Generally speaking, Rufus Sterne was not lacking in courage, either physical or moral. But no man knows his strength till he is tested. Many a man has passed through tempest and flood, fire and sword, unscathed and undaunted, and in the end has gone down helplessly and ignominiously before a pair of soft brown eyes.

When Rufus turned his head he meant to say firmly but kindly that it would be better if they did not meet again. And then he would soothe the hurt – if hurt there should be – by telling her how grateful he was for her visit and how much he appreciated her kindness.

He was quite sure she would understand. She was not a child and her eyes were more than ordinarily sharp. If she chose to take offence, of course, he would be sorry; but better she should be offended than that he should break his heart.

He was bristling all over with courage when their eyes met, and then all his strength departed. Madeline had no thought of conquest. She only wanted to be kind. She felt infinitely pitiful toward this strong man who had been brought low through her, and her pity shone in her eyes and vibrated in every tone of her voice.

It was her artlessness, her sweet ingenuousness that broke Rufus down. In addition to which she was so exquisitely beautiful, while the unfamiliar lilt and intonation of her voice were like music in his ears.

"It will be just heaven if you will come and read to me sometimes," he heard himself saying, and then he wondered whether he was awake or dreaming.

"Then I will come to-morrow. It will be perfectly lovely to do some little bit of good in the world."

The room seemed to grow dark when she took her departure, as though a cloud drifted across the face of the sun. For a long time he lay quite still, looking at the door, behind which she had disappeared. His heart was in a strange tumult, but whether pleasure or pain predominated he did not know. What he did know was that the intoxication of her presence was the sweetest thing he had ever known, but below the sweet and struggling to get to the top, was a sense of something exceedingly bitter.

He felt like a drunkard steadily gravitating toward the tap-room. His moral sense, his better judgment, urged him to turn aside or turn back; his appetite, his desire for excitement or forgetfulness lured him with irresistible force.

"I know I am a fool," he said to himself, "and I shall have to pay dearly enough for my folly later on, but I can't help it."

He had rather prided himself on his courage, and this confession of weakness, even to himself, was distinctly humiliating.

It was the kind of thing for which he would have allowed no excuse in any other man. It was a pet theory of his that a man ought to be always master of himself, and that any man who allowed himself to be dominated and conquered by a human passion was not worthy of respect or even sympathy.

Men who fail to live up to their theories are generally prolific in excuses. To own himself beaten out and out was too much for his self-respect. He had taken a step down, he knew, but there was a reason for it. Perhaps, if he searched diligently enough, he would be able to justify his conduct to the full.

Before the day was out, he found any number of excuses. This life, he told himself, was all, and youth was the best part of life, in fact, the only part in which enjoyment could find a place, and if a cup of delight was placed to his lips, was it wise to dash it to the ground and spill all its contents, because it was possible and even probable it would leave a bitter taste in the mouth. But even though he was sure the bitter taste would follow, was he not justified in taking the sweet when he had the chance? Had not somebody said:

"'Tis better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all"?

Besides, he had not to consider only himself. That would be selfish. This sweet-eyed girl wanted an outlet for her gratitude and generosity, and if he rudely pushed aside the hand that was outstretched to help, and churlishly refused her sympathy, how hurt she would be. And a man would be a brute to give pain to so sweet a soul; he would rather cut his hand off than do it.

Also it did not follow that because he saw more of her he would become more deeply in love with her. He would recognise, of course, all the way through that she was out of his circle – that was a fact he would never allow to pass out of his mind. And keeping that in mind, he would be able to keep guard over his own heart.

So before the day was done, he was able to extract all the poison from his surrender. He might not have done the heroic thing, but it did not necessarily follow that he had done a foolish thing. Chance had flung this girl across his path, why should it be an evil chance? Why might there not grow out of the acquaintance something for the good of both?

Having arrived at that position, he ceased calling himself a fool, and gave himself up to pleasant dreams and even more pleasant anticipations. Closing his eyes he recalled their conversation, recalled every expression of her sensitive face, every tone of her musical voice.

