside her husband. "Why did you not at least give me the option of bearing it with you?"
"I could not ask you to share such a dark future, dear one," replied Gerald. "My life for the last ten years has been a hideous nightmare, a constant dread of discovery and of the punishment which would inevitably follow. You were far better without me in your innocent ignorance of what had come to pass. Now, Madelaine, there is my confession. I have kept nothing back. The best thing you can do is to let me pass out of your life again, so that you and Robin may continue your quiet way in peace and honour. Even though it tear my heart out to leave you, it is the least atonement I can make for what I have done."
Madelaine stood for a moment looking up into her husband's face, then putting both her hands into his, she said softly--
"'For better, for worse,' Gerald. I am your wife, and nothing shall ever part us again. Robin and I will go with you to begin over again in some quiet corner, where we may yet be happy together through the blessing of God."
"The blessing of God?" questioned Gerald with a sharp note of anguish in his tone, as he put his arms round his wife, and fondly kissed her cheek. "Before I can look for that, I have yet to speak to you of the future, and I must put your love to a still harder test. You are indeed a faithful comrade and a brave, true soul, and you must help me to be strong, for sorely do I need courage. What I have now before me was bad enough to contemplate yesterday, but it is well-nigh unbearable since I have found you and my little son again."
"What can be worse than that which you have already told me?" asked Madelaine anxiously. "Be quick and let me hear what it is, so that I may know what I have still to face."
"Sit down beside me," said her husband, "and listen as patiently as you can, for the sequel to my crime is a long story and hard to tell."
It was indeed a pitiful tale that Gerald Barker unfolded in his wife's ears.
Cut off though he had been by his own hand from the old life, his heart yet hungered for news of those he loved, and many a time had he sought to gain tidings of them in the past. Hampered, however, as he was by the continual fear of detection, it was only under a feigned name and by circuitous ways that he could prosecute his search. He told Madelaine how, some months after the tragedy, he had written to the postmaster of the little Canadian town where last their home had been, to find out if she and the child were still in the same place where he had said farewell to them in his departure upon the ill-fated journey. The reply came that so far as the official was aware, they had sailed for England a short time before, leaving no address nor any indication as to their final destination.
Believing that his wife would probably return to her former haunts, he made further enquiries in the secluded Hertfordshire village where her father had so long practised as doctor to the countryside. Once again came the disheartening answer that information concerning her could not be supplied, no one of the name of Barker being resident in the neighbourhood.
"Why, of course not!" exclaimed Madelaine. "The postmaster there was a new man, and had only heard of me as Mrs. Power, so he would not recognize me as the same person about whom you were asking. I must tell you how the change came about, for I have something to confess to you, Gerald, something which I must ask you to forgive. I do hope you will not think I did wrong, but truly it was a difficult matter to decide."
"You did perfectly right, Madelaine," replied her husband, when he had heard the story of the generous friend who was raised up so opportunely to care for the helpless ones he had himself deserted in their need. "I am only thankful that you did not suffer more from my selfish cowardice. It has been misery to me to think what you might be enduring, and I powerless to make amends. During all my wanderings I have tried to put by small sums from time to time, hoping that one day I might find out your retreat, and be able to make life easier for you, anonymously at least, even if I were unable to reveal myself as your rightful provider and guard."
It was in furtherance of this desire that Gerald had at length taken the voyage to England, trusting that the ten long years which had passed had so effectually altered his appearance, that he could safely revisit the scenes where he might most probably hear news of those he had lost. A morbid terror of recognition had by this time fastened upon him, becoming a second nature, so that he could not easily associate with other men. Thus all his enquiries had ended in disappointment and failure, being only addressed to strangers who would naturally be unable to give him the personal clue which he sought.
"I went as a last chance to Norwich," he said, "knowing that you had a relative there who might help, but I found that he was dead, and his wife also, so that hope fell to the ground. By this time I was quite worn out by privation and anxiety, so that my heart got affected, and I had such a bad attack that I was obliged to go into hospital for some weeks. It was there that the change came, and I saw my life in the light of Heaven. I realized that I had sinned not only against man but against God. As I lay upon what might have been my death-bed, I made a solemn vow that if I was spared I would go back to California, and give myself up to justice, so as to atone as far as I could for what I had done so many years ago. I determined to delay only long enough to get back my strength, and it was for this reason I decided to come to Sunbury, knowing the pureness of its air, and remembering too the happy days of our short honeymoon here, when we were young and knew not what life held of bitterness for us both."
