"I don't draw no inference at all. I don't pretend to be anything but a plain woman, and I only put two and two together, though Miss Grover did say my curtains was a treat."

"She took rather a fancy to you, didn't she?"

"It's not for me to say that exactly, though it's quite true she never thought any of the other women up to much, and she came here frequent, as you know."

"Yes, I remember. But when you have put two and two together, what then?"

"Well, between ourselves, I shouldn't be a bit surprised if, after living in the same house with the Captain for a month or two, she found out he weren't her sort and told him so."

"You think that is likely?"

"Well, I can tell you, Mr. Sterne, he wouldn't be my sort, and Miss Grover ain't the kind of young woman to be hustled into anything against her will."

"Well, and what next?"

"Well, suppose she told him definite, that the more she'd seen of him the less she liked him, and that she wasn't for taking him on at any price, what would happen then?"

"Well, Mrs. Tuke, what do you suppose would happen?"

"It seems to me, Mr. Sterne," Mrs. Tuke said, impressively, "that there'd be a kettle o' fish, as it were; a kind of general upset, don't you think so?"

"There might be."

"She couldn't come back to Trewinion Hall again, could she?"

"Why not? I understood from her that Sir Charles was her guardian, or trustee, or something of that kind."

"But if they was all bent on her marrying the Captain and she wouldn't?"

"The situation would be a little strained, no doubt; but she would not shun the house because she was in no humour to marry the son."

"Well, my belief is she's cut the lot of them, as it were; that the Captain's sick, and Sir Charles sulky, and the others too cross to talk about it."

"Meanwhile, what has become of Miss Grover?"

Mrs. Tuke straightened herself, and looked perplexed. "That is what is atroubling me," she said, sympathetically. "Between you and me I got terrible fond of her. She weren't none of the starchy sort, and the way she would just sit down and talk to me was a treat. I might be her mother, she was that affable; and now to think she may be wandering round this lone world without a friend, as it were, fairly worries me at times."

"I don't think you need worry, Mrs. Tuke. She is well able to take care of herself. But I am not convinced yet that she and the Captain are not married."

"Well, I be," and Mrs. Tuke sidled out of the room.

CHAPTER XXIX
GETTING AT THE TRUTH

Perhaps the only two people in St. Gaved – outside the Tregony family – who could have thrown any ray of light on the situation were Micah Martin and Timothy Polgarrow, and they, as far as the general public was concerned, were both of them discreet enough to keep their own counsel.

Micah's chief characteristic was loyalty to the Tregony family. He had been on the estate as man and boy over fifty years. He had no ambition to be anything other than a servant, and a word of praise from his master now and then would atone for any amount of abuse. Comparative serfdom, continued through several generations, had eliminated from his blood every single corpuscle of independence. He possessed the genuine serf spirit and temper. If his master told him to lie on the floor that he might wipe his boots on him, he would have obeyed with a smile and asked no questions. He had no will of his own, no views or opinions or convictions. His master's politics were his. His master's wish his law. The serf spirit made a machine of him. Even questions of right and wrong were tested by loyalty to the family. If a thing was in the interests of the Tregonys, it was right, if not it was wrong.

Yet Micah was not without a measure of shrewdness. He saw more than most people gave him credit for. In his own slow way he put two and two together. But he had the saving virtue of reticence – a most admirable quality in a servant.

Micah knew very well that the Captain lied over the Sterne affair; but that was his business. He had a reason for lying, and it was not his place to contradict him. He knew well enough that Rufus was not drunk, but it would be disloyal to his master to say so. If there was one individual about the place who could break down Micah's reticence and get him to talk it was Madeline. She had not been a month at the Hall before she had made herself a general favourite with all the retainers. Micah idolised her and would have given his scalp almost to please her.

Madeline discussed horticulture with him and floriculture – the mysteries of grafting and budding, the best aspect for peaches and the best soil for potatoes. Miss Grover was a wonder in Micah's eyes. She knew so much and yet was so teachable – was so beautiful and yet so humble withal.

They talked about the Sterne affair one afternoon. Madeline approached the subject with great caution, and carefully felt her way at every step. When Micah became diffident she flattered him a little, and when he obtruded his loyalty to the family she encouraged him.