He fancied her sitting again by his bedside. How dainty she was, how unobtrusively and yet how exquisitely attired. Things he had been aware of in a sub-conscious way now clearly defined themselves. He remembered her teeth, even and white, her ears small and coloured like a sea-shell, her eyebrows dark and straight, her eyelashes long, her mouth like Cupid's bow. He remembered, too, how her rich brown hair grew low in her neck, while a massive coil seemed to balance her shapely head.

He smiled to himself at length. "How much I noticed," he said, "without seeming to notice. I wonder if other people think her so good to look upon."

He slept better that night than he had done since his accident, and through all his dreams Madeline seemed to glide, a healing and an inspiring presence. He awoke with his nerves thrilling like harpstrings, and a happy smile upon his lips.

He had dreamed that his invention had realised a thousand times more than he had ever hoped or imagined, that it had lifted him into the region of affluence and power, that he took his place among the successful men of his generation by right of what he had done, and that, thrilling with the knowledge of his success, he had laid his heart at the feet of Madeline Grover. "You have been my inspiration," he said to her. "But for my love for you I could not have wrought and striven as I have done," and for answer she laid her hands in his and lifted her face to be kissed; and then the twittering of the sparrows under the eaves awoke him.

"Dreams are curious things," he said, the smile still upon his lips. "Now I dream I fail, and now that I succeed. Both dreams cannot be true, that is certain. I wonder. I wonder."

He was still wondering when Mrs. Tuke brought him an early cup of tea.

"Have you slept well?" she asked, and there was a sympathetic note in her voice that he did not remember to have heard before.

"The best night I have yet had," he said, cheerfully.

"Then you don't think having so much company yesterday did you any harm?"

"It did me good, Mrs. Tuke. I was beginning to mope."

"She is a beautiful creature."

"You called her a scare-away American yesterday."

"Did I? Oh, well, you see, I didn't know her so well then. Besides, I never denied that she was good-looking."

"But looks are only skin deep, I have heard you say."

"And that I sticks to. But Miss Grover has sense and judgment. You should have heard her talk yesterday. I never heard a girl of her age speak with so much wisdom. We've quite taken to each other."

"I'm very glad to hear it."

"She's not to be judged by the ordinary foot-rule either."

"No?"

"In America girls have more freedom. You see, they've no king there, only a president."

Rufus laughed.

"And everybody grows up equal, as it were. Girls learn to look after themselves and men to respect 'em."

"That's as it ought to be."

"But the women of St. Gaved would be envious enough to bite their thumbs off if they knew she made a friend of me; and would talk abominable. I know 'em, and what they are capable of."

"Some of them can gossip a bit," he said, reflectively.

"And if they know'd I allowed her to see you," Mrs. Tuke went on.

"The fat would be in the fire," he interrupted.

"But they're not going to know. Do you think I don't know a lady when I sees her, and know also what's due to her? You should hear Miss Grover talk."

"She has a taking way with her."

"No, 'tisn't that. There's no chaff with her, and as for myself, I can't abide flattery. But I do like common-sense," and with a self-satisfied smile lighting up her severe face, Mrs. Tuke bustled out of the room.

Rufus closed his eyes and laughed softly. "The little scare-away American got in the first shot, that's evident," he chuckled, and he kept on smiling to himself at intervals during the day.

The afternoon was beginning to wear away before Madeline put in an appearance. She came into the room like a breath of spring – gentle, fragrant, energising. She was not at all shy, neither was she obtrusive. There was never anything self-conscious in her movements. She was trying to be kind, trying to pay in some measure a big debt of gratitude she owed, and she was supremely happy in making the attempt.

"Do you know, I feel real pleased with myself to-day," she said, in her quaint American way.

"Do you?" he questioned.

"Seems to me living up in a big house like Trewinion Hall, one has scarcely a chance of being kind or neighbourly, and when the chance does come, it seems great."

"Do you think exclusiveness and selfishness mean the same thing?"

"I don't know. That's a sum I haven't figured out yet. But what would you like me to read to you?"

"Anything you like. I fear you will not consider my stock of books very interesting."

"Have they all to do with science and mechanics, and that sort of thing?"

"No, not all."

