Madeline sighed faintly more than once. There were manifest weaknesses where there should have been strength. He had drifted here and there where he should have resisted, and taken for granted what he should have tried and tested.
"And you still remain on the barren rocks of your ultima Thule?" she questioned, at length.
He did not answer for several moments. Then he said quietly, "You will think me sadly lacking in mental balance, no doubt; but at present, I fear, I must say I am at sea again."
"Yes?"
"You compelled me to face the old problems once more, to re-examine the evidence."
"I compelled you?"
"Unwittingly, no doubt. You remember our talks when I was hors de combat. The fragments of poetry you read to me, the books you lent?"
"Well?"
"I found myself fighting the old battles over again. Before I was aware, I was in the thick of the strife."
"And you are fighting still?"
"Yes, I am fighting still."
"With your face toward your ultima Thule?"
"I cannot say that."
"What is your desire, then?"
"To find the truth. Perhaps I shall never succeed, but I shall try."
"You should come to church, which is the repository of truth, our vicar says."
He smiled a little wistfully, and shook his head. "At present I am making a fresh study of what Jesus said – or what He is reported to have said."
"Then that is all the greater reason why you should come to church."
He smiled again, and shook his head once more. "I do not think so," he answered.
"You do not?"
"No, the contrast is too sharp and startling."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I hardly like to discuss the matter at present," he said, diffidently; "I do not know sufficiently well where I am. Only I am conscious of this, that while Jesus wins my assent, the Church does the opposite."
"That is because of your upbringing."
"I do not think so. I have stood apart from all creeds and from all sects. At present I am a humble searcher after truth. I want some great principle to guide me. Some philosophy of life that shall appeal to the best that is in me."
"Well?"
"I turn to the Church, and I find a great bishop addressing such questions as these to his clergy: 'What ecclesiastical dress do you wear when celebrating the Holy Communion? Do you ever use any ceremony such as the Lavabo, or swinging of the incense immediately before or after the service? Do you have cards on the holy table? If so what do they contain? Do you ever read the first of the three longer exhortations? Do you ever have celebrations without communicants?' with a dozen other questions – to me – equally trivial and unimportant."
"To the bishop such questions would not be trivial at all, but vastly important."
He smiled a little sadly. "Isn't that the pity of it," he said, "that trifles are treated as though they were matters of life and death? I notice that a neighbouring vicar has even closed the church because women go into it with their heads uncovered."
"I admit that that seems straining at a gnat."
"But he does not think so. He is evidently righteously indignant, complains of the house of God being desecrated, because people go into it without some piece of millinery on their heads. One wonders whether it is a woman's hair or her head that is the offence."
"I think it is rather insulting to women, of course," she answered, with a laugh. "But he is only one, and nobody need mind very much."
"But how do these things help me? Think of the men who are wrestling with the great problems of life, who are fighting temptation and bad habits, who are groping in the darkness, and crying for the light, and the Church meets them with petty discussions about Lavabos and stoles and chasubles and incense, and hats off or on in church?"
"But are they not parts of religion?"
"I do not know. If they are, it is not to be surprised at that religion gets water-logged."
"But such things may be helpful to some people."
"In which way?"
"Oh, I don't know! But some day you will see things differently, perhaps."
"Perhaps so. I see some things differently already."
"Then you are not an infidel?"
"You can call me by any name you like. I do not mind so long as you understand me, and I have your sympathy."
"My sympathy, I fear, can be of no help to you."
"It will help me more than you can understand."
"I am so glad we have had this long talk together," she said, brightly. "I shall know what to think now when I hear people calling you names. But here we are close to the lodge gates."
She held out her hand to him, and the light from the lodge window fell full upon them. He took her hand in his, and held it for a moment.
Then suddenly from out the shadow of the lodge Gervase appeared, and stood stock still before them.
CHAPTER XXIII
MEANS TO AN END
"Where have you been, Madeline?" Gervase said, quietly. "We have all grown so concerned about you." His voice was quite steady, though there was an unpleasant light in his eyes.
"I have been for a walk, that is all," she answered, in a tone of unconcern.
"I wish you had let some one know," he said, in the same quiet tone. "It is hardly safe for you to be out after dark."
"Why not?" she answered. "I know my way about, and there is no one in St. Gaved who would molest me."
"You think so, perhaps," and he shot an angry glance at Rufus, who stood quite still, speaking no word.
