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CHAPTER XVI
GROWING SUSPICIONS

In the big house there were many things to be done in preparation for Christmas. Mottoes had to be selected and cut out of coloured paper, and surrounded with evergreens and hung in the hall, and naturally this task fell to the lot of Madeline and Beryl. Then, it was decided to have a house-party the day but one after Christmas Day, and invitations had to be sent out to all the gentry of the neighbourhood. Lady Tregony undertook this pleasant duty, but soon found the work of filling in cards and addressing envelopes altogether too exhausting; so Madeline, who was swift with her pen, was pressed into the service. In addition to all this, various tokens of affection and regard had to be sent to the extremely poor of the parish – nothing of very much value, it is true – still, the simplest parcel took time to make up and address.

The result of all this was that the house was kept in a state of bustle from morning till night, and Madeline had no time to pay a single visit to any of her acquaintances in the village.

She did steal out of the house one evening after dinner, and tramped in the bright moonlight nearly to St. Gaved and back again, but the walk did not yield her much satisfaction. She had an uncomfortable feeling that she passed Rufus Sterne on the way, and that he took pains not to be recognised. She turned and looked after the retreating figure, and felt certain she was not mistaken, but he did not halt for a moment or look back.

It was a simple and trifling thing in itself, but it set her thinking. Of course, he might not have recognised her, as she for the moment had not recognised him. On the other hand, her face was toward the moonlight, his was in shadow. She scarcely saw his face at all, her face would be plainly visible. Moreover he hurried past, with his hat pulled low, as if he had no wish to be recognised. What did it mean?

The more she thought about the matter, the more she was convinced that the man she met was Rufus Sterne, and that he deliberately avoided the chance of recognition. Was he offended with her, then? Was he sorry that they had ever become acquainted, and wished the acquaintanceship to end? Did he regard her as a sort of stormy petrel, heralding bad weather and bad fortune? Did he think that safety and success could be secured only by keeping out of her way?

That he would have good reason for cherishing such sentiments there was no denying. She had been his evil genius in the most critical period of his life. She had thrust him back into idleness and helplessness when every day was of the utmost value to him.

"I really don't wonder that he shuns me," she said to herself, regretfully. "I really don't, and if his invention should fail, he will hate me more than ever."

Under ordinary circumstances her pride would have asserted itself, and she would have resolved – since he had ignored her – never to speak to him again. But the circumstances were not ordinary. The ties of gratitude, if nothing else, bound her to him for all time; the loss that he had suffered on her account made it impossible for her to treat him as she might have treated an ordinary acquaintance. He had good reasons, no doubt, for ignoring her, but that only made the pain the harder to bear.

Two days before Christmas it became evident to her that there was a little conspiracy on foot to prevent her going into St. Gaved. She had not noticed at first any significance in the fact that there was always someone at hand to run errands for her and Beryl. But when, for the sixth or seventh time in succession, her suggestion that she should run into St. Gaved was met by the reply, "Oh, don't trouble, dear," or "You are too tired, dear," or "Peter will see to that, dear," or, "We shall not require it to-day, dear," she began to think that solicitude on her account had become a trifle overstrained.

When once her suspicions were aroused, she began to put the matter to the test. During the morning of Christmas Eve she discovered on four separate occasions that she was short of something that she particularly needed, and each time, when she suggested that she should run into St. Gaved and get it, a servant was dispatched with most unusual haste to make the purchase.

Madeline smiled to herself, but said nothing. But it set her thinking on fresh lines. She began to recall all that had happened since her last visit to Rufus Sterne, then her thoughts travelled farther back still, and after a very little while she saw, or fancied she saw, a tolerably consistent purpose, not to say conspiracy. When once she had got a clue, or what she fancied was a clue, it was easy to read meanings into a thousand little circumstances that otherwise would have had no significance whatever.

She had been under the pleasing delusion that she had gone her own way, that practically she had followed her own wishes in everything – that her own wishes happened to exactly coincide with the wishes of her friends was simply a matter for congratulation. No attempt had been made to bring pressure to bear on her at any point. When Sir Charles had talked seriously to her, it was nearly always on questions of English etiquette and customs – subjects she was profoundly ignorant of. If she decided to go into St. Gaved now, she felt sure no direct attempt would be made to stop her.