She rose from her chair and went to a table on which several volumes lay, and began to read their titles. "Principles of Western Civilisation," "The Earth's Beginning," "Facts and Comments," "Education and Empire," "Philosophy and Life."

"Ah! here is a story book I expect. 'The Buried Temple,' by Maurice Maeterlinck," and she picked up the book and began to turn over the pages, then with a faint sigh she laid it down again.

"Would you rather I talked to you?" she questioned, turning her face toward him with a smile.

"I think I would," he replied. "I am not much in the mood for philosophy to-day."

"But why vex your brains with philosophy at all? What you need when you are ill is a real, good story. The next time I come to see you I'll bring a book along with me."

"What will you bring?"

"I don't know yet. Do you like poetry?"

"When it is poetry."

"Are you sure you know it when you see it?" and she laughed good humouredly.

"Well, I would not like to dogmatise on that point," he answered.

"You've read Whittier, of course?"

"No."

"Oh, I'm sorry for you. Whittier is great. I like him heaps better than your Browning."

"Why?"

"Because I understand him better. I expect poetry is like beauty, in the eye of the beholder, don't you think so? Now if poetry don't touch me, don't thrill me, why, whatever it may be to other people it isn't poetry to me. Do I make myself plain?"

"Quite plain."

"Now Whittier just says what I feel, but what I haven't the power to express; just sums up in great, noble words the holiest emotions I have ever known."

"Yes."

"Then Whittier is a man of faith and vision, as all poets must be if they are to be great. I like Browning for that. He sees clear. He doesn't merely hope, he believes. He not only 'faintly trusts the larger hope,' he builds on the rock. A man who has no faith is like a bird with a broken wing. Don't you think so?"

"But what do you mean by faith?" he asked, uneasily.

"Ah, now you want to puzzle me," she said, with a smile.

"Oh, no I don't," he replied, quickly. "I only want to get your meaning clearly."

"But I'm not a poet," she answered. "I'm only a girl, and I can't find the right words. But I just mean faith. Seeing the invisible, if I may say so. Realising it. Being conscious of it."

"The invisible?" he questioned.

"Yes, God, and heaven, and immortality. Believing also in goodness and humanity and the sacredness of human life."

"Do you believe that human life is a very sacred thing?"

"Why, of course I do! What a question to ask."

"Does it seem so very strange?"

"Why, yes. Think of the care that is taken of everybody, even the worthless. Think of all the hospitals and asylums – "

"Yes, that is one side of the question," he said. "What we may call the sentimental side. But place human life in the scale against money or territory or human ambition."

"Well?"

"We mow men down with machine guns or blow them up with dynamite – not in twos or threes, but in thousands and tens of thousands, and the more we kill the more satisfied we are."

"Oh yes, I know. That is all very terrible," she said, with a puzzled expression in her eyes.

"But why terrible?" he questioned.

"I can't explain myself very well," she answered, slowly; "but, of course, we must defend our country."

"Therefore country is more sacred than life."

"Oh no, you are not going to catch me that way. To die for one's country must be great, heroic."

"Exactly. Therefore, in comparison with what we call country – that is, our particular form of government, or our particular set of rulers, or our particular stake in it – what you call the sacredness of human life occupies a very subordinate position."

"But you would risk your life in defence of your country?" she questioned, evasively.

"Most certainly I would," he answered, promptly; "but then you see I am not hampered by any notions respecting the sacredness of human life."

He was sorry a moment later that their conversation had taken the turn it had. He felt that he would bite his tongue out rather than give this sweet-eyed maiden pain; and that he had pained her was too evident by the look upon her face. And yet, having gone so far, he was bound to be honest.

"If I held your views," he went on, "nothing would induce me to take a human life – neither patriotism nor any other ism."

"Oh, but," she said, quickly, "there are some things more sacred even than life, honour for instance, and truth."

"No doubt. But there is surely a difference between losing one's life, giving it up for the sake of some great principle, and taking the life of another."

"Then you would not be afraid to die for something you valued much?"

"Why should a man be afraid to die at all? Of course life is sweet while you have something to live for, but to rest and be at peace, should not that be sweet also?"