She made him feel also that she was one of the family, and that he would be perfectly justified and perfectly safe in confiding anything to her. She talked to him about her early life, about the scenery and customs of America, and so hypnotised him with her confidence and her sweet graciousness that the old man talked more freely than he knew.

"Of course you will not repeat what I have told you, Micah?" she said, with her most winning smile.

"Of course not, Miss," Micah said, stoutly. "I wouldn't repeat it for the world."

"It's nice to have confidence in people, don't you think so?" she questioned, demurely.

"It is, Miss; it's a terrible comfort."

"Some people repeat everything they hear. But you and I can trust each other, eh, Micah?"

"I could trust you with uncounted gold, Miss," and Micah stuck his fork into the ground, with an energy that was meant to give emphasis to his assertion.

For awhile they talked about St. Gaved folks in general, but gradually Madeline led the conversation round to Rufus Sterne and the quarrel outside the Lodge gates.

"Mr. Sterne was not drunk, of course!" Madeline suggested, innocently.

"Well, no, I shouldn't say as how he was, though he might have been."

"Exactly. Now, between ourselves, Micah, how did the quarrel begin?"

"Well, Miss, just between you and me, it was this way," and Micah raised his head and looked cautiously around him.

"There's no one to hear what you are saying," Madeline said, encouragingly.

"One can never be too careful, Miss; but as I was saying, I went out to close the gate after the Captin, and he hadn't gone many yards, before I heard 'im shout out to somebody."

"Yes? What did he say?"

"Well. I don't remember his words exact. But there's no doubt he meant you, Miss."

"Me, Micah?"

Micah nodded and smiled. "I should have felt just the same, Miss."

"I'm sure you would, Micah."

"'You scoundrel,'" he said, "or words like 'em. 'You're loiterin' round here again to waylay her an' poison her mind.'"

"And what did the other say?"

"Oh! he up and says it was a lie right out to 'is face."

"Did he, really?"

"It's gospel truth, Miss; and of course the Captin, bein' insulted like that, let fly at 'im."

"Do you wonder, Micah?"

"I don't, Miss. But lor', that young Sterne is a terrible strong and 'andsome young fellow, and he gived the Captin beans in two seconds."

"What a shame!"

"Of course, Miss, it's natural that you and me should side with the Captin; but after all, it's human natur' to hit back again, ain't it?"

"Yes, I suppose it is. But what happened after that?"

"Oh! the Captin cried out, 'Martin, come and take away this drunken brute, or he'll murder me.'"

"Of course, the Captain was bound to believe he was drunk?"

"Well, he was bound to say so, Miss," Micah answered, with a twinkle in his eyes. "It 'ud never do to own he was beaten by a man as was sober in a stand up fight – and he a sodger."

"Of course not, though you must admit, Micah, that the Captain was at a disadvantage if the other was sober."

"That's what I've said to myself, Miss, fact is, Sterne was much too sober. He was just as cool as a cucumber, and then he's a younger man than the Captin."

"But the Captain got the best of it in the end," she said, with a tone of triumph in her voice.

"That he did, Miss. He got his revenge sharp, sudden an' complete."

"The right nearly always wins in the end, Micah. But mind you don't repeat a word of our conversation this afternoon."

"Me, Miss? You should see me gibbeted first."

Madeline walked out of the kitchen garden in a very sober mood. The suspicion that had been haunting her mind for weeks was crystallising rapidly into a certainty. The admissions of Micah threw a new and sinister light on the entire situation. The underlying motive had been laid bare as in a flash, and Gervase stood revealed in his true colours.

They were starting for the South of France in a week or so. She thought she saw now the reason of that particular move. She would not act precipitately, however. She would keep her eyes and ears open and her mouth shut. It might be possible, with a little diplomacy, to get the truth out of Tim Polgarrow as she had got it out of Micah Martin; but there was no time to be wasted if she was to accomplish her purpose.

She was more than usually gracious with Gervase that evening, and in the highest spirits. She rattled off waltzes on the piano, and sang any number of cheery and sentimental songs. Gervase found the songs for her, and stood behind and turned the leaves.

