"There you are mistaken. You are my friend. And friends are not so plentiful that one can contemplate the disappearance of even one of them with equanimity."

"That may be true. But mercifully, the dead are soon forgotten. You will soon get used to my absence."

"I sincerely hope the occasion will not arise," Muller said, speaking slowly and gravely. "Indeed, as I said before, I should regard your failure as a calamity. Still, there is no getting over the fact that what you regarded as impossible less than six months ago has come very definitely within the realm of possibility."

"Yes," Rufus said, with some hesitation. "I am bound to admit that the chance of failure seems less remote than it did."

"I am sorry to have to discuss this matter with you again," Muller went on, after a pause. "I can assure you it is almost as painful to me as it must be to you. Still business is business, and I have to think of my own position. If I were a rich man, I would not mention the matter – upon my soul, I wouldn't."

"I thought you had no soul," Rufus said, with a pathetic smile.

"Oh, don't joke over mere figures of speech," Muller said, staring into the fire. "I tell you I feel terribly upset."

"But my cause is not lost yet," Rufus said with forced cheerfulness.

"No, it may not be. But, on the other hand, it may be. If your competitor has gone so far, he may during the next week or month go all the rest of the distance."

"I must take my chance of that."

"The point with me is – supposing the worst comes to the worst, have you anything on which you can raise a loan? I hate the thought of your slipping out of life in the flower of your youth."

"Look here, Muller," Rufus said, summoning to his aid all his strength and resolution. "We discussed this matter at the beginning. I counted the cost and took the risk. If the worst comes to the worst I am not going to show the white feather."

"I do not doubt your courage for a moment," Muller said. "But I want to point out that it will take a little time to realise your estate. I presume you have made your will."

Rufus went to a drawer and took out a large envelope which he passed on to his companion.

Muller opened the envelope and drew out the paper slowly. Then he adjusted his pince-nez, and began to read. "Yes," he said, after a long pause, "this is quite in order – quite."

"And in case I am driven to take my departure," Rufus said, in a hard, even voice, "I will give you sufficient time to wind up my small estate before the end of next year."

"You think there is no other way of meeting the case?" Muller questioned.

"In case my scheme fails there is no other way," Rufus answered. "Now let us not discuss the matter again. I understand your anxiety. I should be a bit anxious if I were in your place. But you have my word of honour. Let that be enough."

"It is enough, my boy – it is enough!" Muller said, gushingly.

"Meanwhile we need not count upon failure until forced to do so. I shall not fail if effort and determination can avert it."

When Muller had gone, Rufus sat for a long time staring into the dying fire. Then he picked up the newspaper cutting, and read through the article very carefully a second time.

"No, he has not got my idea quite," he muttered, "but he has come uncomfortably near to it."

Then he drew a long breath and shut his teeth tightly. Life had grown a more precious thing of late, and hope had taken new shapes and forms. Moreover, the possibility of a conscious existence beyond the shadow of death had been looming larger and larger for months past, and with that possibility other possibilities had come into view. What if the consequences of conduct followed men into the unseen? What if sin should separate a soul from the soul it loved? What if this life were a trust for which we should be held responsible? What if suicide should be as heinous a crime as murder? What if dying by one's own hand should stain the soul with deeper dishonour than any broken vow or unfulfilled promise? He drew away his eyes from the fire and shuddered slightly as these thoughts passed through his mind. In whatever direction he turned his thoughts he was faced with possibilities that, to say the least, were not a little disconcerting.

"If I had only known six months ago what I know now," he reflected, "I should not have put my head into this noose with so light a heart. I should have been content to have gone on with my work as time-keeper at the mine. But I was impatient for success, and quite certain that death was the end of all things."

Then across the frosty air the parish clock fixed high in the church tower struck the hour of eleven.

Rufus counted the strokes as they vibrated solemnly through the night.

"Do the dead ever hear, I wonder," he said to himself, and he shuddered again.

Then his thoughts turned to the book that he had been reading earlier in the evening and he began to repeat almost unconsciously one of the stanzas that Madeline had marked:

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark,
And may there be no sadness of farewell
When I embark.
And though from out the bounds of time and space
The floods may bear me far,
I hope —

Then he stopped suddenly and rose hurriedly to his feet. "I am growing morbid," he said. "I wish Muller had kept the article to himself. In a case of this kind ignorance is bliss." And he turned out the lamp and climbed slowly upstairs to bed.

CHAPTER XV
MISGIVINGS

The day after Felix Muller's visit to Rufus the squire and his family returned to the Hall. The news soon spread through St. Gaved that the big house was alive once more, and that the captain was expected home in time to eat his Christmas dinner with the family. Rufus heard the news with a curious thrill, but whether of pain or of pleasure it would be hard to say.

