And all this time Rufus yielded himself more and more to the witchery of her presence, and felt in some respects a better man in consequence. There were compensations, no doubt. Her very presence created an atmosphere that softened and humanised him. His hard, defiant cynicism melted before her smile like snow in spring sunshine. Their conversations touched and unlocked springs of emotion that had been sealed for years; the books and poems she read to him broadened his horizon and led him to re-open questions that he imagined were closed. Her smile, her voice, her look, set all his nerves to music, and made life a more beautiful thing than ever it had seemed before.
But he knew all the time that there would come an awakening sooner or later. They were like two happy children sauntering through green and pleasant glades, screened from the storm and recking naught of the desert beyond.
For himself he avoided looking into the future. He would enjoy the sunshine and the flowers as long as possible. In the long intervals between her visits he recalled their conversations, and re-read the pieces to which her voice had given so much meaning and melody. Moreover, he turned the pages of the books she had lent him and committed to memory some of the passages she had marked. They were sweet to him because she loved them.
So all unconsciously he strayed back from the hard desert of negations in which he had wandered so long. Because he loved this sweet flower, he loved all flowers for her sake. Indeed, love became the medium through which he looked at all things; far distances became near, and new and wider horizons loomed beyond.
Whatever pain might come to him later on, the memory of these days would remain an inspiration to him. To have loved so truly was surely in itself an ennobling thing. Nothing would ever take out of his life these golden threads that had been woven into its texture. The song might cease, the voice of the singer be hushed, but the echo of the song would remain in his heart to the very last.
So he enjoyed those bright, peaceful days to the full, and tried not to anticipate the future. "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," he said to himself. But the day of awakening was nearer than he thought.
CHAPTER XIII
THE AWAKENING
Rufus had not seen Madeline for three whole days, and had begun to wonder what had happened. On the fourth day, however, she came during the forenoon.
"It was now or never," she said, by way of explanation; "the house has been full of people during the last three days, and this afternoon some others are coming. So I had to pretend!"
"Pretend?" he questioned.
"I'm afraid they're getting suspicious," she replied.
"Suspicious of what?"
"That I'm not so great a student, or so devoted to my books, as I seem to be. So I had to pretend I was going to write to the Captain!"
"What Captain?"
She laughed. "Oh! there's only one Captain, as far as the Tregonys are concerned, and that, of course, is Gervase. Do you know him?"
"I've seen him, of course; but I have never spoken to him."
"He's very handsome, isn't he?"
"I really don't know," he answered, bluntly; "it had never occurred to me."
"I suppose men don't notice such things where men are concerned," she said, reflectively; "but in his uniform he is just superb."
"Then you think fine feathers make fine birds?"
"Well, in some respects, yes," she answered, slowly, "though Gervase looks handsome in ordinary evening dress."
Then silence fell for several seconds. The subject was one in which Rufus was not greatly interested, and as yet not a suspicion of the truth had dawned upon him. "Do you like Gervase?" she said at length, speaking abruptly.
The question took him by surprise, and almost threw him off his guard. As a matter of fact, he did not like him, and was on the point of saying so, but checked himself in time. "Why do you ask that question?" he stammered, evasively.
"Well, you see," she answered, quite frankly, "they want me to marry him."
"To marry him?" he questioned, raising his eyebrows in astonishment.
"You won't think it strange my talking to you about the matter, will you?" she said, with perfect simplicity. "You see, apart from the Tregonys, I haven't a friend in all England except – except you."
"It is kind of you to look upon me as your friend," he said, with heightened colour.
"No, no; it is the other way about," she answered; "all the kindness is on your part."
Then there was another moment of silence. He felt stunned, bewildered, and was almost afraid to speak lest he should betray his feelings.
"I ought to have written days and days ago," she went on, at length. "You see, he expects to be home by the New Year at latest. Sir Charles hopes that he will be able to eat his Christmas dinner with us. And – and – Sir Charles, and Gervase also, would like to have the matter settled before he comes home."
"Yes?"