He felt that he was making headway rapidly. Now that Rufus Sterne was disgraced and out of the way, he had no rival; there was no one to distract her thoughts from him, and he flattered himself that something of the old feeling of hero-worship was coming back to her.

He had given up pressing her to marry him, given up playing the part of injured and broken-hearted lover, and entertained her instead with stories of his exploits in India. And, generally speaking, he told his stories well, making light of his own courage and powers of endurance, and treating heroism as though it were an ordinary, common-place quality of every soldier.

He had very little doubt that when he got her out of England she would consent to an engagement, and Sir Charles, who had watched carefully the progress of affairs, was of the same opinion.

On the day following her conversation with Micah, Madeline tried to get an interview with Tim Polgarrow. She had seen Tim two or three times, and had made up her mind as to the kind of man he was and the kind of tactics she would have to adopt.

Had she been a man she would have gone into the public-house and demanded an interview with him, but being a girl such a course was impossible. So she had to wait on the chapter of accidents, and fortune did not appear to favour her. She rode past the "Three Anchors" on several occasions, but Tim kept persistently out of sight. She began at last to fear that the opportunity would never come, and that the particular information she wanted would be denied her.

In her heart she had little doubt of the truth of the accusation Rufus had flung out on the day of the trial – that Tim had been bribed to swear a falsehood. But she wanted direct evidence. She was anxious to be just to Gervase, whatever happened.

On the day before leaving home she resolved on more direct measures. Getting her horse saddled, she rode straight away to the "Three Anchors" and knocked loudly on the front door with the handle of her riding-crop.

A young man with a thick crop of reddish-brown hair, and a blue apron tied round his waist, appeared at length from the recesses of the tavern.

"Can I have a drink of barley-water for my horse?" she inquired.

"Yes, miss; I'll fetch it in a minute."

She backed her horse a few paces and waited. No one appeared to be about. The inn stood at the junction of five roads, commonly known as Five Lane Ends, and there was not another house within half a mile.

In a few minutes the shock-headed young man appeared with a pail, which he held under the horse's nose.

Madeline felt her heart beating rapidly. She had resolved on a bold stroke. Nothing less than a frontal attack. No flank movement would do in the present case. She would have to stagger him with the first blow.

"You are Timothy Polgarrow?" she questioned, looking down from her exalted position.

"Yes, miss, that's my name, at your service," he answered, glibly and flippantly.

"I'm glad I've met you," she said, quietly.

"Yes?" And he looked up with a light of surprise in his eyes.

"I want to ask you a question."

"A dozen, if you like, miss. I'm always ready to oblige a lady."

"Then you will tell me how much money Captain Tregony paid you to swear that Rufus Sterne was drunk?"

Had Madeline fired a revolver at him he could not have been more startled. He dropped the bucket, which fell with a rattle on the cobbles, and his freckled face grew ashen.

Madeline quickly followed the first blow with a second.

"Now, be careful what you say," she went on. "If you lie, it will be the worse for you. You know that you committed perjury, and that you are liable to a long period of imprisonment; but if you tell the truth, I will be very merciful."

"Has he been blabbing?" he gasped, trembling in every limb.

"Don't trouble to ask questions," she said. "Your business is to answer them."

Then he began to pluck up courage. "Nobody can prove nothing," he said, insolently.

"There you are making a mistake," she answered. "It may be difficult to prove that you received money, but there will be no difficulty in proving that you committed perjury."

"You mean that I'll get all the blame and he'll go scot free."

"Exactly. The case against you is as clear as daylight."

"Who said so?"

"I say so."

"What have you found out?"

"That you swore falsely, and I cannot imagine that you would do it for nothing."

"Look here," he said, still trembling, "you don't know nothing at all. You're trying to gammon me, but I don't take on. Do you understand? I know how to keep my mouth shut as well as other people."

"Very good. I came to you as a friend. If you like to risk the consequences of a trial for perjury, that's your look-out."

"If I do, I don't go into the dock alone, mind you that."

"No, I guess when you get into the dock, you'll have to make a clean breast of it. Why not do it now and avoid going into the dock?"

"You mean, if I tell the truth about – about – somebody, you won't proceed?"

"I mean, I want to get hold of a certain fact. The fact of your committing perjury is already settled. What I want to know is, how much did the gentleman I have named pay you for doing it?"