Madelaine's face was strained and grey as she sat listening silently, trying to take in what her husband's words signified, and her parched lips almost refused to utter the question which she strove to ask.
"Do you mean to say you are going to leave me again, and to deliberately give yourself up to trial and perhaps even death? After all this time too? Oh, Gerald, is it really necessary? It is more than I can possibly bear. Surely there is some other way?"
"It is the only way," replied Gerald, "there is no other. I have not a shadow of doubt about it. But, oh, my darling, it is a cruel blow to deal you, and to know that it is I who have inflicted this pain upon you is a worse punishment than any that can possibly come to me from the hands of the law."
Madelaine made no reply. She sat as if stunned by the terrible future which had opened out before her, following so closely upon the sudden joy. Her hands were tightly clasped together, and she gazed out of the window as one who saw nothing.
"Madelaine!" exclaimed Gerald suddenly, "is it too great a sacrifice that I am asking you to share? Am I wrong in demanding it of you? We are one, my wife, and you have a right to speak on this matter which concerns us both so intimately. I put it to you--shall I stay so long as you need me, or do you agree that it is right for me to go? Help me to decide, only remember it must be a decision which is made in the presence of God."
Madelaine gave a shiver as at length she turned her eyes from the window, and fixed them mournfully upon her husband's face.
"It is right for you to go, Gerald," she said with a little choking sob. "I will not hold you back. God have you in His keeping, and may He in some way bring light into this black dark night which has settled down upon us all."
CHAPTER XVII
Well-founded Fears
One slight reprieve did Gerald and his wife allow themselves, as they talked over their future plans. It was decided that he should not disclose his identity until he had reached the district where the crime had been committed. Until then they would make the most of each other's companionship, Madelaine and Robin going with him to California, so that they might be together as long as possible before the final separation.
"I must find out about berths and the dates of sailing," said Gerald, "and in the meanwhile, we had better go to London or Liverpool, where we can easily lose ourselves in the crowd."
"Why not remain here?" asked his wife. "It is such a quiet little place, and people have got accustomed to look upon you as an ordinary lodger, who has been delayed by illness in Mrs. Potter's rooms. No one here would ever dream of associating you with what happened ten years ago on the other side of the world."
Gerald's brow clouded.
"Sunbury is one of the most dangerous spots on earth for me at the present time," he replied. "Two men only were witnesses of my deed, and one of them has lately come to live here. If he should happen to come across me, there is nothing to hinder him from handing me over at once to the nearest magistrate, in which case the few precious days that still remain to us would be lost. I heard about him at the inn when I first arrived, and it was because of this that I so hastily decided to leave the place. I was on my way to the station when I came upon Robin's castle, and falling asleep there from sheer exhaustion, was found by the boys next morning when they came to play. If it had not been for the illness brought on by exposure and drenching on the night of the storm, I should have been across the sea by this time, so as to place as many miles as possible between him and me. When I plead guilty at the bar, I wish to do so of my own free will, not because force has been brought to bear upon me from outside."
"Who can it be?" asked Madelaine anxiously. "Surely no one would do you any harm after all these years."
"I should be utterly helpless in his hands if he chose to lodge an accusation against me," answered Gerald. "His name is Thomas Field. He was in Wattie's hut the night on which I killed the old man, and he saw the whole thing. He was with me when I took my mad plunge into the river, and therefore imagines me to be dead, but he would certainly recognize me if I stayed on here. You told me he fulfilled his promise of writing to tell you of my death. Did he not give you his name when he wrote?"
"I got a short letter from a man who signed himself, T.A.F.," said Madelaine. "He sent back your watch and chain at the same time. Why, of course those are Mr. Thomas Algernon Field's initials! How strange that I never connected them before! He gave me no address, so I was never able to write and ask for further details."
"Did he return nothing but the watch?" enquired her husband. "There were some papers I left for him to forward also."
"He enclosed your diary," replied Madelaine, "but he said your papers had been lost in the river when you were drowned."
"Surely I could not have been absent-minded enough to put them into my pocket again!" exclaimed Gerald. "I am certain that I handed them over to him in the hut, but the truth is that I was in such a state of mind at the time, that I may have picked them up again without knowing it. They were documents concerning a piece of land that I had staked out away up in the wilds as a sort of speculation, and I asked him to advise you about it. It wasn't worth very much, and probably would have turned out a failure as most of my ventures have done, but I wanted you to know it was there, in case you might have made a few pounds on it. I should like to ask Field about it, only that I dare not face him again."