His heart had been aching for a sight of Madeline's face ever since she went away. And yet there were times when he desired above all things that he might never look into her eyes again. Pain was not to be cured by additional pain. To see Madeline would not appease the hunger, it would only increase it. Hence to keep out of her way would be the wise thing for him; to avoid the field-path in front of the park, and the familiar road across the downs and round by the cliffs. If they met she would be sure to speak, and the very sound of her voice would awaken into life all the wild longings of his soul once more. It was far better, therefore, for him that they never met.

Besides, it was more than probable that by this time she was the promised wife of Gervase Tregony. He was coming home to claim her and coming home at express speed. Was he delighted at the prospect, he wondered. Did he love her as she deserved to be loved?

"Oh, if it had only been my lot to win so sweet a soul," he said to himself. "Is it true, I wonder, that we always long most passionately for the impossible?"

For several days he kept close to business, never venturing out of doors till after sunset. Once he thought he passed her in the bright moonlight, and his heart almost stopped, but he never paused in his walk, never looked back; indeed he strode on with a longer and quicker stride, and did not breathe freely again till a sharp bend in the road prevented any possibility of recognition.

When he yielded to the witchery of her presence before, there was some excuse for his doing so, but all the circumstances were different now. He had no excuse to-day, no right. His tenure of life hung on a thread. His chance of success was growing less hopeful day by day.

Even if Madeline were free and within his reach he would have no right to speak to her of love. While this sword of Damocles was suspended over his head he was bound in honour to be silent. But since she was neither free nor within his reach, and he was walking across a volcano that at any moment might burst open beneath his feet, it would be the part of a madman to put himself in her way if there was any chance of keeping out of it.

So he pursued his work with all the earnestness and intensity he could command, but he was conscious all the time that something had gone out of his life. The enthusiasm that springs from certainty had left him, the chill and lethargy of doubt had crept into his blood. Instead of constantly dwelling on the delights of success, he found himself brooding over the prospect of failure, and wondering what lay beyond the grim shadow of death.

By a curious combination of circumstances both life and death had become doubly hard to contemplate. Success had once been his dream. To-day success of itself seemed nothing. The one thing that was of value, that would have turned earth into heaven was love. He would have courted failure – gloried in it – if failure would have given him Madeline. But since Madeline was denied him, neither success nor failure mattered much, and life and death were both robbed of the light of hope. He told himself one minute that he did not care to live since Madeline could never be his, and the next minute he dreaded the thought of death, since death would blot out the sight of her and the thought of her for ever and ever. So, in whatever direction he looked, he found neither solace nor inspiration.

The thing that spurred him on from day to day was not so much the hope of victory as the humiliation of defeat. There was any number of people in St. Gaved who had no sympathy whatever with him in his ambitions, whose invincible creed was that a man ought to be content to remain in that state of life to which it had pleased God to call him. These people had expressed themselves with great freedom and candour on his folly in giving up a good position at the mine, and devoting all his time and energy to something in the clouds; and which, in all likelihood, would never be of any benefit to man or beast.

Rufus used to smile at the criticisms of these people, and anticipate the day when he would stand proud and triumphant before them. Now he began to fear that the day might come when they would triumph over him, when they would expand their chests and smile wisely, and say to their neighbours: "There, didn't we tell you so?" It was rather with the object of preventing such a triumph than of winning any triumph for himself that he toiled on from day to day, throwing into his work more of the energy of despair than the inspiration of hope.

Meanwhile Madeline had been suffering from what she called "an acute attack of the blues." For no sufficient reason, so she admitted to herself, she became restless and peevish, and generally discontented. She was not ill. Generally speaking, her appetite was as good as it had been, while her energy was greater than ever. But for some reason nothing satisfied her – things that at one time she would have gone into ecstacies over barely interested her. She was in the mood to be pleased at nothing, and to find fault with everything.

That this condition of things began on the day Sir Charles took her to task for visiting Rufus Sterne she was well aware; but why it should have continued was a puzzle. She had been angry with Sir Charles at the moment it was true, but after a day's reflection she had been led to see that he was perfectly in the right. Moreover Sir Charles had behaved very handsomely all the way through. She was convinced that it was very largely on her account that they went to London for the autumn, and while in London she had scarcely a wish that was not gratified. She had gone to receptions and balls and dinners by the dozen. She had been taken to every place of interest she wanted to see. She had blossomed out into what she termed "a tame celebrity," and had had more compliments showered upon her than ever before in her life, yet, in spite of all this, she was not happy. Indeed, after a few weeks, she tired utterly of London and wanted to return again to Trewinion Hall. That however, was shown to be an impossibility. The house had been taken practically till the end of the year, and the servants at Trewinion Hall had been put on board wages till Christmas.

"Are you sure you are quite well, Madeline?" Sir Charles said to her, when she preferred her request.