"Look here," he said, "if I tell you all I know about that blooming trial, will you promise not to split on me?"

"Only on one condition."

"And what is that?"

"That you will tell the whole truth, and that you put it in writing and sign it."

"Look here, miss," he said, insolently, "do you take me for a blooming fool?"

"If you had been wise," she answered, "you would not have put yourself within reach of the law. However, you can take your own course." And she reined up her horse, as though the interview was at an end.

"Don't go yet," he said, seizing the bridle-rein. "You don't give a fellow time to think. How do I know that you're not pretending?"

"If I didn't know, how could I tell you?" she answered, severely. "What I don't know I have confessed to."

"And if I tell you that, you won't blab about the rest?"

"If you put it in writing and sign it, it shall be kept absolutely secret for a year."

He laughed scornfully. "I can assure you, miss," he said, "I'm not so green as I look."

"Very good," she answered, with a laugh. "You ought to know best," and she again pulled at the rein. But Tim was evidently afraid to let her go.

"I'll put nothing in writing," he said; "not a blooming word. But if you'll promise me on your word of honour as a lady that you'll not blab, and that you'll not put the police on me, I'll tell you all I know. Mind you, I've confessed nothing yet. Not a word."

"I don't want any confession as to your part. That's proved enough already. What I want to know is how much you were paid for swearing falsely?"

"Will you promise me never to say a word? Mind you, I'll go to gaol sooner than put anything in writing."

"I don't want to be too hard on you," she said, after a pause.

"And the secret will be between our two selves?"

"Yes."

"And if I don't tell you, you'll set the police on me?"

"This very day."

"And if I do tell, fair and square, you'll deal fair and square with me?"

"Well, yes. You deserve to be sent to prison for robbing an honest man of his character, but for the information I want I will pay the price of silence."

"You take your oath on it?"

Madeline hesitated for a moment. She would like to clear Rufus Sterne's character if possible. But he had just as much proof of perjury as she had unless this man confessed, and he refused to confess unless she promised secrecy.

"I take my oath on it," she answered.

"Then he paid me twenty pounds."

"Only twenty pounds?"

"He offered me five at first, then ten, then fifteen; but when he rose to twenty it was too much to resist. He said 'twouldn't harm Sterne. That every gentleman got drunk now and then, and that as he was drunk it might be as well to prove he got drunk here as anywhere else."

"And you didn't serve him with any drink?"

"I never served him with a drink in my life. He passed the "Three Anchors" that night, but he didn't call."

"Thank you; that is all I wish to know."

"And you'll not set the police on me?"

"No."

She rode home by another way, and rode slowly. She was not an expert horsewoman yet, though she was rapidly becoming one.

She entered the house without anyone seeing her, and went at once to her own room. She wanted time to think, to shape her plans for the future. Her life's programme had been torn into shreds. She would have to begin over again. But how, or when, or where?

After lunch she took a stroll on the Downs and along the cliffs. "I shall never come back here again," she said to herself. "This must be my farewell."

She walked slowly, and with many pauses. She half hoped she would see Rufus Sterne. She wanted to say good-bye to him, and in saying it tell him that she believed in him.

But Rufus was busy elsewhere that afternoon, and they did not meet. She looked in all directions as she strolled back across the Downs to the Hall, and with a little sigh she passed through the lodge gates.

Another chapter had been completed in the story of her life. To-morrow a fresh page would be turned.

CHAPTER XXX
THE TOILS OF CIRCUMSTANCE

Madeline never felt so helpless or friendless as when she left with the Tregonys for the South of France. She had no one to advise her, no one to whom she could turn for a word of counsel. She wished a thousand times that her father had never made Sir Charles her trustee and guardian. He did so with the best intentions, no doubt. He was proud of the distant relationship, flattered by the Baronet's attention, and enamoured of the prospect for his only child; but for her it had meant disillusion and disappointment.

She had not courage enough to tell Sir Charles and Gervase what she had discovered. The Baronet almost over-awed her at times, while the Captain was possessed of a dogged tenacity and determination that were anything but easy to deal with. She felt almost like a bird in a cage – a cage into which she had deliberately walked, or had been cleverly lured. To all appearances she was free, and yet in a very real sense she was a prisoner. The meshes of the net had been so deftly and so silently woven round her, that she was not conscious of the fact until the last loophole was closed.