"Oh, Gerald," rejoined Madelaine, "I would not trust that man! He looks as if he could be cruel as well as hard. Do not run the risk of putting your life into his power. Let us fly while we can, for you are liable to meet him at any moment, and you might be snatched from me almost before our little time together is begun."
"To tell you the truth, I have met him already," said her husband, "but he evidently took me for a spirit, believing that I had done away with myself so long before."
Gerald proceeded to give his wife an account of the unexpected meeting at the entrance of the little house in the wood, when the flash of lightning had suddenly revealed the two old acquaintances to each other, and Field had dashed the supposed apparition to the ground.
"I was barely able to crawl to good Mrs. Potter's," he continued, "but she took me in, and there I have been until to-day, when I ventured out for the first time, longing for another glimpse of the little angel-messenger who had tended me so lovingly in his leafy bower. No wonder that I loved the lad, seeing he was my own son!"
It was late according to the primitive habits of Sunbury when Gerald at last rose to leave.
"I must go back now to my worthy landlady," he remarked, "or she will wonder what has become of me. I will come over early in the morning, and we can make arrangements to leave for London to-morrow afternoon. Please God, Madelaine, we shall have some blessed days together, before we need to part again."
"I shall be thankful when we are off," said his trembling wife. "Do be careful, Gerald, and keep out of Mr. Field's way. I don't like to think of you showing your face at all while you are here."
"I'll take good care, dearest," he replied, "so don't you worry. Now I must just run up and take a peep at little Robin before I go. Oh, Madelaine, if you only knew how I have hungered for a sight of you and the child! I can't think how it was that my instinct did not tell me who he was, when he came to me in the wood. It was the name that put me off."
"I could not call him 'Gerald,' even though we christened him so," explained Madelaine, as she stood beside her husband, looking down at the sleeping boy. "It was too precious a word to be used for anyone but you, and I got to speak of him as 'Robin' that first winter after we came to England, because of his bright eyes and rosy cheeks, and the name has stuck to him ever since."
The interview next morning was satisfactorily concluded, and Gerald was on his way back to Mrs. Potter's house.
His heart was lighter than it had been for many a long day, as he walked through the wood. Although a terribly dark cloud loomed ahead, a rainbow seemed to have thrown itself across the grey and troubled sky, and rays of love and hope shone all around.
It was still early, not yet nine o'clock, and he was congratulating himself on having encountered no one either on his way to or from Sea View Cottage. One more bend in the woodland path, and Mrs. Potter's chimneys would be in sight.
He swung round the turn, and almost collided with a man who was walking briskly in the opposite direction to which he was himself going.
Words of apology rose to his lips, but they died away in dismay before they were uttered.
He was face to face with Thomas Field.
"So it was you after all, and no ghost!" exclaimed the squire. "How is it that you have turned up here, Barker? What do you want with me, dogging my footsteps like this?"
To Gerald's surprise Field's countenance had assumed an expression of the utmost fear and dislike, as he suddenly realized who it was that had thus encountered him.
"I must have given him an uncommonly bad shock that night when I came upon him during the storm," thought Gerald, as his mind took a rapid survey of the past. "He looks perfectly terrified at the mere sight of me, though it is I who have cause to be frightened of him, not he of me. I suppose it's because he has so long accustomed himself to think of me as dead."
"You were my friend once, Field," he added aloud, "and I must throw myself on your mercy again. I have no wish to intrude my presence upon you. Let me disappear, as you did before, to be lost in the waters of oblivion. I ask no more than to be left to go my way unquestioned and alone."
A look of relief overspread the millionaire's features, and his aggressively domineering manner reasserted itself.
"Well, Barker," he said roughly, "many a time have I wondered if I was right in letting you slip through the fingers of justice as I did that night. Death by drowning was too easy a way of escape for a man who had murdered another in the cold-blooded fashion in which you finished off old Wattie. My duty, no doubt, is to report you, now that I know you are again at large."
Gerald winced at the coarse cruelty of the words, and his thoughts flew to Madelaine and the boy. Would the cup be dashed from his lips, just when he was about to taste the sweetness of life for the last time?
"I have long ago repented of my sin," he replied humbly, "and strong drink has been put far from me since that day. It brought misery enough then to make me shun it for ever. I have suffered, Field, and I know I have been forgiven by my God. I can but ask man to have pity likewise."