"Quite sure," she replied. "In fact I was never better in my life."

"Then why do you want to go back to the Hall?"

"Oh! I don't know. This endless whirl and excitement has got on my nerves, I think."

"But you complained of Cornwall getting on your nerves some time ago."

"Did I? Well, it did seem rather flat and tame at first."

"No, it was not at the beginning. You were delighted with it on your arrival – "

"And I am still," she interrupted. "I think it is just too lovely for anything."

"But have you really got tired of London life?"

"I think it is too stupid for words. Oh! no, I don't mean that exactly. Pardon me, Sir Charles" – seeing the pained look in his eyes – "I won't complain any more if I can help it, I won't really."

"I am very anxious that you should enjoy yourself all you possibly can. Beryl is dreading the time when she will have to go back again."

"She knows so many people," Madeline said, reflectively.

"And you have made hosts of acquaintances, have you not?"

"Yes, acquaintances, but they don't mean anything. I never realised before, I think, how many people there are in the world, and how many things there are in the world I can do without."

"That oughtn't to be a very startling discovery," he said, with a smile.

"But you don't feel it in a place like St. Gaved," she said. "There everybody seems necessary to everybody else."

"Indeed?" he questioned, dryly.

"Well, I mean that in a little community where each one plays his part, and each one's part is known to all the rest – "

"Yes?" he questioned, seeing she hesitated.

"Oh! I can't explain myself very well, but you must know very well what I mean."

"No; really you flatter me," he said, in a tone of banter, "for in reality your meaning is quite beyond me."

"Then I must be stupider than I thought," she answered, with a pout, and relapsed into silence.

Sir Charles was not only perplexed, he was more or less troubled. If he dared he would have been angry, but he knew that anger would defeat the particular end he had in view. Whatever Madeline might or might not be she was not the kind of person to be coerced. She might be led in many directions, but no one could drive her. At the least suggestion of the lash, she would jib and back, and nothing short of physical force would move her a step forward.

Hence Sir Charles had felt from the first that his task was one of extreme difficulty and delicacy. Moreover, every day as it passed increased the difficulty. Madeline was swiftly growing out of girlhood into womanhood, and the things that fascinated her as a girl quickly palled upon her as a woman, and Sir Charles was growing desperately afraid lest when she saw Gervase again she might be disillusioned, as she evidently had been in other matters.

He was more troubled also than he liked to confess over her intimacy with Rufus Sterne. He could not forget the romantic circumstances under which they had met, the signal service he had rendered her, and the long weeks of suffering and idleness that followed as a consequence, and on a romantic and generous nature like Madeline's, these things would make an abiding impression. For that reason he had got her away from St. Gaved as quickly as possible after he had made the discovery that she was in the habit of visiting him, and for the same reason he intended to keep her away until within a few days of his son's return.

Sir Charles had counted so long on annexing the American heiress for his son, that any thought of failure now was too humiliating to be entertained. It was his last hope of rehabilitating Trewinion Hall, and the historic name of Tregony. Gervase's record was of such a character that no English heiress would look at him unless, indeed, he consented to marry the daughter of a tradesman, and even in such case as that his chances would be very doubtful.

The beautiful thing about an American heiress was that nobody inquired into her antecedents. So long as she had the requisite number of dollars nothing else mattered. Her father might be a pork-butcher, or a pawnbroker, or an oilman; that was no barrier to his daughter becoming a countess or even a duchess.

Poor as Sir Charles was, he would have fainted at the idea of Gervase marrying the daughter of a Redbourne tradesman, however rich or beautiful or accomplished she might be. The very suggestion of "trade" was an offence to his aristocratic nostrils. But Madeline came from a country where the only aristocracy was that of cash, hence by virtue of her uncounted millions she was eligible for the highest positions on this side the water. The logic might not be very sound, but it was satisfying. If the Earl of this and the Duke of that had regilded their coronets with American dollars, why might not he refurbish the Tregony coat of arms with the same precious metal? The reasoning appeared to him to be without a flaw.

Moreover, there was the additional argument of necessity. In consequence of the low price of corn along with nearly all other articles of food, agriculture was in a terribly depressed condition. In other words, the farmer could pay only about half the amount in rent that he would be able to do if wheat and barley, and bacon and butter, stood at twice their present prices.

Sir Charles always grew white with anger when he thought of the foolish men who, in a previous generation, abolished the corn-laws and gave cheap food to the people.

"Look at me," he would say; "my rent roll is only about one-half of what it was in my father's day, and there are hundreds and thousands of the best families up and down the country who have been reduced in circumstances by the same means. What the Government ought to do is to put a high duty on all imported corn and foodstuffs, that would send up the price of English wheat, and English beef, and everything else that is English, and so give the English nobility a chance of getting out of their estates all that they are capable of producing."