"Oh, well! I hardly know why I have hesitated. I expect it is that I am naturally obstinate. When nobody said a word about the matter, and I thought nobody cared very much – why – why, I looked upon the matter as good as settled," and she blushed quite frankly and smiled as she did so.
"And have they become anxious all at once?"
"Oh! I don't know. Sir Charles tells me that it was a wish of my father's long before he died, and that nothing would please him so much, and all that. And really it looks as if Gervase and I were meant for each other."
"Do you believe in fate or destiny?" he questioned, moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue.
"No, but I believe in Providence," she answered, promptly.
"But how can you be sure what Providence means?" he asked. "If Providence speaks how do you know you have interpreted the message aright?"
"Yes, there is something in that," she said, reflectively. "On the other hand, one must be careful not to fly in the face of Providence."
"Admitting your theory of a Providence," he said, slowly, "is not the true Providence our heart and judgment? Must we not in the last resort fall back on what we feel and believe to be right?"
"Yes, go on," she said, eagerly.
"And if one goes against his own heart – his own instincts if you like – if one ignores his own clear judgment, would not that be flying in the face of what you call Providence?"
"But is our own heart to be trusted?" she questioned; "and is not our judgment often blind?"
"Should we be wiser in trusting to somebody else's heart and judgment?"
"We might be. You see, I am only a girl. I have had no experience. I know very little of the world or its ways. On the other hand, here is Sir Charles. He is getting old. He knows a good deal more than there is in the copy-books. Then there was my father; he did not talk to me about the matter, but from what I know now he talked freely to Sir Charles. Then there is Gervase, he's over thirty, and has seen a good deal of the world, and he's quite sure. And then there is myself, and I think Gervase is one in a thousand. So, you see, all the streams appear to be flowing in the same direction, and that looks a clear indication of Providence. Now, doesn't it?"
"If you are convinced I should say nothing else matters," he answered, with averted eyes.
"Well, there's only one thing that worries me," she said, thoughtfully; "and that's only worried me lately."
"Yes?"
"I used to think nothing else mattered so long as one could enjoy himself or herself. That to have a good time was the chief end of life. Gervase is retiring from the Army, and intends to do nothing for the rest of his days."
"Well?"
"It seems to me a much nobler thing to do something. You told me once that I should inspire somebody to great deeds. But that would be rather hard on Gervase after he has roughed it for so many years."
"If you inspire him, it will not be hardship," he answered.
"I am not sure that I could," she said, turning her head, and looking out of the window. "He is very brave and fearless, and all that. But the great things that work for human good – well, you see, he is not an inventor like you."
"Do not mock me," he said, almost fiercely. "My poor scheme may never see the light."
"Oh, yes it will. You are bound to succeed. You are not the kind of man to give up in despair."
"Give up what in despair?"
"Anything on which you have set your heart. You're like Gervase in that respect, and it is a quality I admire immensely in a man."
"But what if two strong men set their hearts on the same thing?"
"What thing?"
"Oh, anything. A woman, for instance," he said, with a forced laugh.
"Ah, then I expect the stronger and the worthier would win."
"Do women admire strength and worth so much? Do they not rather admire position and name and title? Has the poor man a chance against the rich; the plain man any chance against gold lace and epaulets?"
"No one can speak in the name of all women. But I must run away now or Sir Charles may go to my room in search of me."
"Will you write your letter to-day?"
"I don't know. Very likely I shall if I can find time."
"And will you say 'Yes?' Pardon me being so inquisitive."
"Oh, I expect I shall," she said, with a smile. "It seems the proper thing to do. Gervase and I appear to have been meant for each other."
"I hope you will be happy," he said, holding out his hand to her. "Good-bye."
Half-an-hour later Mrs. Tuke found him staring fixedly out of the window as though he had been turned to stone. The trees were still swaying in the wind, but he did not see them. Through breaks in the clouds bright gleams of sunshine shot into the room every now and then, but he did not heed. From over the cliffs came the faint roar of the sea, but he did not hear. The world had become suddenly dark and silent. The fairy garden had vanished, leaving a bleak cold desert in its place; his heart seemed to have stopped beating. For the moment all interest had gone out of life. He almost wished that he could close his eyes in sleep and never awake again.