What could she do now? To whom could she go? There was the old solicitor in New York City, but there was no time to write to him and get an answer back. Her step-mother was travelling from place to place, and might be on the Pacific slope for all she knew, or in the South Seas, or Japan. She had a good many friends – rich and influential people in the States – but they were often on the wing, and they might be "doing Europe" or enjoying themselves in London or Paris.

Besides, how could she explain the peculiarities of the position in which she found herself, and if she tried to explain she questioned if she would get any sympathy? She would have to bide her time till she was of age, and trust in Providence for the rest.

She took away with her nearly everything she possessed that was of any value, for she had made up her mind never to return to Trewinion Hall, if there was any possibility of avoiding it, and that something would turn up she had the greatest confidence. Youth is ever optimistic, and Madeline could never look the dark side of things for very long together.

She had only one regret in leaving Cornwall, and that was that in all probability she would never see Rufus Sterne again. Since her interview with Micah Martin, and the confession she had wrung from Tim Polgarrow, her thoughts, of necessity, had turned in his direction, and her strongest sympathies had gone out to him afresh. She knew now that he was a much wronged man. Moreover, she could never forget what he had done for her, and the memory of what he had suffered on her account would remain with her to the last.

Still, life was made up of meetings and partings. We pass each other like ships in the night, or walk side by side for a mile or two, and then drift in different directions. Rufus Sterne would forget her as she in time might forget him. He would win his way in spite of opposition and misrepresentation, for he was strong and clever, and such men nearly always came into their own in the long run.

She looked out for him on the morning they drove away from the Hall. She would have given almost anything for even a smile of recognition, but it was not to be. With a little sigh she resigned herself to the inevitable, and resolved that she would extract as much pleasure out of the tour as possible.

They spent only one night in London, and stayed at the Charing Cross Hotel for the sake of convenience. In Paris they remained three or four days. Madeline would gladly have remained longer, but Gervase was anxious to push forward to a sunnier clime. The cold, he declared, got into his bones, and he would have no pleasure of life until he found himself in a more genial climate.

At Nice they found letters waiting them which had been forwarded, and a copy of the local paper which Sir Charles had ordered to be sent every week direct from the office. For a couple of days they rested from the fatigues of the journey, and then began to make the usual excursions. Gervase, as might have been expected, was early bitten by the fascinations of Monte Carlo, and took to running over by train most days to see the play.

Madeline was extremely grateful to be rid of his company. Not that he was obtrusive in his attentions, for on the whole he was playing his part with great tact and circumspection. But she had learned to mistrust him and despise him. Hence, the less she saw of him the happier she felt.

Time slipped away very pleasantly on the whole. Sir Charles did everything possible to make her visit to the Riviera an enjoyable one. Indeed, he played the part of prospective father-in-law with great skill, and now and then threw out a sly hint about her cruelty in not putting poor Gervase out of his misery. But Madeline was in no humour to take hints, and Sir Charles often turned away with a look of disappointment on his face.

Beryl talked to Madeline one evening with tears in her eyes.

"I'm sure Gervase spends more time in the Casino than he ought to do," she said, reproachfully; "and if he does, whose fault is it, Madeline?"

"His own fault, I should say," she answered, sharply. "He's surely old enough to know what is good for himself?"

"But people who are labouring under some great disappointment, or are tortured by some secret grief, sometimes gamble merely to forget their trouble."

"Then they are very foolish."

"You do not know, Madeline. You have never had any bitter disappointment. You have the world at your feet. You are an heiress, and will have millions when you come of age."

"Is that so?" she asked, innocently.

"Of course it is so!" she answered. "Why do you question me in that way? One might think you did not know how rich you are. But I do not think, for all that, your money gives you any right to treat Gervase badly."

"Beryl!" Madeline said, indignantly. "Do you know what you are saying?"

"I hope I am not rude, Madeline," was the quiet answer. "But Gervase is my brother, and I am very proud of him, and it cuts me to the heart to see him suffer."

"I do not think he is suffering at all," Madeline replied. "Indeed, he seems in very good spirits."

