At the summit of the little spur of cliff they paused. Close on one side were the windows of Falcon's Nest, and on the other the batch of black firs which formed the background to it ran down the steep cliff side to the sea. The path which they were following curved round the cottage, and crossed the moor within a few yards of the spot where Sir Geoffrey had been found. As they stood together for a moment before parting, she noticed, with a sudden cold dismay, that thick shutters had recently been fitted to the windows of the little room into which she had stolen on the day of Sir Geoffrey's murder.
"Are you afraid of being robbed?" she asked. "One would imagine that your room there held a secret."
She was watching him, and she told herself the shot had gone to its mark.
He followed her finger with his eyes, and kept his face turned away from her.
"Yes, that is so," he answered quietly. "That little room holds its secret and its ghost for me. Would to God," he cried, with a sudden passion trembling in his tones, "that I had never seen it—that I had never come here!"
Her heart beat fast. Could it be that he was going to confess to her? Then he turned suddenly round, and in the twilight his white face and dark luminous eyes seemed to her like mute emblems of an anguish which moved her woman's heart to pity. There was none of the cowardice of guilt there, nothing of the criminal in the deep melancholy which seemed to have set its mark upon his whole being. And yet he must be very guilty—very much a criminal.
Her eyes strayed from his face back to the window again. There was no light anywhere in the house. It had a cold desolate look which chilled her.
"Is that the room where you sit?" she asked, pointing to it.
"Yes. There is no other furnished, except my housekeeper's, and she is away now."
"Away! Then who is with you in the house?"
"At present, no one," he answered. "She was taken ill, and went home this morning. She is generally ill."
She looked at him perplexed.
"But who does your cooking for you, and light the fires, and that sort of thing?"
"I haven't thought about it yet," he answered. "I did try to light the fire this afternoon, but I couldn't quite manage it. I—I think the sticks must have been damp," he added hesitatingly.
She looked at him, wet through and almost blue with cold, and at the dull cheerless-looking cottage. Again the woman in her triumphed, and her eyes filled with tears.
"I never heard anything so preposterous," she exclaimed almost angrily. "You must be out of your senses, Mr. Brown. Now, be so good as to obey me at once. Go into the house and get a thick overcoat, the thickest you have, and then come home with me, and I will give you some tea."
He hesitated, and stood quite still for a moment, with his face turned steadily away from her. All the subtle sweetness of that last visit of his to her home had come back to him, and his heart was sick with a great longing. Was he not a fool to refuse to enter into paradise, when the gates stood open for him? No words could describe the craving which he felt to escape, just for a brief while, from the lashings of his thoughts and the icy misery of his great loneliness. What though he were courting another sorrow! Could his state be worse than it was? Could any agony be keener than that which he had already tasted? Were there lower depths still in the hell of remorse? If so, he would sound them. Though he died for it, he would not deny himself this one taste of heaven. He turned suddenly round, with a glow in his eyes which had a strange effect upon her.
"You are very good to me, Miss Thurwell," he said. "I will come."
"That is sensible of you," she answered. "Get your coat, and you can catch me up. I think we had better go back the same way, as it is getting late."
She walked slowly down the path, and he hurried into the cottage. In a few minutes he overtook her, wrapped in a long Inverness cape from head to foot, and they walked on side by side.
The grey afternoon had suddenly faded into twilight. Overhead several stars were already visible, dimly shining through a gauze-like veil of mist stretched all over the sky, and from behind a black line of firs on the top of a distant hill the moon had slowly risen, and was casting a soft weird light upon the saddened landscape. Grey wreaths of phantom-like mist were floating away across the moor, and a faint breeze had sprung up, and was moaning in the pine plantation when they reached the hand-gate. They paused for a moment to listen, and the dull roar of the sea from below mingled with it in their ears. She turned away with a shudder.
"Come!" she said; "that sound makes me melancholy."
"I like it," he answered. "Nature is an exquisite musician. I never yet heard the sea speak in a tone which I did not love to hear. Listen to that slow mournful rise of sound, reaching almost to intensity, and then dying away so sadly—with the sadness that thrills. Ah! did you hear that? The shrieking of those pebbles dragged down to the sea, and crying out in almost human agony. I love the sea."
"Is that why you came to this desolate part of the world?" she asked.
"Partly."
"Tell me the whole reason," she said abruptly. "Was there anything special which made you fix on this neighborhood? You may think me curious, if you like—but I want to know."
"I had a vow to keep," he answered hoarsely. "You must ask me no more. I cannot tell you."
Her heart sank like lead. A vow to keep. There was something ominous in the sound of those words. She stole a glance at him as they walked on in silence, and again her judgments seemed put to confusion and her hopes revived. His face, dimly seen in the shadows of the plantation, was suddenly illuminated by a pale quivering moonbeam, as they passed through a slight opening. Could these be the features of a murderer? Her whole heart rebelled against her understanding, and cried out "No!" For the first time she realized the æsthetic beauty of his face, scarred and wasted though it was by the deep lines of intellectual toil and consuming sorrow. There was not a line out of place, save where his cheek-bones projected slightly, owing to his extreme thinness, and left deep hollows under his eyes. Nor was his expression the expression of a guilty man, for, notwithstanding the intense melancholy which dwelt always in his dark eyes, and seemed written into every feature, there was blended with it a strange pride, the slight yet wholesome contempt of a man conscious of a certain superiority in himself, neither physical nor in any way connected with material circumstances, over the majority of his fellows. And as the realization of this swept in upon her, and her faith in him suddenly leaped up with a new-born strength, there came with it a passionate desire to hear him proclaim his innocence with his own lips, and, having heard it, to banish for ever doubts and suspicions, and give herself up to this new sweetness which was hovering around her life. She caught hold of his hand, but dropped it almost at once, for the fire which flashed into his face at the touch of her fingers half frightened her. He had come to a sudden standstill, and before his eyes she felt hers droop and the hot color burn her cheeks. What had come to her? She could not tell. She was nervous, almost faint, with the dawning promise of a bewildering happiness. Yet her desire still clung to her, and she found words to express it.
"I cannot bear this any longer," she cried. "I must ask you a question, and you must answer it. The thought of it all is driving me mad."
"For God's sake, ask me nothing!" he said in a deep hollow tone. "Let me go back. I should not be here with you."
"You shall not go," she answered. "Stand there where the light falls upon your face, and answer me. Was it you who killed Sir Geoffrey Kynaston? Tell me, for I will know."