"You don't deserve it," was the harsh reply, "but I suppose I can't hit a fellow when he's down, so I'll give you one more chance. I shall not hand you over to the law this time, but I tell you plainly if I find you loafing about here again, you'll have to pay for it. My conscience will not permit me to let you off so easily a third time, so you had better keep out of my way. I'll give you a friendly tip, though, before you go. You have more occasion perhaps than you know to avoid Sunbury. I'm not the only man here who holds the key to your past. Probably you have your own reasons for banishing from your mind the fact that you were ever acquainted with Blustering Ben, the hunter, but he will not so quickly forget you. He was a chum of old Wattie's too, so he would not be so lenient as I am, supposing he caught sight of you here. You know what he saw last time you met, so take my advice and don't run your neck into the noose sooner than is necessary. The faster you make yourself scarce the better for everyone."
"Thank you," said Gerald, though his spirit chafed at the insulting speech. "I had no idea Ben was in Sunbury. I have certainly no wish to meet him again."
CHAPTER XVIII
Judge Simmons Again
Mr. Field turned to go, but he was arrested by a question from Gerald, which made him pause once more.
"There is one thing I should like to ask before we part," he said. "Did I not leave some papers with you that dreadful night? I remember speaking to you about them before I went down to the river."
"You babbled to me about some claim which you had patented," answered Mr. Field, "and told me what you meant to do with it, but I can't say your head was exactly clear that evening; and all papers, if there were any, went the same way as yourself, plump into the water. You left nothing with me. I took the trouble, however, to ask some fellows who came from that part of the country, and they told me you had been regularly taken in about it--the whole property was not worth a cent. So you need not cry over spilt milk. By the way, they know all about old Wattie up there, so it would be wiser not to make too many enquiries in that quarter."
It was on the tip of Gerald's tongue to ask why Mr. Field had not even mentioned the matter to Madelaine when he wrote, but he checked himself in time. If the land was really of no value, it was not worth bringing his wife's name into the conversation. Better to let the matter drop, and leave well alone.
"I have no wish to rake up old stories," he said. "Only I thought there was no harm in asking you about the papers, seeing I had mentioned them to you before. I pass now out of your life for ever."
So saying he turned abruptly and continued his interrupted course towards the edge of the wood.
Mr. Field watched him until he disappeared behind the trees, then, with knit brow and a preoccupied look he slowly made his way back to Farncourt. He was met by Julius at the lodge gates.
"You are late for breakfast, father," said the boy. "Why did you go out before you had had anything to eat?"
"I could not sleep last night," was the answer, "and I thought half an hour's stroll might give me an appetite, as I am not feeling very fit. I was longer than I meant to be."
"It seems a day for early walks," said Julius. "Robin has been up to see me already. Oh, father, isn't it dreadful? He and Mrs. Power are going away this afternoon by the four o'clock train. He said they had to meet someone in London, I think it was, so they were leaving a few days sooner than they meant to do. I shall miss them awfully, especially Robin. It will be just horrid without him."
The boy's lips quivered as he spoke, and he tried manfully to keep back the tears which would well up in his eyes. The last month or two had been the happiest that the lonely child had ever spent, in the companionship of his cheery little friend and the protecting tenderness with which Madelaine had welcomed him into her large and loving heart. Even in the midst of his own conflicting thoughts, Mr. Field felt touched by the lad's evident distress, and endeavoured to comfort him as best he could.
"Never mind, Julius," he said. "I'm going to make some changes before long, so perhaps you won't miss Robin so much as you think. This place doesn't seem to suit me very well. I believe it is too near the sea, so I am going to try how I get on further inland. I have seen a very good estate advertised for sale about which I intend to enquire, and you may find other friends there who may make up to you for your loss. Besides, I have quite made up my mind that it is full time to send you to school. I can't stand any more tutors, and it is not good for you going moping about here by yourself. How would you like to go to Eton or Harrow, or some other first-class place like that? I'll see that you don't want for pocket-money, my boy, so that you can foot it with the best of them, and lord it over the lords if so you will."
Mr. Field chuckled over his joke, but though for a moment a gleam of comfort lightened the gloomy horizon of the lad, the thought of losing Robin settled again upon him like a cloud.
"It would be simply ripping to go to school if only Robin could come too," he said. "I wish Mrs. Power would send him with me, but I'm afraid they're rather poor, so perhaps they couldn't afford it. They asked me to spend the morning with them at Sea View Cottage, father, that's why Robin came up so soon, in case I should be going out in the motor, and they would not be able to say good-bye."