To test the matter, she went to her room, put on her hat and jacket, and announced to Sir Charles, whom she met in the Hall, that she was going into the town for her own amusement.

"All right, Madeline," he said, with a smile; "this is Liberty Hall, you know."

She was a little bit taken aback by his answer; it was so frank and spontaneous that it almost disarmed her.

She walked very slowly toward the village, her thoughts being intent on the new problem. Ever since her meeting with Gervase Tregony nearly three years ago, her life had moved steadily in the same direction, and toward the same seemingly inevitable end. This she had regarded in the past as providential, and had accepted the omen with thankfulness.

But she fancied now she saw a human motive running through all. Since her meeting with Gervase, she had practically never a chance of becoming acquainted with another man. As a matter of fact, the only man she had become intimate with was Rufus Sterne, and directly that intimacy was discovered, she was whisked off to London and kept out of his way. She was being guarded and protected until Gervase's return.

Gervase was expected home that very day. He had landed at Marseilles the previous day, and was coming straight through without a break. For a man like Gervase such rush and hurry was most unusual.

That a man like Gervase wanted to marry her was, no doubt, very flattering. He was a great soldier, a man of immense courage, and a distinguished-looking man to boot. On the other hand, she was a nobody, her father had been an ordinary working man – that he had "got on" late in life she knew. But what his financial position was she would not know till she was twenty-one. So that looking at the matter merely from a social point of view, it was a great condescension on the part of Gervase.

But not only did Gervase want to marry her, but it had become extremely clear of late that Sir Charles was as eager as his son. In fact, events were being rushed. It was understood when she arrived in England that Gervase would not be home till the New Year. Now he was risking his neck in an eager rush to be here by Christmas. Why all this haste? Why was everybody so anxious she should marry the heir to a baronetcy, or, to put it the other way about, why were all the Tregonys so eager to marry the heir to an unknown American girl?

That American girls by the shoal had married titled Englishmen she knew, and titled foreigners of all sorts and conditions. But it was clear and obvious to outsiders generally that the attractions had been dollars on the one side and titles on the other – a fair exchange, no doubt. There had been a quid pro quo in each case.

But in her case – !

Then she pulled herself up suddenly, and a hot blush mantled her cheeks. Was she any better than the rest? Had not her girlish imagination been carried away by pictures of a baronial hall, ivy-grown and weather-beaten? and had not the thought of being "My Lady Tregony" dominated nearly everything else?

"No," she said, at length, "I admired Gervase for his own sake. He is brave and distinguished-looking and – and – oh! I like a man who is strong and masterful."

But the other question still remained unanswered. Why did Gervase want to marry her? He belonged to one of the oldest families in the county. Why did he not seek a wife in his own circle? Lord this and the Duke of that who went to America for their wives, married dollars. But – She stopped again, and looked round her, but no one was in sight. A keen north wind was blowing, and the pale wintry sun had not yet melted the hoar-frost from the grass, and yet she felt as hot as though she had been thrust suddenly into a Turkish bath.

Was it possible that dollars lay at the bottom of all this haste and anxiety? For some reason she had been kept in ignorance of her father's financial position. He had never talked to her about the matter. She was at school when he died, and remained at school long after he was laid in his grave. Why she had been kept at school so long was always something of a puzzle to her.

That she would have enough money to live upon comfortably she knew. She was allowed a thousand dollars a year now as pin-money – a sum much too large for her needs in St. Gaved, though in London she could easily spend it all. But that she was rich, or in any sense of the word an heiress, was an idea that had never occurred to her. It did not seem at all likely that she could be, or her allowance would be very much larger. On the other hand there might be method in the modest pittance that was meted out to her. To keep her in ignorance of the extent of her possessions might be part of the game. If she were rich and knew it she might be too ready to discover a reason why Gervase wanted to marry her.

"I wonder if suspicion always comes with knowledge and experience," she said to herself. "Is it one of the penalties of being grown up? When I was a girl I wasn't suspicious of anything or anybody. Now I'm certain of nothing, not even of myself."