There was a dead silence, which seemed to her fevered nerves intolerable. From all around them came the quiet drip, drip, of the rain, from the bending boughs on to the damp soaked ground, and at that moment a slight breeze from over the moorland stirred amongst the branches, and the moisture which hung upon them descended in little showers. From below, the dull roar of the sea came up to them in a muffled undertone, like a melancholy background to the slighter sound. There was an indescribable dreariness about it all which quickened the acute agony of those few moments.
More awful than anything to her was the struggle which she saw in that white strained face half hidden in his clasped hands. What could hesitation mean but guilt? What need was there for it? Her feet seemed turned to stone upon the cold ground, and her heart almost stopped beating. There was a film before her eyes, and yet she saw his face still, though dimly, and as if it were far off. She saw his hands withdrawn, and she saw his ashen lips part slowly.
"I did not kill Sir Geoffrey Kynaston," he said in a low constrained voice. "If my life could have saved his, I would have given it."
A warm golden light seemed suddenly to banish the misty gloom of the damp plantation. The color rushed into her cheeks, and her heart leaped for joy. She heard, and she believed.
"Thank God!" she cried, holding out both her hands to him with a sudden impulsive gesture. "Come! let us go now."
She was smiling softly up at him, and her eyes were wet with tears. He took one quick passionate step towards her, seizing her hands, and drawing her unresistingly towards him. In a moment she would have been in his arms—already a great trembling had seized her, and her will had fled. But that moment was not yet.
Something seemed to have turned him to stone. He dropped her fingers as though they were burning him. A vacant light eclipsed the passion which had shone a moment before in his eyes. Suddenly he raised his hands to the sky in a despairing gesture.
"God forgive me!" he cried. "God forgive me!"
For very shame at his touch, and her ready yielding to it, her eyes had fallen to the ground. When she raised them he was gone. There was the sound of his retreating footsteps, the quick opening and closing of the hand-gate, and through the trees she saw him walking swiftly over the cliffs. Then she turned away, with her face half hidden in her hands, and the hot tears streaming down her cheeks.
Again there was silence, only broken by the louder roar of the incoming tide, and the faint rustling of the leaves. Suddenly it was broken by a human voice, and a human figure slowly arose from a cramped posture behind a clump of shrubs.
"Holy Moses! if this ain't a queer start," remarked Mr. Benjamin Levy, shaking the wet from his clothes, and slowly filling a pipe. "Wants him copped for murder, and yet tries to get him to make up to her. She's a deep un, she is. I wonder if she was in earnest! If only she was, I think I see my way to a real good thing—a real good thing," he repeated, meditatively.
It was Tuesday afternoon, and the Countess of Meltoun was at home to the world—that is to say, her world. The usual throng of men of fashion, guardsmen, literary men, and budding politicians were bending over the chairs of their feminine acquaintances, or standing about in little groups talking amongst themselves. The clatter of teacups was mingled with the soft hum of voices; the pleasantly shaded room was heavy with the perfume of many flowers. People said that Lady Meltoun was the only woman in London who knew how to keep her rooms cool. It was hard to believe that outside the streets and pavements were hot with the afternoon sun.
Helen Thurwell, who had come late with her aunt, was sitting on a low couch near one of the windows. By her side was Sir Allan Beaumerville, and directly in front of her the Earl of Meltoun, with a teacup in his hand, was telling her stories of his college days with her father. There had been a great change in her during the last six months. Looking closely into her face, it seemed as though she had felt the touch of a deep sorrow—a sorrow which had left all its refining influences upon her without any of the ravages of acute grief. Those few minutes in the pine grove by the sea had left their indelible mark upon her life, and it was only the stimulating memory of his own words to her concerning the weakness of idle yielding to regret, and the abstract beauty of sorrow which had been her salvation. They had come back to her in the time of her suffering fresh and glowing with truth; she had found a peculiar comfort in them, and they had become her religion. Thus she had set herself to conquer grief in the highest possible manner—not by steeping herself in false excitement, or rushing away for a change of scene, but by a deliberate series of intellectual and artistic abstractions, out of which she had come, still in a manner sorrowful, but with all her higher perceptions quickened and strengthened until the consciousness of their evolution, gradually growing within her, gave a new power and a new sweetness to her life.
And of this victory she showed some traces in her face, which had indeed lost none of its physical beauty, but which had now gained a new strength and a new sweetness. She was more admired than ever, but there were men who called her difficult—even a little fastidious, and others who found her very hard to get on with. The great artist who had just taken Sir Allan Beaumerville's place by her side was not one of these.
"I am so glad that you are here to-day, Miss Thurwell," he said, holding her grey-gloved hand in his for a moment. "I have been looking for you everywhere."
"That is very nice of you," she answered, smiling up at him.
"Ah! but I didn't mean only for my own sake. I know that you like meeting interesting people, and to-day there is an opportunity for you."
"Really! and who is it, Mr. Carlyon? How good of you to think of me!"
"You remember telling me how much you admire Maddison's work."
"Why, yes! But he is not here, surely?" she exclaimed. "It cannot be he!"
Mr. Carlyon smiled at her sudden enthusiasm. After all, this woman had fire. She was too much of the artist to be without it.
"He is not here now, but he will be. I could not believe it myself at first, for I know that he is a perfect recluse. But I have just asked Lady Meltoun, and there is no doubt about it. It seems that they came across him in a lonely part of Spain, and he saved the life of Lady Meltoun's only child—a little boy. It is quite a romantic story. He promised to come and seem them directly he returned to England, and he is expected here to-day."
"I shall like to see him very much," she said thoughtfully. "Lately I have been reading him a great deal. It is strange, but the tone of his writings seems always to remind me of some one I once knew."
"There is no one of to-day who writes such prose," the artist answered. "To me, his work seems to have reached that exquisite blending of matter and form which is the essence of all true art."
"All his ideas of culture and the inner life are so simple and yet so beautiful."
"And the language with which he clothes them is divine. His work appeals everywhere to the purest and most artistic side of our emotional natures; and it is always on the same level. It has only one fault—there is so little of it."
"Do you know him?" she asked, deeply interested.
"I do. I met him in Pisa some years ago, and, although he is a strangely reserved man, we became almost intimate. I am looking forward to introducing him to you."
"I shall like it very much," she answered simply.
"Who is the fortunate individual to be so highly favored?" asked a pleasant voice close to her side.
"You have returned, then, Sir Allan?" she said, looking up at him with a smile. "Have you heard the news? Do you know who is expected?"
He shook his head.
"I have heard nothing," he said. "If I am to have a sensation, it will be you who will impart it to me. Don't tell me all at once. I like expectancy."
She laughed.
"What an epicure you are, Sir Allan! Come, prepare for something very delightful, and I will tell you."
"Is it the prince?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"The Mikado in disguise? The Khedive incognito? Mr. Gladstone?"
She shook her head again.