"You may certainly go, Julius," replied Mr. Field. "Mrs. Power has been a good friend to us, and contrary to my custom I shall call on her myself to thank her for all her kindness to you."
"Robin is going to give Peter his liberty before he goes," remarked Julius. "You know he was only a baby wild rabbit that old Timothy caught in his garden, so he will be quite pleased to live a free life again. We are first going to give him a feast of everything that he likes best, and then we shall take him to our hut in the wood and let him loose there. Robin says that if we tunnel out a little hole in the wall, Peter may perhaps believe it is a real rabbit's burrow and make a home there. Of course the roof is all tumbled in now, so it is no use as a house for us, but it makes it all the better for Peter, as he can hide so easily under the fallen branches. Robin does think of such delightful things!"
Breakfast was over and Mr. Field had gone into his study to write some letters. He had not been there many minutes when the footman entered and informed him that two gentlemen were waiting to see him in the drawing-room.
"Who are they?" he asked impatiently.
"I don't know, sir," replied the man. "They did not give any names."
"As Julius said, this seems a day on which people are early astir," muttered Mr. Field to himself. "I wish callers would not come bothering round at this time of day. I wonder who they can be."
The visitors were admiring the view from the window when he entered the room, and he was almost at their side before they realized he was there.
"Judge Simmons and Elihu Pratt!" he exclaimed as they turned towards him. "Whatever brings you here together at this hour?"
"We should be glad of a little conversation with you, Mr. Field," replied the judge. "There is a certain matter about which my friend and I have been making enquiries, and we believe that you may be able to throw some light upon it."
"What is the subject under consideration?" asked Mr. Field, nervously requesting his guests to be seated. "Is it your young ward's speculations in Mexico? I remember you were doubtful as regards his ventures in the silver line last time you were here."
"I am glad to say he is doing well," replied Judge Simmons, "but it is not about him that we came. You may not perhaps have heard that Mr. Elihu Pratt has lately been appointed District Attorney for the locality in which the Good Hope mine lies. He is now engaged in investigating the titles of the various mining claims about there, and he finds some difficulty in connection with the deeds to your property. It so chanced that I was interesting myself concerning the bit of land acquired by my former acquaintance, Gerald Barker, and not being able to reconcile several conflicting facts, we determined to call upon you together, both of us happening to be over in England just now. No doubt you will be able to make it clear, but we shall be much obliged if you will kindly do so."
Mr. Field moistened his lips before he spoke, and hastily mopped his forehead with his handkerchief.
"I have my title deeds all right," he said. "I can show them to you if you like, but there is nothing conflicting about them, so far as I know."
"You remember, sir," continued the judge, "that when I called upon you before, you were at some pains to convince me that Gerald Barker's claim was in quite another valley to yours--a valley possessing the same strange geological features as that in which your mine is situated--although your little boy gave contrary evidence, much to your displeasure. Now, Mr. Field, I was with Barker when he staked his claim, and I have just returned from a visit to the 'Good Hope.'"
"Well, what of that?" was the blunt rejoinder.
"They are one and the self-same place," answered Judge Simmons gravely, casting a penetrating glance upon the man before him.
"I never said they were not," snapped Mr. Field. "I only told you there were lots of cliffs of that formation about there. It was simply my boy's rude way of contradicting that made me so angry with him."
"There is no rock anywhere in the countryside similar to that which overlooks the Good Hope mine," broke in Mr. Pratt, speaking for the first time. "I find, moreover, that the land on which you, as reputed owner, pay taxes, is identical with the claim patented some ten years back by Gerald Barker. The Registrar's books fail to record any transfer of the property. How did it happen to come into your possession?"
"Barker sold it to me, if you want to know," answered Mr. Field, indignantly. "It is really intolerable to be cross-questioned in this fashion. If you were not a government official I would kick you out of the house for daring to insult me by your dastardly insinuations. You may examine the patent for yourself, if that will satisfy you, and also the transfer which Barker signed with his own hand, in which he gave up all his rights to me."
"I should like to see them," was Mr. Pratt's only reply.
The millionaire hesitated for a moment and the colour fled from his cheeks, but recovering himself quickly he invited them to accompany him into the study, where he proceeded to unlock his safe and spread out some documents before them on the table.
"There is no doubt that this is Barker's patent," remarked Mr. Pratt. "Now for the transfer. I see we have here the signatures of two witnesses, Benjamin Green and Walter Long, as well as that of Gerald Barker. It is also signed by Caleb Denham, who describes himself as a Notary Public, and whose seal, according to custom, is appended here. Have you any idea where the witnesses are now?"