She walked on more rapidly after awhile, but she took no notice of anything on the way. She was too absorbed with her own thoughts.

"I am glad, at any rate, I did not give Gervase a definite promise," she said to herself. "I hardly know why I didn't, for I meant to at first. But it is best I should see him again before deciding. Best that I should find out everything I can. I think he wants me for my own sake. I'm almost sure he does, but it's well to be quite sure."

"Well, anyhow, I shall see him again this evening," she said to herself, after a long pause. "I wonder if he has changed? I wonder if I have changed?"

She reached the outskirts of the village, then turned back, and in a moment or two came face to face with Sir Charles. The meeting was unexpected, and the Baronet looked a little confused.

"What, turning back so soon?" he questioned, nonchalantly.

"I only came out for a little exercise and fresh air," she answered.

"And you find the air too keen, eh?"

"Oh! not at all; I am enjoying it immensely."

So they passed each other. But a little way on, Madeline paused and looked back, but Sir Charles was out of sight.

"Now, I wonder if he followed me on purpose?" she said to herself. "Has he begun to suspect me? Did he imagine I had gone to call on Mr. Sterne in defiance of his wishes? I wish I hadn't grown suspicious; it spoils everything."

She was so busy with her thoughts that she scarcely noticed the turn in the road leading back to the Hall. Also there was no particular reason why she should return at once. So she tramped on into the country. The roads were dry and frosty. The keen wind hummed in the bare hazel bushes that crowned the tall hedges, the too brief glimmer of sunshine was fading on the hillside.

Her thoughts alternated between the Squire, Gervase and Rufus Sterne. It seemed to her as though a big stone had been dropped into the still and placid pool of her life and that the troubled waters refused to settle again. It seemed but yesterday that the plan of her life lay before her like an open book. Everything was just as it ought to be and there was no hitch anywhere. Now the book was shut, the map was destroyed, and her future lay before her a treeless, trackless, mist-shrouded desert. What was the reason of it? Was Sir Charles to blame, or Gervase, or Rufus Sterne? Or should she take all the blame to herself?

She was disturbed in her meditations by the sound of a quick and firm step behind her. Her first impulse was to turn her head, but she resisted it. The steps drew nearer; the hard road echoed distinctly. She drew slowly to the side of the road, so that the pedestrian, whoever he might be, might pass her. It was time she turned round and retraced her steps to the Hall, but she would wait a few minutes longer, until the man had passed her. Now he was almost by her side. She turned her head slightly and their eyes met. In a moment her face brightened, and her lips parted in an eager smile. He dropped a small bag he was carrying, so that he might grasp her outstretched hand. It was fate or destiny, and there was no use fighting against it.

"I have been wondering if I was ever to see you again," she said, in her bright, unconventional way. "You are quite well again, I see. Oh, I am so thankful! I would have called round, only – well, you see the conventions of this old country have to be observed even by an American."

"And you find them rather irksome?" he questioned, an eager light brightening his eyes.

"Well, on the whole I fear I do. But we have to take things as we find them, I suppose. Discipline, they say, is good for us."

"I believe that is a generally accepted doctrine," he said, with a laugh.

"But you doubt it?" she asked, looking coyly up into his face.

"I did not say so," he answered, jocularly. "Do you think I am such a doubter that I doubt everything?"

"Well, no," she answered, slowly. "I will not go quite so far as that. I guess there are still a few things you stick to."

"We all believe what we cannot help believing," he answered, enigmatically.

"Oh, what a profound utterance!" she said, laughing brightly in his face.

"It is rather profound, isn't it? But how have you enjoyed yourself in London?"

"Oh! moderately well. For the first two weeks or so we had rather a gay time, then things got flat, or I got flat. And then the weather, you know, was atrocious. Those London fogs are a treat!"

"So I've heard. I've had no experience of them."

"Well, you needn't be envious. But how about your invention? I've been looking for your name in the papers. When are you going to astonish us all?"

His face clouded in a moment and his eyes caught a far-away look. "It is never safe to prophesy," he said, after a pause.

"But you are still quite sure of success?" she questioned, a little anxiously.

He smiled a little bit sadly, and answered, "A friend of mine sometimes encourages me by telling me that there is nothing certain in this world but death."