"The sensation will be more delightful than you imagine, evidently. There have been many Khedives, and many Mikados, but there can never be another Bernard Maddison."
A disturbed shade seemed to fall upon the baronet's face. She followed his eyes, riveted upon the door. The hum of conversation had suddenly ceased, and every one was looking in the same direction. On the threshold stood a tall, gaunt man, gazing in upon the scene before him with an expression of distinct aversion, mingled with indifference. He was dressed just like the other men, in a long frock coat, and he had a white gardenia in his buttonhole. But there was something about him distinct and noticeable—something in the quiet easy manner with which he at last moved forward to greet his hostess, which seemed to thrill her through and through with a sense of sweet familiarity. And then she caught a turn of his head as he stooped down over Lady Meltoun's hand, and a great wave of bewilderment, mingled with an acute throbbing joy, swept in upon her. This man, whom every one was gazing at with such eager interest, was her father's tenant, Mr. Bernard Brown.
Those few moments were full of a strange, intense interest to the three persons who side by side had watched the entrance of Mr. Bernard Maddison. To Helen Thurwell, whose whole being was throbbing with a great quickening joy, they were passed in a strenuous effort to struggle against the faintness which the shock of this great tumult of feeling had brought with it. To the artist, who loved her, they brought their own peculiar despair as he watched the light playing upon her features, and the new glow of happiness which shone in those sweet, sad eyes. And to Sir Allan Beaumerville, who had reasons of his own for surprise at this meeting, they brought a distinct sensation of annoyance.
The artist was the first to recover himself. He knew that the battle was over for him, that this woman already loved, and that his cause was hopeless. And with little of man's ordinary selfishness on such occasions, his first thought was for her.
"You would like to change your seat," he whispered. "Come with me into the recess yonder. I will show you some engravings."
She flashed a grateful look up at him, and saw that he knew her secret.
"I should like it," she said. "Walk that side of me, please."
They rose and made their way to one of the little screened recesses which people—especially young people—said made Lady Meltoun's rooms so delightful. He placed a chair for her, and taking up a book of engravings buried himself in it.
"Don't speak to me for five minutes, please," he said. "I am looking for a design."
At the end of that time he closed the book, and looked up at her. There was no fear of her fainting now. She was very pale, but she seemed quite calm.
"I am going to speak to Maddison," he said quietly. "Do you—may I bring him and introduce him to you?"
She looked up at him with luminous eyes.
"If you please. Don't tell him my name, though."
"It shall be as you wish," he answered.
By moving her chair a few inches she could see into the room. He was still standing by Lady Meltoun's side, listening with an absent smile to her chatter, and every now and then bowing gravely to the people whom she introduced to him. The hum of conversation had been renewed, but many curious glances were cast in his direction, of which he seemed altogether unconscious. Even had there not been his great fame as a critic and a writer, and the romance of his strange manner of life to interest people, his personal appearance alone was sufficient to attract attention. He was taller by several inches than any man in the room, and his thin oval face, refined yet strong and full of a subtle artistic sensibility, was in itself a deeply interesting study. How different he appeared here in his well-fitting, fashionable clothes, and calm distinctive manner, and with just that essence of wearied languor in his dark eyes which men of the world can only imitate! He had changed, and yet he had not changed, she thought. He was the same, and yet there was a difference. Presently she saw Mr. Carlyon reach his side, and the greeting which passed between the two men was marked with a certain quiet cordiality which bore out Mr. Carlyon's words, that they had once been fellow-workers. Watching his opportunity, the artist drew him a little on one side, and made his request. Helen drew back trembling with expectancy. But a few minutes later Mr. Carlyon came back to her alone.
"I am sorry," he said simply, "but, even to oblige me, Maddison won't come. I had no idea he was such a misogynist. He is here, he says, to keep a promise, but he wishes for no acquaintances, and he absolutely declines to be introduced to any woman, unless it is forced upon him. What shall I do? Shall I tell him your name?"
She hesitated.
"No, don't tell him that," she said. "Do you remember a few lines of poetry of his at the end of his last volume of criticisms? There is a little clump of firs on the top of a bare wind-swept hill, with the moon shining faintly through a veil of mist, and a man and woman standing together like carved figures against the sky, listening to the far-off murmur of the sea."
"Yes, I remember it," he said slowly.
"Then will you tell him that some one—some one who has seen such a place as he describes, is——?"
"I will tell him," Mr. Carlyon answered. "I think that he will come now."
He left her again, and went back towards Mr. Maddison. Just as he got within speaking distance he saw a slight quiver pass across the white face, as though he had recognized some one in the crowd. Mr. Carlyon hesitated, and decided to wait for a moment.
They were standing face to face, Sir Allan Beaumerville, the distinguished baronet, who had added to the dignity of an ancient family and vast wealth, a great reputation as a savant and adilettantephysician, and Mr. Bernard Maddison, whose name alone was sufficient to bespeak his greatness. In Sir Allan's quiet, courteous look, there was a slightly puzzled air as though there were something in the other's face which he only half remembered. In Mr. Maddison's fixed gaze there was a far greater intensity—something even of anxiety.
"Surely we have met before, Mr. Maddison," the baronet said easily. "Your face seems quite familiar to me. Ah! I remember now, it was near that place of Lord Lathon's, Mallory Grange, upon the coast. A terrible affair, that."
"Yes, a terrible affair," Mr. Maddison repeated.
"And have you just come from ——shire?" Sir Allan asked.
"No; I have been abroad for several months," Mr. Maddison answered.
"Abroad!" Sir Allan appeared a little more interested. "In what part?" he asked civilly.
"I have been in Spain, and the south of France, across the Hartz mountains, and through the Black Forest."
"Not in Italy?" Sir Allan inquired.
There was a short silence, and Sir Allan seemed really anxious for the reply. It came at last.
"No; not in Italy."
Sir Allan seemed positively pleased to think that Mr. Maddison had not extended his travels to Italy. There was a quiet gleam in his eyes which seemed almost like relief. Doubtless he had his reasons, but they were a little obscure.
"Ah! Shall you call upon me while you are in town, Mr. Maddison?" he asked, in a tone from which all invitation was curiously lacking.
"I think not," Mr. Maddison answered. "My stay here will be brief. I dislike London."
Sir Allan laughed gently.
"It is the only place in the world fit to live in," he answered.
"My work and my tastes demand a quieter life," Mr. Maddison remarked.
"You will go into the country then, I suppose."
"That is my intention," was the quiet reply.
"Back to the same neighborhood."
"It is possible."
Sir Allan looked searchingly into the other's calm, expressionless face.