"Are you getting impatient to get out of doors?" Mrs. Tuke questioned.
"It will be a relief to get out again," he answered, absently.
"Well, I'm bound to say you've been wonderfully patient, all things considered. But then, as I often say, what can't be cured must be endured."
"Yes; that's sound philosophy."
"And then you've been well looked after."
"Yes; you are an excellent nurse, Mrs. Tuke, and I shall always be grateful."
"Oh, I was not thinking of myself in particular," Mrs. Tuke said, with humility. "The doctors have attended to you as if you were Sir Charles himself. And as for that sweet creature Miss Grover, she's just a sunbeam."
"Yes; she's delightful company."
"You know, it's my belief," Mrs. Tuke said, mysteriously, "that the folks at the Hall haven't the ghost of an idea that she's been coming here to see you."
"What leads you to think that?"
"Oh, well, from little 'ints she's dropped now and then; but of course, time will tell," and Mrs. Tuke began to make preparations for his midday meal.
Time did tell, and tell much sooner than anyone anticipated. The next morning's post brought a letter from Madeline which scattered the last remnants of fairyland.
"I'm afraid I shall not be able to come and see you again," it began. "Sir Charles has found out, and he's angrier than I've ever seen him. He says it's most improper, and that I ought to be ashamed of myself. Such a lecture he's read to me as I guess you never listened to. If he hadn't been so grave and serious I should have fired up and given him a piece of my mind. I suppose, according to English customs, I've done something real awful. Anyhow, my heart doesn't condemn me, and if I've lightened your suffering with my chatter ever so little I'm real glad. As long as I live I shall be in your debt, and I shall never forget it either. It seems real stupid that just because I'm a girl I'm not allowed to play the part of a decent neighbour. England is awfully behind in some things, and your Mrs. Grundy is a terror.
"However, I've got to obey, I suppose. You see, Sir Charles is my trustee till I'm twenty-one, and he's angrier than a snake at the present moment, and as I'm here by his favour, why I can't quite do what I would like. But I shall think of you every day, and pray for you, and when you get well and your great invention has astonished everybody, none of your friends will rejoice more or be prouder of you than I shall. I don't know if it's a proper thing to say, but I've said it, and it'll have to stand. One has to be constantly looking round the corner in this old country of yours. I hope you will be as well as ever soon, and that you won't think too hardly of the foolish girl who caused your accident. If you would like to keep my books for yourself, I shall be real glad. Whittier is great, don't you think so? Good-bye till we meet again. Yours very sincerely,
"Madeline Grover."
Rufus read the letter with very mingled feelings. There were touches in it that almost brought the tears to his eyes. The assurance that she would think of him every day and pray for him moved him strangely. He would have told Mrs. Tuke, or the vicar, or anyone else that he had no faith in prayer; that the whole network of religious belief was an ingenious superstition. Yet, with curious inconsistency, the thought of Madeline praying for him was undoubtedly comforting. The general effect of the letter, however, was like that produced by a heavy blow. Coming after her own simple and naive confession of the previous day it seemed almost to paralyse him. He scarcely realised how much her visits had been to him till now, and the knowledge that she would not come again, that her face and smile would no more brighten that little room, was like the sudden falling of night without the promise of rest and sleep.
As the day passed away and he was able to think over the matter a little more calmly, he tried to persuade himself that Sir Charles's interposition was the best thing that could have happened. That since any vague hope he might have cherished of winning her love was now at an end, it was desirable from every point of view that he should not meet her or even see her.
"The awakening was bound to come," he said to himself, trying hard to be resigned. "I knew, of course, from the beginning that she was not for me, I would have kept myself from loving her if I could; but it was just beyond me. She won my heart before I knew."
And yet the bitterest drop in the cup was not that she was beyond his reach, but that Gervase Tregony, would possess the prize. He had no wish to be censorious, and it might be quite true that Gervase would compare favourably with most young men in his own walk of life. He had not been brought up on puritanic lines. Moreover, as the only son of the Squire and heir to the title and estates it was generally conceded in an off-hand way that some latitude ought to be allowed. The rich claimed a larger liberty or a larger licence than the poor, and however much the poor resented it in their hearts, usually they said nothing. Protests did no good, and to get into the black books of the Squire was not a matter to be regarded with indifference.