"Benjamin Green is a rolling stone, always knocking about the world," was the reply, "and old Walter or Wattie, as he was called, is dead."
Mr. Pratt glanced across at Judge Simmons.
"This transfer is dated the day after that on which Barker was drowned," he said quietly.
"How do you know so exactly when that took place?" questioned Mr. Field.
"His wife has supplied us with the information," answered the judge. "I have here a copy of your own letter to her."
"Ass that I was!" muttered Mr. Field under his breath. Aloud he added, "It is easy to make a mistake like that in the backwoods, where every day is alike."
"These little mistakes sometimes need to be enquired into," rejoined Judge Simmons. "We shall have to look up this same Benjamin Green and find out what he has to say about it. It is fortunate that we have an independent witness in this case, although it is unusual to have other names besides that of a lawyer subscribed to a similar deed."
Mr. Field bit his lip with vexation. "I have over-reached myself there," was the thought which passed rapidly through his mind. "I believed it would make it all the safer if I had those two signatures as well as Caleb's, but they may prove my undoing. All the same, I don't think I could have got the old shyster to put his seal to it if their names hadn't been there, so they served my turn after all."
In an injured voice he next addressed the judge.
"Surely," he exclaimed, "you can rely on the statement of a Notary Public without having to get proofs of his veracity."
"I happen to know that this particular Caleb Denham has just been convicted as an unprincipled and dishonest scoundrel," answered Judge Simmons. "He is now undergoing a well-merited term in jail because of his illicit practices. I would not give a button for his word."
"By the way," he added, turning again to the letter before him, "when I saw you last you gave me to understand that it was only a report of Barker's death which had reached you, but it is mentioned here that you yourself saw him swept away by the river. These statements seem rather conflicting. Was anyone else there at the time?"
"No," replied Mr. Field. "We were quite alone when the accident happened."
"Are you prepared to swear that you have given a strictly accurate account of the whole incident?" asked the judge, his keen eyes fixed on Mr. Field's agitated face. "I cannot deny that appearances are very much against you. It is a queer thing that Barker should have disappeared in this mysterious manner just at the very time that you became possessed of his papers. When we questioned Mrs. Power about it this morning, I thought she seemed rather to hesitate when I asked her if she had any reason to doubt the truth of your report."
"Mrs. Power!" ejaculated Mr. Field. "Whatever has she got to do with it?"
"You are evidently ignorant of the fact that she is Gerald Barker's widow, she having changed her name on account of some stipulation in a will," replied Judge Simmons. "We traced her by the information given to us by a servant of the old gentleman who left her the money. Finding that she was at present staying in Sunbury, we had an interview with her this morning before we came on to you."
"It is apparent that Mrs. Power has not let out to them that Barker is alive," was the thought that flashed across Mr. Field's mind. "She has evidently been in touch with her husband all along, but is terrified at the idea of him being taken up for the crime. I never should have believed that she could be so cunning as to hoodwink me like this. I suppose she has set these men to catch me out. I'll be even with her though, and with Barker too!"
"Look here," he said in a bullying tone, "this Mrs. Power, or Barker, or whatever she chooses to call herself--does she mean to make a fuss about these papers which there is no doubt her husband signed? Because, if so, will you please go back to her with a message. Tell her from me that silence is the price of silence. If she wants me to hold my tongue she had better not provoke me too far. I put myself unreservedly into her hands. If after giving her this message she still wants you to take up the cudgels for her, I confess I shall be surprised. She is more likely to go down on her knees, begging me not to disclose her secret to the world. You think perhaps you are doing her a service, but she may end by crying, 'Save me from my friends!'"
"This is a most extraordinary threat!" exclaimed the judge. "You had better explain yourself more fully."
"I shall have great pleasure in doing so," answered Mr. Field. "Doubtless you are not aware that her husband's last public act was to kill a defenceless old man in cold blood--this very same Walter Long whose signature is on this paper. It was a false report which got about concerning Barker's death. True he tried to drown himself in despair when he realized what he had done--I saw him leap into the river with my own eyes, and honestly believed him to have perished that day--but it seems he managed to reach the bank again some way further down the stream. He has been a fugitive from justice ever since. It was only this morning that I learnt he was still alive. I happen, moreover, to know where he is hiding at the present moment, and you may tell Mrs. Power that if she pesters me with questions about the property which I honourably came by, I shall know well enough how to be avenged!"