"You want to live?"

"Now I do. For the moment I have something to live for. Something that gives zest to existence and fills all my dreams."

"I am so sorry to have delayed its execution. Perhaps you will come to it with more zest and insight after the long rest."

"I think I shall," he answered, slowly, looking beyond her to where the day grew red in the west.

"I wish I could help you," she said, as if thinking aloud; "but women can do so little."

He withdrew his eyes from the window and looked at her again.

"You will do much," he said, speaking earnestly.

"How?"

"By inspiring someone to be great. A clod would become a hero with your – your – " then he broke off suddenly and withdrew his eyes.

"Won't you finish the sentence?" she questioned, looking at him shyly.

"Not to-day," he answered, and a few minutes later she rose to go.

CHAPTER XII
FAIRYLAND

Madeline did not put in an appearance the next day or the day following that. But on the third day she came into the room like a ray of sunshine.

"Well, I'm here," she said, in her bright, eager fashion; "but I was just terribly afraid I wasn't going to get – there now, isn't that a sentence to be remembered?"

Rufus showed his welcome in every line of his face. It was a dull, rainy day, with a blustering wind from the west and a sky that had not revealed a speck of blue since morning. He had lain mostly in one position, looking through the small window, watching the trees on the other side of the road swaying in the wind, and listening to the fitful patter of the rain.

His thoughts had not been always of the most cheerful kind. The days and weeks were passing surely, if slowly, while the great scheme on which he had set his heart and his hopes was at a standstill. He was conscious, too, of a new and terrible hunger that was steadily growing upon him – a hunger for companionship, for sympathy, for love. The coming of Madeline had changed his life, changed his outlook, changed the very centre of gravity. Nothing seemed exactly the same as it did before. Even death had changed its face, and the possibility of a life beyond forced itself upon his brain with a new insistence.

To win success had been his ambition – the one dream of his life. The only immortality he desired was to live in a beneficent invention he had wrought out. Now a new desire possessed him. There was something better than success, something sweeter than fame. If he could win love. If he could know the joy of a perfect sympathy. If – if – .

His thoughts always broke off at a certain point. It seemed so hopeless, so foolish. Until he had won some kind of position for himself it was madness to think of love. At present he was working on borrowed capital, and there was always before him the grim possibility that he might fail, and failure meant the end of all things for him. Felix Muller should never have reason to doubt his courage or his honour.

Then he would start again, dreaming of Madeline. The two preceding days had seemed painfully long. He had listened for her footsteps from noon to night. He had watched for her coming more than they who wait for the morning. He had pictured her smile a thousand times, and felt the warm pressure of her hand in his.

When at length she glided into the room his heart was too full for speech. How bright she was, how winsome, how overflowing with life and vivacity! The gloom and chill of autumn went out of the room as if by magic, and the air was full of the perfume of spring violets and the warmth of summer sunshine.

She pulled off her gloves and threw them on the table and seated herself in a chair near him.

"Have you been very dull these last two or three days?" she questioned.

"Rather," he answered. "You see, the fine weather has come to a sudden end."

"But I guess it will soon clear up again, though I am told your English climate is not to be relied upon."

"The only certain thing about it is its glorious uncertainty."

"Well, there may be advantages in that; there's always a certain interest in not knowing. Don't you think so?"

"Most things have their compensations," he said, with a smile.

"Then there's a chance of your being compensated for this long spell of suffering and idleness."

"As a matter of fact I have been compensated already."

"No! in which way?"

"Ah, that is not easy to explain," he said, turning away his eyes. "And you might not understand me if I tried."

"Am I so dense?"

"I don't think you are dense at all. But I am not good at saying things as they ought to be said. You will sympathise with me in that, I know."

"Oh, that is mere equivocation. You simply don't want to tell me."

"I would tell you a lot if I dared."

"Dared?"

"Yes. I should not like to drive you away or make you angry. Your friendship is very sweet to me – that is one of the compensations."

"The friendship of a mere girl is worth nothing to a grown, busy man, who is fighting big problems and aiming at great conquests. If I could only help you that would be just fine. But it is of no use hankering after impossible things, is it? So I am going to read to you."