"I should have thought that the associations——"
Mr. Maddison was evidently not used to society. Several people said so who saw him suddenly turn his back on that charming old gentleman, Sir Allan Beaumerville, and leave him in the middle of a sentence. Lady Meltoun, who happened to notice it, was quite distressed at seeing an old friend treated in such a manner. But Sir Allan took it very nicely, everybody said. There had been a flush in his face just for a moment, but it soon died away. It was his own fault, he declared. He had certainly made an unfortunate remark, and these artists and literary men were all so sensitive. He hoped that Lady Meltoun would think no more of it, and accordingly Lady Meltoun promised not to. But though, of course, she and every one else who had seen it sympathized with Sir Allan, there were one or two, with whom Sir Allan was not quite such a favorite, who could not help remarking upon the grand air with which Mr. Maddison had turned his back upon the baronet, and the dignity with which he had left him.
Mr. Carlyon, who had been watching for his opportunity, buttonholed Maddison, and led him into a corner.
"I've got you now," he said triumphantly. "My dear fellow, whatever made you snub poor Sir Allan like that?"
"Never mind. Come and make your adieux to Lady Meltoun, and let us go. I should not have come here."
"One moment first, Maddison," the artist said seriously. "Do you remember those lines of yours in which a man and woman stand on a bare hill by a clump of pines, and watch the misty moonlight cast weird shadows upon the hillside and over the quivering sea? 'A Farewell,' you called it, I think?"
"Yes; I remember them."
"Maddison, the woman to whom I wished to introduce you bids you to go to her by the memory of those lines."
There was very little change in his face. It only grew a little more rigid, and a strange light gleamed in his eyes. But the hand which he had laid on Carlyon's arm to draw him towards Lady Meltoun suddenly tightened like a band of iron, till the artist nearly cried out with pain.
"Let go my arm, for God's sake, man!" he said in a low tone, "and I will take you to her."
"I am ready," Mr. Maddison answered quietly. "Ah! I see where she is. You need not come."
He crossed the room, absolutely heedless of more than one attempt to stop him. Mr. Carlyon watched him, and then with a sore heart bade his hostess farewell, and hurried away. He was generous enough to help another man to his happiness, but he could not stay and watch it.
And so it was in Lady Meltoun's drawing-room that they met again, after those few minutes in the pine plantation which had given color and passion to her life, and which had formed an epoch in his. Neither were unmindful of the fact that if they were not exactly the centre of observation, they were still liable to it in some degree, and their greeting was as conventional as it well could have been. After all, she thought, why should it be otherwise? There had never a word of love passed between them—only those few fateful moments of tragic intensity, when all words and thoughts had been merged in a deep reciprocal consciousness which nothing could have expressed.
He stood before her, holding her hand in his for a moment longer than was absolutely necessary, and looking at her intently. It was a gaze from which she did not shrink, more critical than passionate, and when he withdrew his eyes he looked away from her with a sigh.
"You have been living!" he said. "Tell me all about it!"
She moved her skirts to make room for him by her side.
"Sit down!" she said, "and I will try."
He obeyed, but when she tried to commence and tell him all that she had felt and thought, she could not. Until that moment she scarcely realized how completely her life had been moulded by his influence. It was he who had first given her a glimpse of that new world of thought and art, and almost epicurean culture into which she had made some slight advance during his absence, and it was certain vague but sweet recollections of him which had lived with her and flowed through her life—a deep undercurrent of passion and poetry, throwing a golden halo over all those new sensations—which had raised her existence, and her ideals of existence on to a higher level. How could she tell him this? The time might come when she could do so, and if ever it did come, she knew that it would be the happiest moment of her life. But it was not yet.
"Tell me a little of yourself," she said evasively. "You have been traveling, have you not?"
"Yes, I have been traveling a little!" he answered. "In Spain I was taken ill, and Lady Meltoun was kind to me. That is why I am here."
"But you do not say how it was that you were taken ill," she said, her cheeks suddenly glowing. "You saved her son's life. We saw all about it in the papers, but of course we did not know that it was you. It was splendid!"
"If you saw it in the papers at all, depend upon it, it was very much exaggerated!" he answered quietly. "Your father received my letter, I suppose?"
"Yes; the cottage has been shut up, just as you desired. Are you ever coming to take possession again?"
"I hope so—some day—and yet I do not know. There are strange things in my life, Miss Thurwell, which every now and then rise up and drive me away into aimless wanderings. Life has no goal for me—it cannot have. I stand for ever on the brink of a precipice."
There was a sadness in his voice which almost brought the tears into her eyes—mostly for his sake, partly for her own. For, though he might never know it, were not his sorrows her sorrows?
"Are they sorrows which you can tell to no one?" she asked softly. "Can no one help you?"
He shook his head.
"No one."
"And yet no sorrow can last for ever that has not guilt at its root," she said.
"Mine will last while life lasts," he answered; "and there is—no guilt at the root."
"You have taken up another's burden," she said. "Is it well? Do you owe nothing to yourself, and your own genius? Sorrow may shorten your life, and the world can ill spare your work."
"There are others who can do my work," he said. "No other can——But forgive me. I wish to talk of this no more. Tell me of your life since I left you. Something in your face tells me that it has been well spent. Let me hear of it."
And, gathering up all her courage, she told him. Piece by piece she took up the disconnected thoughts and ideas which had come to her, and wove them together after the pattern of her life—to which he listened with a calm approval, in which was sometimes mingled a deeper enthusiasm, as she touched a chord which in his own being had often been struck to deep tremulous music. And as she went on he grew sad. With such a companion as this woman, whose sensibilities were his sensibilities, and whose instincts so naturally cultured, so capable of the deeper coloring and emotional passion which his influence could speedily develop—with such a woman as this—whom already he loved, what might not life mean for him? Well, it must pass. Another of those bright butterfly visions of his fancy, gorgeous with hope and brilliancy—another one to be crushed by the iron hand of necessity. He had gone away wounded, and he had come back to find the wound still bleeding.
Gradually the rooms were thinning, and at last Lady Thurwell, impatient of her niece's long absence, came to fetch her. When she found hertête-à-têtewith the lion of the day, however, her manner was most gracious.
"I hope you have been able to persuade Mr. Maddison to come and see us," she said to her niece. "We are at home on Thursdays at Cadogan Square, and we lunch every day at two," she added, turning towards him. "Come whenever you like."
"You are very good, Lady Thurwell," he said, accepting her offered hand. "I am only passing through London, but if I have the opportunity I shall avail myself of your kindness."
She left them together for a moment while she made her adieux to her hostess. In that moment Helen found courage to yield to a sudden impulse.
"Please come," she said softly.
He had no time to answer, for Lady Meltoun had come up to them.