"Your friend must be a pessimist," she said, "and I don't like pessimists. But tell me candidly, has your success been imperilled in any way by – by – your accident?"

"No, I do not think so," he answered, quickly. "My work has been delayed a little, that is all. If I fail, it will not be on that account."

"But you are not going to fail, of course you are not."

"I hope I shall not," he answered, seriously. "But in the chances of life there must be a great many failures. Think of the millions of toiling people in England to-day and how few of them have reached their hearts' desire."

"Yes, I suppose that is so," she answered, thoughtfully, "or perhaps the bulk of them have never had any large desires. But don't you think that most of the great men who have striven long enough have won in the end?"

"I was not thinking of the great men," he answered. "It is given only to a few men to be great, and of the rest, if they fail once, their chance is gone."

"And do you mean to tell me that if you don't succeed this time you won't try again?"

"If circumstances would let me, I would never cease trying," he answered. "But we are all of us more or less the slaves of circumstances, some more than others."

"You told me once that you had staked your all on the success of this enterprise."

"That is true."

"And if you fail, you will lose everything?"

"Everything!"

"You mean, of course, your time and your money, and your labour!"

"Yes, I mean that," he said, smiling wistfully.

"Oh, well! that is not everything, after all," she answered, brightly. "You are young enough to begin again. And, after all, what we call failures may be stepping-stones to success, and you will win in the end, I know you will. God will not let you fail."

"I wish I believed in God as you do," he said, with downcast eyes.

"So long as God believes in you it won't matter so much," she answered, cheerfully. "But I must be going back now. You are going further, I presume?"

"I am going to spend Christmas with my grandfather, at Tregannon."

"Is that far?"

"About six or seven miles."

"And are you going to walk all the distance?"

"I expect so, unless someone overtakes me who can give me a lift by the way."

"I hope you will have a very happy Christmas."

"Thank you. Let me wish the same wish for you."

"We shall be gay at any rate," she said, with a little sigh. "The Captain returns this evening."

"Ah! then you are sure to be happy. Good-bye!"

He took her outstretched hand and held it for a long moment, looking earnestly the while into her sweet, fearless eyes. Then without another word he picked up his bag and hurried away.

CHAPTER XVII
RETROSPECTIVE

Rufus tramped the seven long miles to Tregannon like one in a dream. Up hill and down dale he swung his way, heedless of the milestones and untroubled by distance. The short winter's day faded into darkness before he had covered half the journey. A little later the moon sailed slowly up in the eastern sky and flung weird shadows across the road, but he paid no heed. Through sleepy villages and hamlets he tramped, by lonely cottages and splashing water-wheels, but his thoughts were back in the quiet lane outside St. Gaved, and the warm hand of Madeline Grover still trembled in his.

He had tried to forget her, tried to keep out of her way; but what was the use? She had come into his life for good or ill, and she had come to stay. Until he ceased to draw breath she would dominate his heart, and it was only waste of strength and energy to fight against his fate.

He hardly knew whether he was sorry or glad. If he had to leave the world, loving her would make it all the harder, he knew. If his enterprise succeeded and his life stretched out to its natural span, the burden of an unrequited love would always press heavy upon him. And yet to love at all was worth living for. The thrill of her touch, the glance of her sweet, honest eyes, made heaven for the moment. Let the future go. Sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof. Twelve months hence he might be sleeping in the dust, and she might be the wife of Gervase Tregony. It was foolish, therefore, to anticipate the future. To-day alone was his, and he would make the most of it, and let his heart go out in free, unfettered affection, giving all and asking for nothing in return. It was in the inspiration and exaltation of this feeling that he swung along the quiet country lanes. No one could hinder him from loving, and love was its own reward. The joy was not so much in receiving as in giving. When love became selfish it ceased to be love. Madeline might never be his in the conventional sense. She might never know how much she had been to him, might never guess how much he loved her. That might not be all loss; it might, indeed, be gain. He felt already that he was a better man for this great passion that had come into his life – less selfish, less self-centred, less bitter and infinitely more pitiful.