If people with grown-up families looked a little anxious when it was known that Gervase was to be in residence at the Hall, and raised the domestic fence a few inches higher than usual – there was reason in the past annals of St. Gaved's history.
Rufus, with his innate chivalry, and his romantic reverence for women as a whole, recoiled with a feeling almost of loathing at the thought of Gervase Tregony taking so sweet and pure a soul to his heart as Madeline Grover. Was it true, he wondered, that women did not care what a man's past had been; that they accepted without demur a social order that condoned any and every offence so long as no public scandal was produced? Or, was it that young women were deliberately kept in ignorance of what was common knowledge?
He spent several more or less wakeful nights in striving against his own heart, and in trying to cultivate a philosophic attitude which should give the impression of a supreme unconcern. Fortunately, the broken bone was so far knit that his doctors allowed him to hobble about on a pair of crutches, and though he was not able yet to do any work, he could contemplate some of the things he had done, and shape in his mind what yet remained to be accomplished.
He got out of doors as much as possible, but he was still weak, while his crutches were such unwieldy things that he quickly got tired. His favourite resting-place was by the garden gate, he could see the people as they passed up and down the street, and often have a few minutes' chat with his neighbours. He scarcely dared to admit the truth to himself, but there was always a lingering hope in his heart that Madeline might come into the village for some purpose, perhaps to do a little shopping, and that his heart might be cheered by a sight of her face.
Mrs. Tuke's cottage stood at a point where the "town" ended and the country began. Toward the Quay the houses were generally close together, and abutted on to the side walk, but in the other direction, there were more trees and fences than houses, and nearly all the cottages had gardens in front of them. Hence, when Rufus stood or sat at the garden gate, he looked down "the street" in one direction, and up "the lane" in the other.
The lane led away in the direction of Trewinion Hall, and if Madeline came into the town she would more likely than not pass Mrs. Tuke's cottage. In any case, she would come very near to it.
Rufus looked up the lane fifty times a day, and sometimes his heart would flutter for a moment as some girlish figure came into sight. But Madeline never came.
Then, one evening, while chatting with Dr. Chester, the doctor mentioned incidentally that the Squire had left the Hall and had taken up his residence in London till the middle of December.
Rufus heaved a little sigh, but he did not pursue the topic. It seemed to him like the last nail in the coffin wherein lay hidden all the wild dreams and unexpressed longings and hopes of his heart. Madeline was to be strictly guarded until the return of Gervase from India, and then, perhaps, before she had fully realised what she was doing, or before she had an opportunity of getting a true estimate of his character, she would be tied to him for life.
"It is no business of mine," he said to himself; "she is entirely out of my sphere, and even if she were not, it would be foolish of me, under present circumstances, to think of any woman."
But his heart protested all the same. For Madeline to marry Gervase Tregony seemed to him an offence against all that was sacred in human life.
CHAPTER XIV
EVOLUTION
It wanted a week to Christmas. Rufus sat in his easy chair with his feet on the fender and an open book on his knee. He had been hard at work till dark, after which he had taken a mile's walk into the country, and was now waiting for his supper to be brought in. He was not impatient, however. The book he had been reading was one that Madeline Grover had left with him. A volume of Tennyson, containing nearly all the poet's published work, and, as was nearly always the case, the writer had set him thinking on the problems of life and death and immortality.
Outwardly there had been no change in his life during the last two or three months. Directly his doctors gave him permission he turned again to his invention, glad of the relief that work afforded. As far as he could judge, he was moving, slowly but surely, to complete success. The thought of failure very rarely crossed his mind.
But while outwardly there was no change, inwardly there was a distinct evolution. He found himself unconsciously viewing life from a different standpoint. It was easy to laugh at the claims of priests and prelates, and to poke fun at musty and worn-out creeds. Easy to riddle with merciless logic the stupendous dogmas of the Churches, and the monumental follies of so-called theologians, but when all that had been done to his complete satisfaction, he was no nearer the solution of the riddle of life.