"Miss Thurwell," she said good-naturedly, "I don't know when I shall forgive you for monopolizing Mr. Maddison in this shameful manner. Why, there were quite a crowd of people came this afternoon only to catch a glimpse of him, and there was nothing to be seen but his boots behind that screen. I am in terrible disgrace, I can assure you!"
"The fault was mine," he interposed, "altogether mine. In an ungovernable fit of shyness, I took refuge with the only person except yourself, Lady Meltoun, whom I was fortunate enough to know. I simply refused to come away."
"Well, I suppose I must forgive you, or you won't come again," Lady Meltoun said. "But now you are here, you must really stop and see Edgar. When every one has gone we will go up to the nursery, and in the meantime you may make yourself useful by taking Lady Thurwell out to her carriage. I'm afraid there's rather a crush."
So they all three went out together, and while they stood waiting for Lady Thurwell's victoria, he managed to say a word to her alone.
"I will come and see you," he whispered.
She looked up at him a little shyly, for in handing her into the carriage he had assumed a certain air of proprietorship which had brought a faint color into her cheeks.
"Come soon," she whispered. "Good-bye!"
She nodded brightly, and Lady Thurwell smiled as the horses started forward, and the carriage drove away.
"I wonder who Mr. Maddison really is?" she said, half to herself, just as they reached home.
Lady Thurwell shrugged her shoulders.
"Do you mean who his family are?" she asked. "My dear, it isn't of the slightest consequence. Bernard Maddison is Bernard Maddison, and his position would be just what it is, even though his father were a coal heaver."
Which remark showed that Lady Thurwell, as well as being a woman of society, was also a woman of sense. But Helen was not thinking of his family.
It was ten o'clock in the morning, and the usual routine of business had commenced in the office of Messrs. Levy & Son. Mr. Levy, senior, was sitting at his desk opening his letters, and Mr. Benjamin, who had only just returned from a long journey on business of the firm, and did not feel inclined for office work, was leaning back in the client's chair, with his feet up against the mantelpiece, and a partly smoked cigar in his mouth. He had just finished a long account of his adventures, and was by no means inclined to quit the subject.
"Altogether, dad," he was saying, "it's about the prettiest piece of business we ever struck. But one thing is very certain. We must get some more tin from Miss Thurwell. Why, I've been at it five months now, and the expenses at some of those foreign hotels were positively awful. Not knowing the confounded lingo, you see, I was forced to stump up, without trying the knocking-off game."
"Yes, Benjamin. Yes, my son. We must certainly have some more of the rhino. Your expenses have been positively e-normous, e-normous," declared the old man, with uplifted hands and eyes. "Some of your drafts have brought tears into my eyes. Positively tears," he echoed mournfully.
"Couldn't be helped, guv'nor. The thing had to be done."
"And you have got it nearly all in order now, Benjamin, eh? You've got him under your thumb, eh? He can't escape?"
"Not he! Mark my words, dad. The rope's already woven that'll go round his neck."
The old man looked doubtful.
"If he's such a learned, clever man as you say—writes books and such like—they'll never hang him, my son. They'll reprieve him. That's what they'll do."
"I don't care a blooming fig which it is, so long as it comes off. Do you remember what I told you when Miss Thurwell first came here, dad?"
"Perfectly, my son, perfectly. You said that our fortune was made. Those were your very words," he added, with glistening eyes. "Our fortune is made."
"And what I said I'll stick to," Mr. Benjamin declared. "When this case comes off, it'll be the biggest thundering sensation of the day. And who'll get the credit of it all? Who tracked him down for all his false name and sly ways; hunted him all over Europe, found out who he really was, and why he hated Sir Geoffrey Kynaston so much that he murdered him? Why, I did, dad—Benjamin Levy, of Levy & Son, Carle Street, Strand. Ain't it glorious, guv'nor? Ain't it proud?"
Mr. Benjamin's enthusiasm was catching. It was reflected in his father's face, and something glistened in his eyes. He removed his spectacles, and carefully wiped them. After all, he was a father, and he had a father's feelings.
"When will the time come, Benjamin?" he inquired.
"A month to-day, I hope," was the prompt reply. "I have one more journey to take, and it will be all square."
"Where to? How far?" inquired the old gentleman uneasily.
Mr. Benjamin looked at him, and shook his head. "Come, dad, I know what you are thinking of," he said. "It's the expense, ain't it?"
"It is, Benjamin," his father groaned. "I hate parting with hard-earned money for exorbitant bills and these long journeys. Couldn't it be done without it, Ben?" he inquired, in a wheedling tone. "There's piles of money gone already in expenses. Piles and piles."
"And if there is, ain't it Miss Thurwell's, you old stupid?" remarked Mr. Benjamin. "'Tain't likely that we should find the money ourselves."
"Of course, of course. But, Benjamin, my son, the money is thrown away for all that. We could charge it, you know—charge it always. We must have a margin—we must positively have a margin to work with."
"Dad, dad, what an old sinner you are!" exclaimed his hopeful son, leaning back in his chair and laughing. "A margin to work with. Ha! ha! ha!"
Mr. Levy looked uncertain whether to regard his son's merriment as a compliment, or to resent it. Eventually, the former appeared to him the wisest course, and he smiled feebly.
"Dad, just you leave this matter with me," Mr. Benjamin said at last. "I know what I'm doing, and unless I'm very much mistaken, I see my way to make this a bigger thing, even as regards the cash, than you and I ever dreamed of. Leave it to me. Hullo! who's that?"
He peered up over the office blind, and sat down again at once. In a moment his cigar was behind the grate, and his expression completely changed.
"Ah! Miss Thurwell, dad," he said coolly, "and I'll bet ten to one I know what she wants. Mind you leave it all to me. I've no time to explain, but you'll spoil it if you interfere. Come in. Why, Miss Thurwell, we were this moment talking of you," he continued, springing to his feet and offering her a chair. "Please come in."
Helen advanced into the room, and lifted her veil. One swift glance into her flushed face confirmed Mr. Benjamin's idea as to the reason of her visit, and he commenced talking rapidly.
"I'm glad you've come this morning, Miss Thurwell. I only got back from Spain yesterday, and I'm thankful to tell you our case is nearly complete. Thankful for your sake, because you will have the satisfaction of seeing the murderer of Sir Geoffrey Kynaston brought to book, and thankful for ours, because we shall at one stroke establish our reputation. I need not tell you that that is far more to us than the reward will be, for our expenses have been enormous."
"Enormous!" groaned Mr. Levy, senior.
"However, we have decided not to take another penny of money from you, Miss Thurwell," he continued, casting a warning glance at his father. "After all, the money is not so much to us as our reputation, and this will be made for ever, now."