"What are you going to read?"

"A piece called 'Snow Bound.' Now listen," and for half-an-hour he did not speak. Her voice rose and fell in musical cadence. He closed his eyes so that he might catch all the melody of her voice. The lines she read did not interest him at first. All his interest was in the sweet-eyed reader.

But he grew interested after awhile, and was touched unconsciously by the beautiful faith and tender humanity that flashed out here and there.

When she reached the end he opened his eyes and looked at her, her lips were still apart, her eyes aglow with emotion. She was no longer the bright, merry irresponsible girl. She seemed to have changed suddenly into a strong, great-souled woman.

"Would you mind reading a few stanzas over again?" he questioned, after a pause.

"With pleasure."

"Beginning, 'O time and change.'"

"Yes, I know," and she opened the book again. He listened with intense eagerness. She dropped her voice a little when she came to the words:

Alas for him who never sees
The stars shine through his cypress trees!
Who, hopeless, lays his dead away,
Nor looks to see the breaking day
Across the mournful marbles play!
Who hath not learned in hours of faith
The truth to flesh and sense unknown,
That Life is ever Lord of death,
And Love can never lose its own!

She closed the book again and waited for him to speak.

"It is a beautiful thought," he said, without opening his eyes. "If one could only be sure it is true."

"Be sure that what is true?" she asked, in a tone of surprise.

"That Life is ever Lord of death. That Love can never lose its own."

"Why do you think there can be any doubt about it?"

He opened his eyes again and looked at her, and his heart smote him. It would be a cruel thing to disturb her serene and simple faith with his own doubts. Almost for the first time in his life he felt the utter futility of the agnostic's creed. It had nothing to offer but a catalogue of negations. To the parched and thirsty lips it placed an empty cup, and before tired and longing eyes it held up a blank canvas.

He had grown out of his religious creed as he had grown out of his pinafores. His heart and his intellect alike had revolted against the narrow orthodoxy of his grandfather. He had been driven farther into the barren desert of negations by the pitiful parody of religion exhibited by ecclesiastical organisations, and to complete the work Felix Muller had inoculated him with the views of German materialists. He fancied, like many another man who had followed in the same track, that he had got to the bed-rock at last, that after much delving he had found the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Yet it was truth that brought no hope, no comfort, no inspiration. He was not eager to proclaim it to others. Men would be just as well off if they never reached this ultima Thule– perhaps, better off. To persuade men that there was no God, nor heaven, nor immortality, that this life was all and the grave the end, was not the kind of thing to inspire men to great deeds or heroic achievements.

His intellect might mock at the simple faith of the sweet-eyed maiden. He might honestly believe that she was living in a fool's paradise. But if it was a paradise and there was nothing beyond it, why disturb her? If death ended everything, let her enjoy her paradise as long as possible. If it was the only paradise she would ever have, it would be sheer cruelty to drive her out of it.

If he destroyed her faith, what had he to give her to fill its place? There was nothing in a string of negations to satisfy the hunger of a human soul. Granted that her faith was folly, that her religion was pure superstition, there was no denying that it was a very beautiful superstition, that it invested life with a grandeur that nothing else could give to it.

And, after all, was he so sure that he had found the ultimate truth? He had inscribed on his little banner Ne plus ultra, but had he any right to dogmatise more than others? There might be a farther "beyond" which faith could pierce. There might be truth which flesh and sense could never apprehend. There might be spirit as well as matter.

"I should like you to read me more from the same book," he said, at length.

"Oh! I will do that with pleasure," she said, eagerly. "I knew you would like my dear old Quaker poet."

"He has the gift of expression," he answered, cautiously.

Then she began to read "The Eternal Goodness," slowly and reverently.

He closed his eyes again, and listened with wrapt attention. The beautiful faith of the poet seemed to strike a new chord in his being. Moreover, the religion in which he had been reared, and from which he had broken away, seemed a nobler and a Diviner thing than it had ever appeared to him before. Stripped of its human glosses and paraphrases, released from the rusty fetters of dogma, stated in simple language, it awoke a dormant emotion in his nature that had never been touched until now.