Moreover, he became painfully conscious of the fact that a philosophy of denials was not sufficient. He wanted something definite and something positive. An iconoclast might be a very useful individual; but when the destructive process had been completed, was there nothing more to be done? Were there no positive blocks of truth with which to erect a temple? There were questions instinctive in the human soul which asked for an answer. Had the broad universe no answer to give? Had faith no place in the eternal and immeasurable scheme.
If science could not prove, if philosophy halted and broke down, was there nothing left? Was religion a thing to be dismissed with a sneer? Might not faith be as truly a faculty of the human soul as reason?
So all unconsciously he retraced his steps from the barren realm of negation to the region of inquiry. He ceased to be dogmatic. Materialism did not explain everything. Theology, like other sciences, might be empirical, and yet its groundwork and framework might still be truth.
When a man begins to inquire he begins to grow, when he ceases to inquire the winter of decay sets in. Moreover, it is not the province of the human will to determine the direction of growth. It may be upward or outward, in this direction or in that. The mind pursues its way with an unerring instinct as the roots of trees follow the courses of the springs.
Rufus had been reading "Crossing the Bar" for the fiftieth time, and now he sat with the open book on his knees, wondering where he was intellectually and religiously. He refused however, to question himself too closely. He preferred for the present to drift. Some day he might sight land, and find a safe anchorage.
Yet one or two things were becoming daily more clear. One was, that in any perfect scheme a future life was necessary to the completion of this. Another was, that human life, if only because of its relationships and possibilities, was a more sacred thing than he at one time had been willing to grant. And a third was, that love was not a mere physical or mental affinity. It was something that went farther and struck deeper. It was a soul relation that remained untouched and independent of time and change.
He had not seen Madeline Grover for considerably more than two months. No message or whisper had passed between them. In the chances of human life he knew that he might never speak to her again. Yet his love remained fixed and unshaken. It was not something that he had put on as an extra garment, and that in the wear and tear of life he might lose again. It was part of himself – woven into the fibre of his being.
Perhaps his love for Madeline, more than anything else, made him think of the problem of immortality. Whittier had said:
Life is ever Lord of Death,
And Love can never lose its own.
How well he remembered that afternoon when Madeline read "Snow-Bound" to him, in which these lines occurred. He had never been able to get them out of his mind since. They had followed him like a haunting echo of something long forgotten, had stirred his heart with a thousand vague hopes and dreams.
If Love could never lose its own, Madeline might yet be his. In some far-away region beyond the reach of human vision, beyond the stress and passion of earth, beyond the darkness and the doubting, beyond the ravages of time and trouble, they might meet again – the soul finding its mate and life its eternal complement.
Madeline had a habit of marking with a pencil the passages in a book she liked, and in one of the volumes she left behind he found these words marked with a double line down the margin:
I sometimes think that heaven will be
A green place and an orchard tree,
And one sweet Angel known to me.
Could he have put his wildest dreams and longings into words, nothing could have fitted better. It expressed all the heaven he wanted – all the beauty, and all the companionship his soul desired.
He was disturbed in his meditations by a knock on the outer door, and a minute or two later he heard a familiar voice in the passage inquiring if he were at home.
He rose to his feet in a moment, and pushed Tennyson into a dark corner out of sight. Then the door of his sitting-room was flung open, and Felix Muller entered unannounced. Rufus greeted him with a look of inquiry in his eyes – an inquiry, however, which he did not attempt to shape into words.
Muller made his way to the fire at once, and spread his hands over the grate. "It's a glorious night," he said, "but cold. The roads are as hard as iron, and the moon makes it almost as light as day."
"Have you driven over?" Rufus inquired.
"Yes, I had to see Farmer Udy at Longridge, and so I thought as I was so near, I would drive a little farther and see you. How have you been getting on this long time?"
"Fairly well on the whole, I think. Of course, my accident upset all my calculations for a while, but at present things are moving steadily and in the right direction."