Mr. Benjamin paused, a little out of breath, but quite satisfied with himself. Opposite, his father was purple with anger, and almost choking at his son's folly. Take no more money from Miss Thurwell! Was the boy mad?
"I'm afraid, from what you say, Mr. Levy," Helen said hesitatingly, "that you will be rather disappointed when I tell you the reason of my visit."
Mr. Benjamin, who knew perfectly well what she was going to say, assumed an expression of deep concern.
"I find," she continued, "that we must have been making a mistake all along, and you have evidently been misled. This Mr. Brown, who appeared such a mysterious personage to us, and whom we therefore suspected, is no other than Bernard Maddison."
"Yes. I knew that," Mr. Benjamin remarked quietly. "I found that out very soon, of course. Author, and all that sort of thing, isn't he? Well, go on, Miss Thurwell, please. I am anxious."
She looked surprised.
"Don't you see that this does away with our theory at once? It is quite impossible that a man like Bernard Maddison could have committed a horrible crime like this."
Mr. Benjamin looked ingenuously perplexed.
"I can't say that I follow you, Miss Thurwell," he said, shaking his head. "All I know is that I can prove this Mr. Bernard Brown, or Bernard Maddison, or whatever else he chooses to call himself, guilty of that murder. That's what we want, isn't it?"
A cold chill passed over her, and she was compelled to sink into the chair which stood by her side. Like a flash she suddenly realized the impossibility of convincing such men as these of his innocence. Yet, even then, the worst side of the situation did not occur to her.
"Perhaps we had better put it in this way, Mr. Levy," she said. "I gave you certain instructions to follow out, which I now rescind. I wish nothing further done in the matter."
Mr. Benjamin's face was a study. He had contrived to conjure up an expression which combined the blankest surprise with the keenest disappointment. Helen began to feel still more uncomfortable.
"Under the circumstances," she said, "and as you seem rather disappointed, I will pay you the reward just as though the thing had gone on."
Mr. Benjamin shook his head slowly.
"Do you know, Miss Thurwell, that you are proposing a conspiracy to me?"
"A conspiracy!" she repeated. "I don't understand."
"It's very simple," he went on gravely. "I have in my possession, or shortly shall have, every particular of this Mr. Maddison's life. I can show the connection between him and Sir Geoffrey Kynaston, and, in short, I can prove him guilty of murder. What you ask me to do is to suppress this. That is the moral side of the question. Then, with regard to the practical side, if this thing is gone on with, we shall get the reward you promised and, what is far more important to us, a reputation which we have looked forward to as a certain foundation for a great extension of our business. If, on the other hand, we drop it, we get simply the reward, which, pardon my saying so, would be a miserable return for all our labor. That is how the matter stands from our point of view. I think I've expressed it fairly, father?"
Mr. Levy, who had assumed a far more contented expression, solemnly assented. What a son this was of his, he thought. Bless him!
Helen was very pale, and her heart was beating fast. Why had she come to this place, and put herself in the power of these men? It was too dreadful.
"I do not desire to hear a word of Mr. Maddison's history," she said. "This thing must be stopped. I have my cheque book with me. Cannot you take money to withdraw from it?"
Mr. Benjamin looked at his father gravely, and Mr. Levy shook his head.
"My dear young lady," he said, "this is a very serious thing, a very serious thing."
"The fact is," said Mr. Benjamin, "I was going to Scotland Yard for a warrant this morning."
Helen looked from one to the other appealingly, with tears in her eyes. Mr. Benjamin appeared to be somewhat moved thereby.
"Look here, dad," he said, "suppose we go into the other room and talk this thing over for a few minutes. Miss Thurwell will not mind excusing us."
"Oh, no. Only don't be long!" she pleaded.
They left her for barely five minutes, although to her, waiting in an agony of impatience, it seemed much longer. When they returned, they both looked very solemn.
"We have talked this matter over thoroughly, Miss Thurwell," said Mr. Benjamin, taking up his old position at the desk, "and we cannot help seeing that it is a great risk for us to run to suppress our information, and a great disappointment."
"Quite so, quite so," interrupted Mr. Levy. "A great risk, and a great disappointment!"
"Still, we are willing and anxious to help you," Mr. Benjamin continued, "and, if you like, we will do so on these terms. If you like to give us a cheque for a thousand pounds, we will agree to let the matter stand over for the present. We cannot give you any undertaking to absolutely destroy or suppress any evidence we may have against Mr. Maddison, as that would be a distinct conspiracy, but we will agree to suspend our present action, and to do nothing without communicating with you."
She moved to the desk, and drew out her cheque book.
"I will do it," she said. "Give me a pen, please."
There was not the slightest sign of emotion on either of their faces. They received the cheque, bowed her out, and watched her disappear into the street without making any sign. Then Mr. Benjamin's exultation broke out.
"Dad, I told you that our fortune was made, didn't I. Was I right or wrong?"
Mr. Levy was so overcome with parental affection, that he could scarcely command his voice. But he did so with an effort.
"You were right, my son," he exclaimed. "You were right, Benjamin. We will go together and cash the cheque."
A March wind was roaring over the open moorland, driving huge masses of black clouds across the angry sky, and whistling amongst the dark patches of pine trees, until it seemed as though their slender stems must snap before the strain. All around Falcon's Nest the country, not yet released from the iron grip of a late winter, lay wasted and desolate; and the heath, which had lost all the glowing touch of autumn, faded into the horizon bare and colorless. Nowhere was there any relief of outline, save where the white front of Thurwell Court stretched plainly visible through a park of leafless trees.
And of all the hours of the day it was at such a season the most depressing. Faint gleams of the lingering day still hung over the country, struggling with the stormy twilight, and a pale, wan glare, varied with long black shadows, moved swiftly across the sea and the moor—the reflection of the flying clouds overhead.
A single human being, the figure of a tall man clad in an ulster buttoned up to the throat, was making his way across the open country. He walked rapidly—and, indeed, there was nothing to tempt any one to linger—and his destination was obvious. He was on his way to Falcon's Nest.
A drearier abode than it appeared that afternoon never raised its four walls to the sky. The grounds which surrounded it had been swept bare by the storms of winter, and nothing had been done to repair the destruction which they had accomplished. Uprooted shrubs lay dead and dying upon the long dank grass, and the creepers torn from the walls hung down in pitiful confusion. Every window reflected back the same blank uninviting gloom. There was no light, no single sign of habitation. Mr. Thurwell had evidently respected his tenant's wish to the letter. The place had not been touched or entered during his absence.