He found his grandfather, Rev. Reuben Sterne, still active and alert, in spite of the eighty-four winters that had passed over his head. He was no less sure of his election now than he was sixty years ago, when he was first called to the ministry, and he was as anxious to remain a little longer on the earth as he was in the flowery days of his youth.

He extended to his grandson a grave and unemotional welcome, and then led the way into the little sitting-room, where his wife sat deep in an easy chair, a little, shrunken thing, who looked as if all the sap had dried out of her veins. Her welcome, however, was much warmer than her husband's, and the tears came into her faded eyes when he bent down to kiss her.

While supper was being got ready Rufus stretched himself in an easy chair before the fire and listened while the old people talked.

"Ah me, Rufus," Mrs. Sterne said, in her thin, quavering voice. "It is just sixteen years ago yesterday since news came that your father was dead. How time flies, to be sure, and your poor mother survived the shock just six months and a day."

Rufus had heard the story recalled nearly every Christmas Eve since. Whoever might forget, the little grandmother remembered, Joshua Sterne – Rufus's father – was her firstborn and only child, and the wound caused by his death never seemed to heal.

Rufus listened with no poignant sense of grief. His father had crossed the Atlantic to seek his fortune when he, Rufus, was little more than out-of-arms, and he had never returned. Rufus fancied that he remembered him. But he was never quite sure. The recollection – if such it was – was so vague and indistinct that it seemed little more than the shadow of a dream.

He remembered well enough the day when the news came of his father's death. Remembered the grief and anguish of his mother, which, boy-like, he did his best to soothe, but which he could not understand.

Six months later the broken-hearted mother slipped unexpectedly away into the land of shadows, and Rufus, bewildered and rebellious, was taken away from the silent house to live with his grandparents. That seemed like the beginning of all his griefs. He had often wondered since what his life would have been like if his mother had lived. How he would have rejoiced to toil for her and fight her battles. But it was not to be. In the cold and gloomy shadow of his grandfather's home it seemed to him that the better side of his nature had never a chance of developing. The sunshine was absent. The real joy of existence was unknown.

Reuben Sterne was a disciplinarian of the severest type. A minister of the Gospel who had no real Gospel to preach. A theologian who had no true vision of God. A man severe and stern by nature, and made doubly so by an austere and loveless creed. "God was a jealous God." That lay at the foundation of all his beliefs and coloured all his actions. The burden of the Divine decrees lay heavy upon his heart in the brightest days, and touched every song to sadness. Of his own election he did not doubt. Of his call to preach to the elect he was equally sure. But his only son, Joshua, the child of many prayers, gave no evidence of saving grace, and died uncalled to the favours of the heavenly fold, while his grandson, Rufus, appeared, even from boyhood, to be as pagan as his name. This was a great grief to the old man, though he would not have made any sign of it for the world. It was his place to bow, not only in submission, but in thankfulness to the heavenly will. To kiss the hand that smote, and adore the unrelenting power that consigned to eternal burning those who were dear to him as his own life.

At bottom his heart was better than his creed, but he was afraid of showing tenderness or affection lest he should be running counter to the Divine Will, or giving encouragement to the enemies of the cross to blaspheme.

Twice every Sunday Rufus was led to the Baptist chapel to hear his grandfather preach, and early indicated the fate to which he was predestined by falling asleep under the old man's most terrible sermons. Among the memories that stood out most clearly in his brain was that of his grandfather in the pulpit. A tall, straight man, with clean-shaved, severe face, and eyes that never smiled. He always wore a frock-coat, tightly buttoned, a tall, stiff collar, and a large white bow, the ends of which touched the lapels of his coat. His grey hair was brushed smoothly from his forehead, his mouth was set in severe lines, his shoulders squared as if for battle. And indeed, every sermon was a battle. He was appointed of God to fight "spiritual wickedness in high places." He asked no quarter and gave none. His voice rang with the thunders of the law. Sinai was nearer to his heart than Calvary.

Rufus gave evidence of intellectual revolt before he had reached his teens.

"What is the use of preaching, grandfather?" he asked the old man, one Sunday morning, over the dinner table.

"The use of preaching?" the Rev. Reuben questioned, aghast at the audacity of the young speaker; while Mrs. Sterne laid down her knife and fork, and stared.