The logic of this, if not quite sound, was also satisfying from his point of view. There seemed, however, no prospect just then that the food of the people would be taxed for the benefit of the noble and indispensable class to which he belonged. The working classes for some selfish reason, appeared to object to it. They were possessed by the stupid idea that the higher their wages and the cheaper their food, the better off they would be; and against such unreasoning prejudice as that, logic spent its strength in vain.

Failing, therefore, any Government help in the shape of protection, he would have to guard his interests in some other way, and Madeline appeared to be an excellent way out of the difficulty. In fact, she almost reconciled him to the idea of free imports. If England had suffered loss through the importation of American wheat, it was only fair that England should be compensated by having the pick of America's richest and fairest women. Since there was no duty on corn, it was only just and right that heiresses should be free.

But as the time drew near when Sir Charles hoped to see the full fruition of his little scheme, he grew increasingly nervous. Until the last few weeks everything had gone as smoothly as heart could desire. Madeline seemed like a ripe apple that would drop directly the tree was touched. Without any undue influence, with scarcely a suggestion from anyone, she was inclining in the very direction most desired.

Then suddenly she had become captious and uncertain. The moment she reached the point when she was desired to make up her mind definitely she drew back. The increasing warmth of the Captain's letters she had appeared to reciprocate to the full. She had talked about him with a simple ingenuousness that had delighted the baronet's heart. The proposal seemed to have arrived in the very nick of time. She had gathered from Sir Charles, in detached fragments, the full story of her father's wish in the matter. She had been given one glimpse of London, with its life and gaiety, she had been supplied with every newspaper cutting that spoke of Captain Tregony's prowess as a hunter of big game, and she had tacitly accepted the situation, as though Providence had shaped her lot, and shaped it to her entire satisfaction. And then she hesitated, and became silent, and demanded time for further consideration.

Sir Charles had broached the subject in the most delicate manner possible when they happened to be alone. Gervase's letter to the family had been left on the drawing-room table. The Baronet picked it up and read it again.

"Gervase seems terribly impatient to get home this time," he remarked, casually.

Madeline glanced up from her book, but did not reply.

"I really do not wonder," Sir Charles went on. "Poor old boy, it is nearly three years since he saw you, and he must be pining for a sight of your face."

"He seems a little home-sick," Madeline said, indifferently.

"I don't think it is that altogether. Now that he has definitely proposed to you, it brings all the longing to a head, if I may say so. I hope you have written to him and put an end to his suspense?"

"No, I have not replied yet. I thought of writing this afternoon."

"I wish you would; I am sorry you have not written before."

"I have been too busy with other things, Sir Charles."

"Oh, well, I am not complaining, my dear. Take your own time, of course. But, naturally, I feel for my son, and I know how anxious he will be. It will be nice for him to meet you here in his ancestral home as his affianced wife."

"I suppose it would simplify matters, wouldn't it?"

"It would simplify matters a very great deal," Sir Charles said, in a tone of relief. "There is no reason why you should not go away on the Continent in the early spring for your honeymoon, and so escape our bitter east winds."

"That would be lovely, wouldn't it?"

"Lovely! Ah! well, I almost envy you young people. If one could only be young a second time how much he would appreciate it! But I will not detain you now if you are going to write letters," and he thrust Gervase's epistle into his pocket, and walked slowly out of the room.

Later in the day he discovered that instead of writing letters she had been visiting Rufus Sterne at St. Gaved, and his anger almost got the better of him. By a tremendous effort, however, he kept himself well in hand, and talked to her with a seriousness that did full justice to the occasion.

Two days later he learned that she had not yet replied to Gervase's letter; he made no remark, however, but on the following day he made a proposition that they should spent the late autumn in London.

The experiment, however, had not been altogether satisfactory. Madeline had not been at all like her old self. She was moody and absent-minded, and by no means easy to please. That she had written to Gervase he knew, and written more than once, but she gave no hint to anyone of the nature of her communications.

Sir Charles hoped for the best, but he was troubled all the time by serious misgivings. Her very uncommunicativeness was a disturbing factor. Several times he was strongly tempted to put a point-blank question to her; but when it came to the point his courage failed him. Moreover, his reason told him that the more anxious he appeared to be the more stubborn and intractable she would become. The only thing he could do was to wait patiently until Gervase's return, and trust to luck or Providence for what would follow.

Madeline welcomed the morning of their departure from London more eagerly than any of the others. She was tired of the big city, with its murk and gloom, its dreary streets and muddy crossings, and its never-ceasing roar and turmoil. She longed for the "clean country," as she expressed it, with its quietness and peace and far distances. In truth, she hardly knew what she longed for. Some day her desire would take definite shape, then she would understand.