The pedestrian, Mr. Bernard Brown himself, leaned over the gate for a moment, silently contemplating the uninviting scene with a grim smile. He had reasons of his own for being satisfied that the place had not been interfered with, and it certainly seemed as though such were the case.
After a few minutes' hesitation he drew a key from his pocket and fitted it in the lock. There was a resistance when he tried to turn it that he did not understand. Stooping down, he suddenly tried the handle. It opened smoothly. The gate was unlocked. He withdrew the key with trembling fingers. All his relief at the dismantled appearance of the cottage had disappeared. A strange unquiet look shone in his eyes, and his manner suddenly became nervous and hurried. He had locked the gate on his departure, he was sure, and Mr. Thurwell's steward had told him that there was no duplicate set of keys. How could it have been opened save with a skeleton key.
He walked quickly up the path to the front door. Here a greater shock still awaited him. The latch-key which he held ready in his hand was not needed. He tried the handle, and the door opened.
Mr. Brown grew white to the lips, and he shrank back as though afraid or reluctant to enter the house. The door stood ajar. He pushed it open with his stick, and peered in upon the darkness. Everything was silent as the grave. He listened for a moment, and then, his natural courage returning, he stepped inside, and closed the door after him. The shutting out of the few gleams of daylight which lingered in the sky left him in utter darkness. Fumbling in his pocket, he produced a wax candle wrapped in a piece of newspaper, and a box of matches, one of which he carefully struck.
At first the gloom seemed too profound to be dispersed by the feeble flickering light, but gradually, as his eyes became accustomed to it, he began to distinguish the more familiar objects. Half fearfully he glanced towards the door on the right-hand side. It stood half open. There was no longer room for any doubt. The house had been opened during his absence.
The full realization of any disaster often brings with it a calm which, to all outward appearance, contrasts favorably with the prior state of anxiety. This appeared to be the case with Mr. Bernard Brown. His entrance to the house had been hesitating and anxious, but as soon as he was convinced that what he dreamed had really come to pass, his nervousness seemed to fall away from him, and he was his old self again, calm and resolute. Holding the flickering candle high above his head, he moved steadily forward into the room on the right-hand side of the entrance.
Everything here was exactly as he had left it. The cases filled with books, some half emptied, some untouched, still lay about the floor, with the dust thick upon them. He cast one swift glance around, and then walked across and opened the door of the small inner room. The sudden draught extinguished his candle, and he found himself suddenly in total darkness. The closely barred shutters, which protected the low window, were securely fastened, and effectually shut out the lingering remnants of daylight. Stooping down, he re-lit the candle which he was still carrying, and holding it high over his head, looked anxiously around. One glance was sufficient. In the corner of the room opposite to him was a small table, where he always kept a basin of cold water and some clean towels. Round here the carpet had been torn up, and rearranged, with little pretence at concealment. Nearer the window stood a large oak cabinet, the most important piece of furniture in the room, and this he saw again in a moment had been tampered with. It had been moved a little out of its position, and one of the lower drawers stood partly open.
Like a man in a dream he slowly walked across to it and drew out a bunch of keys from his pocket. The final test had yet to be applied, and the final blow to fall.
He unlocked the topmost partition, and revealed a number of small drawers. Eagerly he drew out the topmost one, and looked inside. Then he knew the worst. It was empty. There was no longer any doubt whatever. His cottage had been entered by no ordinary housebreaker, for the purpose of plunder, but with a set of false keys, and with a far more serious object. The secret on which more than his life depended was gone!
For a certain space of time, which seemed to him indefinite, but which was indeed of no great length, he stood there stunned, gazing at the rifled cabinet. Then, as consciousness returned to him, the roar of the storm without fell upon his ears, and struck some strange note of accord with the tumult in his brain. Turning round, he unbarred the shutters, and, opening the window, stepped outside. With slow, uncertain steps he made his way through the dense black plantation of shrieking fir trees, and out on to the cliffs. Here he paused, and stood quite still, looking across the sea. There was no light in the sky, but the veil of absolute darkness had not yet fallen upon the earth. Far away on the horizon was a lurid patch of deep yellow storm-clouds, casting a faint glimmer upon the foaming sea, which seemed to leap up in a weird monotonous joy to catch the unearthly light. From inland, rolling across the moorland, came phantom-like masses of vaporous cloud, driven on by the fierce wind which boomed across the open country, and shrieked and yelled amongst the pine plantations as though mad with a sudden hellish joy. On the verge of the cliff he stretched out his arms, as though to welcome the wild din of the night. The thunder of the ocean, seething and leaping against the rocks below, shook the air around him. The salt spray leaped up into his white face, and the winds blew against him, and the passionate cry of saddened nature rang in his deafened ears. At that moment those things were a joy to him.
And there came to him then something of that strange sweet calm which lays its soothing hand for a moment upon those who stand face to face with death, or any other mighty crisis. Looking steadfastly far away, beyond the foaming waste of waters to where one faint streak of stormlight shone on the horizon, pictures of the past began to rise up before his eyes. He saw himself again a happy, light-hearted child, riding gaily upon his father's shoulder, and laughing up into the beautiful face of his youthful mother. The memories of that time, and of his first home, came back to him with a peculiar freshness and fragrance, like a painting by one of the old masters, perfect in design, and with its deep rich coloring softened and mellowed by age. He remembered the bright beauty of those sunny southern gardens, where he had passed long hours listening to the gentle splashing of the water in the worn grey fountain bowl, and breathing in the soft spring-like air, faint with the sweetness of Roman violets. And, half unconsciously, his thoughts travelled on to the time when all the pure beauty of his surroundings—for his had been an artist's home—had begun to have a distinct meaning for him, and in the fervor of an esthetic and unusually thoughtful youth, he had dreamed, and felt, and tasted deep of pleasures which the world yields only to those who stoop to listen to her secrets, with the quickened sensibilities and glowing imagination of the artist—one of her own children. He had read her in such a way that he found himself struggling, even in early boyhood, for some means of expression—but at that time none had come to him. The fruits of his later life had been the result of his early experience, but how embittered, how saddened by the unchanging gloom, which, at one period, had seemed as though it must dry up for ever all enthusiasm from his boyish heart. What a fire of passions had blazed up and died away within him; and as he thought of that sudden dying away, he thought of the moment when they had been quenched for ever, and of the voice which had quenched them. Again he crouched on his knees by the side of the sofa drawn up close to the high open windows of the Italian villa, and felt that thin white hand laid gently upon his trembling lips, checking in a moment the flood of angry words which in his heart had been but the prelude to a curse. The calm of that death-white face, with its marble passionless pallor and saint-like beauty, lingered still, faithfully treasured up in the rich store-house of his memory. Death alone would wipe it out. It was one of the experiences of his life, written alike into his undying recollection, and into his heart.