"Of course I think so. Besides, I have not been alone."
"So I perceive. But had we not better return to the house and put an end to my mother's anxiety?"
"I am sure Lady Tregony is not the least bit anxious," she said, with a pout.
"I can assure you she is very much concerned. That is the reason I came to look for you."
"Oh, indeed!" and with a hurried good-night to Rufus she walked away toward the Hall.
Gervase was by her side in a moment. Rufus watched them till they had disappeared in the darkness, then turned, and made his way slowly in the direction of St. Gaved.
He could not help feeling amused at the encounter he had witnessed, though he was almost sorry that Gervase had seen them together. It was clear enough that the Captain was terribly angry, though he did his best not to show it. Possibly he was more than angry. Natures like his were apt to be jealous on the slightest provocation.
Rufus smiled broadly at the thought. The idea of a baronet's son being jealous of him was too comic for words. Yet such things had happened. Jealousy was often unreasonable. And if the Captain were really jealous it boded ill for Madeline's future happiness.
"I should be sorry to cause unpleasantness," he said, knitting his brows. "If they have to live together, I should like her to be happy. I wonder if she has promised to be his wife?"
Meanwhile, Gervase and Madeline were walking up the long drive in silence. Madeline was in no humour for speech. Gervase was bubbling over, and yet was afraid to trust himself to open a conversation. The case seemed to him almost desperate, and yet he knew it was to be met not by scolding, but by diplomacy.
The thing that he feared more than anything had happened before his very eyes. And yet he was not disposed to blame Madeline very much, the blame belonged to Rufus Sterne – a handsome, intriguing rascal, who had used the girl's sense of gratitude for all it was worth.
"I should like to twist the scoundrel's neck," he said to himself, with an ugly look upon his face. "I wonder what he expects to gain? Of course, he will never dare to make love to her. It might be a good thing if he did – "
Then his thoughts took another turn. Madeline was an American, and under the Stars and Stripes social considerations counted for very little. Possibly she thought that Rufus Sterne was just as good as he, and if she did, heaven only knew what would happen.
"I was a fool not to make love to her at the first," he thought, with a scowl. "She thought no end of me then, and I could have married her right off. I'm sure I could, but father insisted that waiting was the game. Father was a fool, and I was a fool to listen to him."
The lights from the Hall windows began to glimmer through the trees, and he had spoken no word to her since they passed through the lodge gates. He had looked at her once or twice, but she kept her eyes straight in front of her. Did she expect he would scold her, he wondered? Had she begun to realise that her conduct was deserving of censure, or was she only annoyed that she had been seen?
The silence was becoming embarrassing. He wished she would speak, and give him the opportunity of reply. To walk side by side like mutes at a funeral promised ill for the future.
"Are you tired, Madeline?" He was bound to say something, and one question would serve as well as another.
"Not in the least," and she quickened her steps to give point to her statement.
"Oh! please don't walk so fast," he said, in a tone of entreaty. "One can't talk when walking so fast."
"I don't want to talk."
"Why not, Madeline? You are not angry with me, surely?"
"Of course not. Why should I be?"
"I might be angry with you, but I'm not. I never could be angry with you, Madeline. You have no idea how much I think of you, and how much I appreciate you."
"Why might you be angry with me?" she asked, sharply, without turning her head.
The question almost staggered him for a moment. Yet as he had brought it upon himself he was bound to answer it.
"Well, you see," he said, desperately, "no man cares to see the woman he loves, and whom he expects to marry, walking out with another man, especially after dark."
"Oh, indeed!"
"But don't think I am angry with you, Madeline," he interposed, quickly. "I could trust you anywhere."
"Then why did you come spying on me?" and she turned her eyes suddenly upon him.
"No, not spying on you, Madeline," he said, humbly; "that is not the right word to use. But I knew that fellow might be loitering about. He is always hanging about somewhere."
"Everybody hangs about somewhere – to quote your elegant phrase," she said, sharply.
"Yes, yes. But anybody can see what that fellow is after. He did you a service, there is no denying it, and now he is presuming on your good nature."
"In which way?"
"Well, in getting you to notice him and speak to him."
"Surely I can speak to anyone I choose?"
"Of course you can. But he is not the kind of man you would choose to speak to, but for the unfortunate accident."
"Why not?"