"That is all put on, Madeline, as you ought to know. Gervase is deeply, passionately attached to you. He came home from India hoping and expecting to marry you. He thought everything was settled. Cannot you imagine how hurt and humiliated he must feel?"

"I do not see why. We were not engaged."

"Not formally, perhaps, but it was your father's wish. We were all agreeable, because Gervase seemed devoted to you. You seemed wonderfully pleased with the idea when you first came to Trewinion; and, after all, it is no small thing to marry a man with Gervase's prospects."

"Marriage is a serious thing, Beryl," Madeline said, gently. "When I met Gervase first I was only a school girl. I did not know my own mind. I own he attracted me greatly, and all the time he was away I cherished, and almost worshipped, an ideal – "

"But surely Gervase has realised your ideal?" Beryl questioned. "He may not be as handsome as some men, but think how brave he is, how self-sacrificing, how devoted! He would almost lay down his life for you!"

"I don't want any man to do that," Madeline said, quietly.

"But surely such devotion as his is deserving of some recompense? He has waited patiently for you week after week, and month after month, and I am sure your coldness is driving him to the gaming-tables."

"Would you have me marry him, Beryl, if I do not love him?"

"Oh, you can love him well enough if you try, unless – unless – "

"Unless what, Beryl?"

"Oh, unless you have given way to some romantic nonsense about another man!"

"What do you mean by that?" Madeline asked, raising her eyebrows slightly.

"You know well enough what I mean, Madeline; so you need not pretend."

"I am not pretending. Besides, it is not fair to fling out mere hints that may mean a great deal, or may mean nothing at all."

"Oh, I am not blaming you very much. It was only natural, perhaps, that he should take your fancy for a moment."

"That who should take my fancy?"

"Why, the young man who saved your life, of course. You knew nothing about him, and there is no denying that he is very good-looking. But you have discovered his true character since."

"I have, Beryl."

"He pretended, too, to have made a discovery and induced, it is said, a number of people to lend him their savings, so that he might develop it, and now that is gone to smash. I pity the people he has swindled."

"Who said it had gone to smash?" Madeline questioned eagerly.

"It's in the St. Gaved Express that came by post last evening."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure. There is quite a long paragraph about it. Besides, I heard father talking to mother about it last evening."

"I wish I could see the paper. Where can I find it?"

"I will run and fetch it for you if you like? But it is quite true, what I have told you."

Beryl watched Madeline's face with great interest while she read, but it revealed nothing to her. Madeline was conscious that Beryl's eyes were upon her, and so held herself resolutely in check. Not for the world would she betray what she felt.

The St. Gaved Express was printed and published mainly in the interests of the landed and moneyed classes. Its politics were those of the people who held the shares. Its comments on local matters were coloured by its political views. Its snobbery was beyond dispute.

Rufus Sterne received scant courtesy at its hands. He had been heard to say that he believed in the government of the people by the people, for the people. That was quite sufficient for the Express. Politically he was a dangerous character – a little Englander and a pro-foreigner.

When it became known that Rufus had failed, that he had been forestalled with his invention, the Express openly rejoiced. Such unpatriotic characters did not deserve to succeed. It hinted that there was a rough and ready justice in the world that dealt out to men the measure of their deserts – which, being interpreted, meant, that to those who had was given, and from those who had not was taken away even what they had.

It further hinted its hope that the dupes of what was little less than a public fraud would do their duty to the public, to themselves, and to the ingenious young gentleman whose exposure was now pretty well complete.

Madeline folded the paper without a word and handed it back to Beryl.

"I should think you feel sorry now that you ever spoke to him," Beryl said, after a long pause.

"There are many things we feel sorry for when it is too late," she answered, quietly, then turned and walked slowly out of the room.

She had not thought much of Rufus for several weeks. She never expected to see him again. He had come into her life for a few months and passed out again, and the sooner she forgot him the better.

But this story of his failure with the cutting comments and insinuations of the Express called out her sympathies afresh, and in larger measure than ever. She did not think the less of him because he had not succeeded. He had not laboured at an invention that was useless. His failure was not due to the worthlessness of his idea, but simply to the fact that another man had got in before him.