And then had come that period of severe struggle with himself, out of which he had emerged not only a conqueror, but with all the spoils of conquest. For he had found himself, after the battle was fought out and won, possessed of a more triumphant self-control, and a complete mastery over those fierce earthly passions which, had they held sway for long, would in time most surely have weakened that higher and purer part of his nature from which all the good of his life had come. It was, indeed, in some measure owing to the wholesome discipline of this struggle that he had found at last the long-sought-for gift of expression, and, taking up the pen, had sent forth golden words and thoughts into an age where such metal was rare indeed. Always there had been this dark cloud of anxiety looming over him, and leading him into many countries and constantly denying him the peace for which he longed. Then had come the climax of it all, the tragedy which had thrown over him the lowering cloud of a hideous danger. Failure was his. The moment of trial had come, and he had been unequal to it; and day and night there rang ever in his ears the faint far-off whisper of those tremulous lips, and the pleading light in those burning eyes seemed ever before him. Again he felt the touch of that icy cold hand, and again he remembered the words of the oath which, alas! he had not kept. Oh, it was horrible!
Once more his thoughts moved on a stage, and this time they reached their climax. Before his fixed eyes there floated the image of a sweet, wistful face glowing with healthy physical life, and yet with all that delicate refinement of coloring and feature which had made her face linger in his artist's memory for years before she had dwelt in his man's heart. It was a torture of hell, this, that the fairest and sweetest part of a man's life—his love—should come to him at such a time. And then for one brief moment all memory of his misery passed away from him, and his whole being became absorbed in a luxury of recollection. He thought of the change which his love had wrought in him. What had life been before? A long series of artistic and philosophical abstractions, bringing their own peculiar content, but a content never free from disquieting thought and restless doubts. How could it be otherwise? Was he not human like other men? Asceticism and intellect, and a certain purity of life which an almost epicurean refinement had rendered beautiful to him, these, easily keeping in sway his passionate temperament through all the long years of his life, now only served to fan the flame of that great pure love which had suddenly leaped up within him, a blazing, unquenchable fire. Human emotion once aroused, had thrilled through all his being with a sweet, heart-stirring music, and his whole nature was shaking from its very foundation. To him such a love seemed like the rounding of his life, the panacea for all that vague disquiet which, even in the moments of most perfect intellectual serenity, had sometimes disturbed him. The love of such a man was no light thing. It had mingled with his heart's blood, with the very essence of all his being. No death, no annihilation was possible for it. It was a part of himself, woven unchangeably into his life in a glowing skein, the brilliant colors of which could never fade. He looked into the future, golden with the light of such a love, and he saw a vision of perfect happiness, of joy beyond all expression, of deep, calm content, surpassing anything which he had known. Hand in hand he saw two figures, himself and her, gliding through the years with a sort of effortless energy, tasting together of everything in life that was sweet, and pure, and beautiful; scattering all trouble and worldly vexation to the winds, by the touchstone of their undying love. There was intoxication—ethereal intoxication in such a vision. The winds blew against him, and the torrents of driven rain, cold and stinging, dashed themselves against his pale, steadfast face. Down on the beach below the mad sea was thundering upon the cliffs, flinging its white spray so high that it glittered like specks of luminous white light against the black waters. Yet he noticed none of it. Until the brilliancy of that vision which glowed before him faded, nothing external could withdraw his thoughts.
And fade away it did at last, and neither the cold rain nor the howling wind had given him such a chill as crept through all his body, when memory and realization drove forth this sweet flower of his imagination. All the cruel hopelessness, the horror of his position, rushed in upon him like a foul nightmare. He saw himself shunned and despised, the faces of all men averted from him; all that had gone to make his life worthy, and even famous, forgotten in the stigma of an awful crime. He saw her eager, beautiful face, white and convulsed with horror, shrinking away from him as from some loathsome object. God! it was madness to think of it! Let this thought go from him, fade away from his reeling brain, or he would surely go mad.
Heedless of the fury of the winds that roared over the moorland, and sobbed and shrieked in the pine grove, he threw himself upon his knees close to the very verge of the cliff, and stretched out his hands to the darkened heavens in a passionate gesture of despair. It was the first time during all the fierce troubles of a stormy life that he had shrunk down, beaten for the moment by the utter hopelessness of the struggle which seemed to him now fast drawing toward its end.
"God! that I may die!" he moaned. "That I may die!"
And, as though in answer to his prayer, life for him suddenly became a doubtful thing. A wild gust of wind had uprooted a young fir tree from the plantation, and bearing it with a savage glee toward the cliff side, dashed it against the kneeling man. There was no chance for him against it. Over they went, man and tree together, to all appearance bound for inevitable destruction.
Even in that second, when he felt himself being hurled over the cliff, by what force he knew not, the consciousness of the sudden granting of his prayer flashed across his mind, and, strange though it may seem, brought with it a deep content. It was as he would have it be, death sudden and unfelt. But following close upon it came another thought, so swiftly works the brain in the time of a great crisis. He would be found dead, and everyone, in the light of what would soon be made known, would surely call it suicide. She would think so, too. Death on such terms he would not willingly have.
Effort followed swiftly upon thought. He clutched wildly at the cliff side during the first second of that flying descent, and the wind bending it almost double, brought a stunted fir tree sapling within his reach. He grasped it, and he was saved. Only a yard or two away, the cliff side was black with them growing so closely together that he pulled himself with ease from one to another till he climbed over the cliff top, and stood again upright on the ground.
His hands were bleeding, and his clothes were hanging round him in rags. Yet, in a certain sense, his narrow escape had done him good, for it had brought very vividly before him the impiety of his prayer. He had given way too long to maddening thoughts, and they had unnerved him. With the consciousness of his escape, all the manliness of his nature reasserted itself. He had faced this thing so long that he would face it now to the end. Let it come when it would, he would summon up all his strength, and meet it like a man. After death was peace for everlasting. God keep him in that faith!
He turned away from the cliff, and walked quickly back to the cottage, making his plans as he went. First he changed all his clothes, and then opening again his rifled cabinet, he transferred the remaining papers to a small handbag. These were all his preparations, but when he stepped out again and walked down the path of his garden, a change had fallen upon the earth. Faint gleams of dawn were breaking through the eastern sky, and though the sea was still troubled and crested with white-foamed breakers, the wind had gone down. Compared with the violence of the storm a few hours back, the stillness of the gray twilight was full of a peculiar impressiveness. Peace after the storm. Rest after trouble.
And something of this saddened peace crept into the heart of the solitary figure crossing the moorland—on his way back to face a doom which seemed closing in fast around him.