"Well, Madeline, there should be some sense of fitness in everything. Here is a man without religion, who never goes to church or chapel, who has no sense of accountability or responsibility, who doesn't believe even in the Ten Commandments – "
"Yes, go on," she interjected, suddenly.
"Who at the present time," he continued, slowly, "is actually living by imposing on the credulity and good nature of other people."
"How so?"
"How so? He is spending money right and left, I am told, on some pretended invention, or discovery of his, which is to revolutionise one of the staple industries of the county. Of course, the whole thing is a fake. You may be quite sure of that. But whose money is he spending? He has none of his own. With his glib tongue I have no doubt he has imposed on a lot of people to lend him their savings. Honourable conduct, isn't it? Perhaps he is trying to interest you in his invention?"
"No, he is not."
"Not got sufficiently far yet. Oh, well, it will do you no harm to be warned in time."
"You take a charitable view of your neighbours, Gervase."
"My dear Madeline, charity is all right in its place. But in this world we must be guided by common-sense."
They had reached the house, and were standing facing each other to continue the conversation.
"Well?" she interrogated.
"You may lay it down as a general principle that a man who is an infidel is not to be trusted."
"For what reason?"
"Because he has no moral standard to hold him in check. You believe in the Bible and in the Commandments and in the teachings of the Church, and you live in obedience to what you believe. But he believes none of these things. He is bound by no commandment except as a matter of policy."
"May not a man have a moral instinct which he follows? Are all the unbelievers, all the doubters, all the sceptics, all the infidels – or whatever name you like to call them – are they all bad men?"
"I do not say that, Madeline. Besides, policy often holds them in check."
"And what holds you in check, Gervase? Is it your passionate attachment to the right, or the fear of being found out?"
"I don't think that is quite a fair question," he said, uneasily. "I don't pretend to be a saint, though I do try to live like a Christian gentleman."
"And you think Mr. Sterne does not?"
"I have no wish to say all I think, or even to hint at what I know. A word to the wise is sufficient. I am sure you will be on your guard in the future."
"But you do hint at a great deal, Gervase, whether you know or not."
"It is because I love you, Madeline, and would shield you from every harm."
She looked at him for a moment, as if about to reply, then turned and walked up the steps into the house.
Gervase stood still for a moment or two, then turned slowly on his heel, and began to retrace his steps the way he had come.
He chuckled audibly when he had got a few paces away. He felt that he had done a good stroke of business. He had sown tares enough to spoil any crop. If he had not proved to Madeline that Rufus Sterne was a man without moral scruples, he had succeeded in filling her mind with doubts on the subject.
If that failed to answer the end he had in view he would have to go a step further. He had no wish to resort to extreme measures, for the simple reason that he did not like to run risks, but if Madeline was still unconvinced that Rufus Sterne was a man not to be trusted, some direct evidence would have to be manufactured and produced.
It was clear to him that this man who had saved her life was the one stumbling-stone in his path. But for him she would have raised no objection to their engagement. Everything had gone in his favour until that adventure on the cliffs; everything would go right now if he were out of the way.
The best way to get him out of the way would be to blacken his character. Madeline was a girl with high moral ideals. An immoral man she would turn away from with loathing. Gervase shrugged his shoulders significantly. He had already by implication thrown considerable doubt on his character; if that failed, further and more extreme measures would have to be considered.
When he reached the lodge gates he turned back again. He walked with a quicker and more buoyant step. He felt satisfied with himself. He had more skill in argument than he knew. He believed he had spiked Rufus Sterne's guns once and for all.
Madeline was very silent over the dinner-table, and during the rest of the evening. Evidently the poison was working. Gervase left her in peace. It would be bad policy to pay her too much attention just now. The poison should be left to do its utmost.
Nearly a week passed, and nothing happened. Madeline remained silent, and more or less apathetic. She manifested no inclination to go for long walks alone, and kept herself for the most part in her own room.
This from one point of view was so much to the good. It seemed to indicate that she had no desire to meet Rufus Sterne. On the other hand, it was not without an element of discouragement. She was no more cordial with Gervase. Indeed, she kept him at arm's length more persistently than ever. Gervase became almost desperate. His financial position was causing him increased anxiety, while his father began to upbraid him for not making better use of his opportunities. To crown his anxiety Beryl told him one day that Madeline was not at all pleased with him for trying to insinuate that Rufus Sterne was a man of bad character.