"Well, suppose you didn't preach, what would happen?" the boy went on, unconscious of the storm he was raising.

"Happen? Happen? Be silent, boy; you know not of what you are speaking."

"But if you didn't preach, would the elect be lost?" the boy persisted.

"Of course not. How could they be lost? 'Whom He did foreknow, He also did predestinate.'"

"And will you save any of those who are not elected by preaching to them?" the boy went on.

"It is not in man's power to save at all," the old man said, severely. "Salvation belongeth unto the Lord."

"Well, then, I don't see a bit of use in preaching or in going to chapel."

The old man raised his eyes and stared. "You ungrateful, unregenerate youth," he said. "How dare you speak in such a way, and at my table?"

"But, grandfather," said the boy, with astonishment in his eyes, "why am I ungrateful because I ask questions?"

"Why? Because your questions savour of an unregenerate and unbelieving heart; because they make light of the Word of truth; because the Spirit of God is not in you."

"But how can I help that, grandfather? Do you think it is that I am not called?"

"I fear you are not," he said, with a groan. "I fear you are not."

"But you are not sure, grandfather?"

"No, I am not sure; but there is no evidence of saving grace in you."

"But if I am elected I shall be all right in the end, sha'n't I?"

"Yes, yes; the gracious Spirit always finds those who have the mark of the seal."

"Then, I don't think I shall go to chapel to-night."

"Not go to chapel!" and the old man's eyes flashed fire. "Not go to chapel? Did my ears deceive me? Is it for this I have cared for you since the death of your mother? Boy, boy, be careful how you disobey me!"

"But, but – "

"Not another word," the old man said, raising his right hand in a threatening attitude. "Not another word, or I will punish you as you were never punished before. How dare you blaspheme, and at my very board?"

That was the beginning of open strife and rebellion. The boy went to chapel that night, and for many years after, but never in the same spirit again. Scarcely a Sunday passed that both his heart and intellect did not revolt against his grandfather's teachings, and there was no one to show him the other side of the shield. Had some whisper come to him in those days that truth was many-sided, that the Kingdom of God was broader than Church or Creed, and that the heart of the Eternal was not to be measured by an ecclesiastical tape-line, he might have been saved many long years of darkness and doubt. But in the village of Tregannon, teachers and seers were few, and books that would have helped him were out of his reach.

So he grew first into the belief that he belonged to the non-elect, and later into the belief that the whole fabric of the Christian religion was a delusion and a snare.

Yet no cloud of unbelief dimmed for a moment the purity of his soul. He loved goodness none the less because he hated human creeds. Right was right, whatever preachers preached or failed to preach; and wrong was wrong though stamped with the Church's approval.

It was a great grief to the Rev. Reuben and to his wife when Rufus demonstrated by open and unabashed revolt that he belonged to the non-elect. They had suspected it early in his career; they had prepared themselves for the blow when it should fall. The tender-hearted little grandmother had hoped and prayed till the last, and even continued to pray when she believed that praying was vain and feared that it might be an offence to the Lord.

The Rev. Reuben was made of sterner stuff. "Ephraim," he said, "is joined to his idols, let him alone."

So the quiet, uneventful years passed away, and the boy grew into a man. A man of fine presence, of considerable intellectual attainments – for Reuben Sterne gave the lad the best education he could afford – and of unblemished character.

Rufus wanted to be an engineer, but that was beyond his grandfather's means. His grandmother wanted to apprentice him to a draper, but the boy protested so vehemently that that laudable desire was never carried out. In the end, he found his way into a Redbourne Bank, where he became acquainted with Felix Muller, who was a solicitor's clerk in the town, and who later on succeeded to his master's business. From Redbourne, Rufus removed to St. Gaved as Secretary to the Wheal Gregory Tin Mining Company, Limited, and it was while there that he conceived a scheme for the bettering of his own fortunes and those of the county as a whole.

Rufus could not help recalling the past as he stretched his legs before the fire and listened in dreamy fashion to the talk of the old people. All the years that had fled and gone seemed to live again. All the people that he knew in his boyhood's days gathered round him once more. Voices long since hushed in the great silence spoke to him as they used to do; and eyes that long since had fallen into dust smiled with all their old sweetness.