"That's right, I'm glad to hear it. And when do you think the thing will be properly launched?"
"Well, it is not easy to say positively, but I should give six months as an outside limit."
"You expected at first that the whole thing would be completed in six months."
"That is true, but I had not reckoned on the contingency of a broken leg."
"But apart from your accident you were out of your calculations."
"A little. When you are dependent to so large an extent upon other people, it is impossible to be absolutely sure as to dates."
"Then your six months may run into nine months?"
"Oh, no; six months more gives a wide margin for every contingency."
Muller withdrew from the fire and dropped into an easy-chair that Rufus had pulled round for him.
For a moment or two there was silence, then Muller, diving his hand into his breast-pocket, said in his most casual tone, "You don't mind my having a smoke, do you?"
"My dear fellow, I beg your pardon," Rufus said, hurriedly, "but the truth is I was waiting for supper; won't you have something to eat first? The cold drive ought to have given you an appetite!"
"Well, now that you mention it, I think I do feel a bit peckish."
"You will have to be content with simple fare, but such as I have, etc.," and he went out of the room to hunt up Mrs. Tuke.
Rufus watched his guest narrowly while he ate, and felt sure that he owed this visit not to the proximity of Longridge, but to some other cause that had not yet been revealed.
Conversation flagged during the meal. Muller ate like a man whose thoughts were engaged somewhere else, and on something vastly more important than eating and drinking.
Rufus began to have an uncomfortable feeling that his visit boded no good, and yet he had not the courage to precipitate matters by asking impertinent questions.
As soon as the supper-tray was taken away, Rufus produced a box of cigars, and for a minute or two they blew smoke in silence.
Muller was the first to speak. Looking at his cigar carefully, as if examining the brand, he said in his most casual manner, "I suppose, Sterne, you have never considered the possibility of being forestalled in your invention?"
"Well, no," he said slowly, but with a startled look in his eyes. "I cannot say that I have ever seriously considered such a possibility."
"And yet it is notorious in the realm of discovery and invention, that the same idea has been hit upon by different men in different parts of the world almost at the same time."
"I do not remember that fact being brought clearly to my mind," Rufus said, wondering if someone had forestalled him.
"It is true, nevertheless. I could give you illustrations if I had time. But what is important at the present moment is that a man away up in Westmorland has got ahead of you."
"No!" Rufus said, in a tone of alarm.
"Well, perhaps I ought to have said that he appears to have got his claim in first. I do not understand all the technicalities of the case, but he appears to me to have achieved, or to have achieved very largely, the thing you are aiming at," and he took a newspaper cutting out of his pocket, and passed it on to Rufus.
Rufus unfolded the cutting with hands that trembled in spite of himself. If he had been forestalled then life with him was at an end. The greater part of the thousand pounds was spent or pledged already. Failure meant that he would have now to employ his ingenuity in devising a method of escaping from the world in a way that would not awaken suspicion.
Muller adjusted his pince-nez and watched his companion while he read. Rufus summoned to his aid all the resolution he possessed and preserved a perfectly impassive face.
"Well?" Muller questioned, when Rufus had got to the bottom of the slip.
"It's a little disconcerting," was the answer. "But I shall not fling up the sponge yet."
"But he has got hold of your idea!"
"Not exactly."
"At any rate he has got uncomfortably near to it."
"He has got nearer than I like, I admit. But the greater part of what he claims is mere bluff."
"But his objective and yours are precisely the same?"
"No, not precisely. I go much farther than he does, as Stephenson went farther than Watt."
"That is in your application of the principle. But is not the principle the same?"
"It is similar, though not identical. I have gone all over the ground he is travelling now."
"And in another month he may be all over your ground."
"There is danger, of course, but I think still I shall get in first."
"I hope you may. But I confess when I tumbled across that article this morning it made me feel mightily uncomfortable."
"It is a little upsetting, no doubt."
"You see, he must have secured himself pretty well, or he would not have permitted so much of the scheme to get into print. Don't you see it largely discounts anyone else who comes after, though he may have something better."
"Yes, I admit the force of all you say," Rufus answered slowly. "But my game is not up yet."