Gervase swore a big oath and stalked out of the house. He was angrier than he had been since his return from India. He was ready to quarrel with his best friend. As for Rufus Sterne, he was itching to be at his throat. It would be a relief to him to strangle him.
As fate would have it he had not got five hundred yards beyond the lodge gates before he came face to face with the man whom he believed was the cause of all his trouble and disappointment.
Rufus was returning from Redbourne, tired and despondent. Things were not going well with his invention, and the dread possibility which at first he refused to entertain was looming ever more largely on the horizon.
The sun had set nearly an hour previously, but the white carpet of snow and the myriads of glittering stars made every object distinctly visible.
The two men recognised each other in a moment. Rufus would have passed on without a word. He wanted to be alone with his own thoughts. But Gervase was in a very different humour. Moreover, the sight of Rufus Sterne was like fuel to the fire, it seemed to throw him into a rage of uncontrollable passion.
"Hello, scoundrel," he said, "loitering round Trewinion as usual," and he squared his shoulders and looked Rufus straight in the eyes.
Rufus stopped short, and stared at the Captain in angry surprise. "What do you mean?" he said, scornfully and defiantly.
"I mean that you are a contemptible cad," was the answer.
Rufus laughed, mockingly.
"Don't laugh at me," Gervase roared. "I won't have it. Because you rendered Miss Grover a service you think you have a right to hang about this place at all hours of the day, so that you may intercept her when she goes out for a walk, and poison her mind against her best friends."
"It is a lie," Rufus said, fiercely. "I have neither intercepted her nor poisoned her mind."
"Will you call me a liar?" Gervase almost shrieked.
"Of course I will call you a liar when you make statements that are false."
"Then take – "
But the blow failed to reach its mark. Rufus sprang aside, his face white with anger, and almost before he knew what he had done, his heavy fist had loosened one of the Captain's teeth and considerably altered the shape of his nose.
With a wild yell of rage the Captain struck out again, but he was so blind with rage that he could hardly see what he did. Moreover, this was a kind of combat he was not used to. With sword or rapier he could have made a very good show, but with his bare fists, in the light of the stars, he was at very considerable disadvantage. His second blow was as wild as the first, and when a blow between his eyes laid him prone on the ground, he began to yell for help at the top of his voice.
Micah Martin, the gardener, who lived at the lodge, was on the scene in a very few moments.
"Take the drunken brute away," Gervase screamed, "or he'll murder me."
Rufus looked at his antagonist for a moment in silence, then staggered away, feeling limp and nerveless. The encounter had been so sudden and so sharp that he hardly realised yet what had happened. Reaching a neighbouring gate, he leaned on it and breathed hard.
A few yards away he heard Gervase muttering and swearing, while Martin tried to encourage him with sympathetic words. He saw them walk through the lodge gates a little later and disappear in the darkness.
Then Rufus pulled himself together and tried to realise what had taken place. His right knuckles were still smarting from their contact with the Captain's bony face, otherwise he had suffered no harm. The aggressor had clearly got the worst of it.
Yet he felt no sense of elation. At best it was but a vulgar brawl, which any right-minded man ought to be ashamed of. It was true the Captain had struck the first blow, but he had returned it with more than compound interest. He wondered what the people of St. Gaved would say when they got to know. He wondered what Madeline Grover would say.
He felt so excited, that, tired as he was, he took a long walk across the downs before returning to his lodgings. Mrs. Tuke, as usual, had laid his supper on the table, but she did not show her face.
He was too much distressed in mind to eat. The events of the day, followed by the encounter with Gervase Tregony had taken away all his appetite.
For a long time he sat in his easy chair staring into the fire.
"I don't know why I should distress myself," he said to himself once or twice. "What if everything fails? There is an easy way out of all trouble. And I am not sure that Felix Muller, with all his pretence of friendship, will be sorry."
He went to bed at length, but he did not sleep for several hours. The events of the day kept recurring like the refrain of a familiar song.
He went about his work next day like a man who had almost abandoned hope. The buoyancy which he experienced at the beginning had nearly all gone. The promise of success was growing very faint and dim.
As the day wore on he troubled himself less and less about Gervase Tregony. He thought it likely that for his own credit's sake he would say nothing about the encounter. Hence his surprise was great when toward evening a policeman called on him with a summons for assault.