"Would you mind leaving the book with me when you go?" he questioned, when she had finished.

"Of course I will leave it," she answered.

"I am afraid I shall not see so much when I read it for myself," he went on. "There is so much in the right emphasis being given."

"Do you mean me to take that as a compliment?" she questioned, playfully.

"Not as an empty compliment," he answered, gravely. "You read beautifully."

She did not reply to that, but her eyes glowed with pleasure.

During the next week or ten days he lived in a kind of fairyland. Every now and then he had an unpleasant feeling that he would wake up sooner or later with a start to discover that the gold was only tinsel, that the rippling streams were dry, and the green and shady meadows a hot and arid desert.

Every day or two Madeline came to see him – came quite naturally and without ceremony. She did not hide from herself the fact that she liked to come. She frankly admitted that she liked the invalid. She told herself that she would be an ungrateful little wretch if she didn't. He had saved her life, and saved it at terrible risk to himself and terrible suffering, and it would be selfish, indeed, on her part if she did not try to cheer and brighten the long days that he was enduring, and enduring so patiently on her account.

Moreover, Rufus Sterne was no ordinary man. He belonged to a type she had not met before. As yet she did not know how to describe him. He was more or less of a mystery to her, and that in itself kindled and sustained her interest. Most of the young men she had met she "saw through" in ten minutes, and in half-an-hour had weighed them up, classified and labelled them.

But Rufus Sterne baffled her. He was altogether too complex for her simple and easy method of analysis, too massive for her six-inch rule. At times he seemed to her a huge bundle of contradictions. His face could be as stern as the granite cliffs, his smile as sweet and winning as spring sunshine. At times he was as silent and mysterious as the sphinx, at other times brimming over with mirth and merriment. His passion for truth and right filled her with admiration, his apparent indifference to all religion struck her with dismay. He was a man of the people in theory, in practice he lived alone, remote and friendless.

It seemed to her sometimes a wonderful condescension on his part that he deigned to notice her at all. Like most of her sex, she did not in her heart think much of girls. She would defend them readily enough if they were attacked, and if driven into a corner would acclaim their superiority over men; but in reality she thought little of them. In the main they were small and niggling, and not particularly magnanimous. Neither did she place herself an inch higher than the average girl. She was as conscious of her own limitations as anybody.

Hence, that this strong, self-reliant man, who was fighting the world single-handed, and toiling to complete some great invention, should make her his friend, tell her that her friendship was very sweet to him, was a compliment greater than had ever been paid to her before.

She had never placed Rufus Sterne for a moment in the same category with Gervase Tregony. Gervase was on her own level. He was not to her a mysterious and unexplored country. She knew him thoroughly, knew what he was capable of; had sounded all his depths and tabulated all his qualifications.

Hence, Gervase never over-awed her; never made her feel small or insignificant. On the whole, she thought she liked him all the better for that. Gervase might not be profound – that was hardly to be expected in a soldier; he might not be morally sensitive – that also was incompatible with the profession. But he was a good sort, so she believed. A bit rough and over-mastering, but generous at heart. Not vexed by social or political problems, but fond of life, and intent on having a good time of it if he had the opportunity.

She had never doubted for a moment that she and Gervase would get on excellently together. Indeed, they appeared to have been designed for each other, and yet she had hesitated to accept his proposal, and every day her hesitation grew more and more pronounced.

The fascination of Rufus Sterne's personality intensified as the days passed away. Her admiration for his character increased. There was nothing small or petty or niggling about him. She did not compare him with Gervase Tregony, and yet unconsciously she found herself contrasting the two men – contrasting them to Gervase's disadvantage.

And yet in her heart she was very loyal to the man who had proposed to her – the man who had captivated her girlish imagination by his splendid uniform and masterful ways.

Her feeling towards Rufus was of a different order. At first it was merely a sense of gratitude; later on gratitude became suffused with sympathy; but as the days passed away, other ingredients were added, the most marked being admiration. His strength, his patience, his reticence, all called forth her approval, till in time he became something of a hero in her eyes.