A Gamble with Life

He looked at his watch. The down express from London was due in fifteen minutes, and it was generally well up to time.

"I think I will loiter round in town until they have gone," he said to himself. "I need not suffer the humiliation of seeing her the happy bride of that – fellow," and he plunged at once into the throng that jostled each other in the street.

But the desire to have another look at Madeline's face proved too strong for him.

"It cannot do me any harm," he said to himself, moodily. "Nothing can do me any harm now. The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune have done their worst."

Ten minutes later he was on the station platform waiting for the down express. Very few people were about. He lighted a cigarette, and strolled with apparent unconcern up and down the platform. He gave a little start when the signal dropped just in front of him. A couple of porters hurried across the line from the other platform, a newspaper boy appeared from somewhere round a corner, the people who had been walking up and down came to a sudden stop. The long train glided slowly round a curve, and came to a standstill.

Rufus drew to the off side of the platform, and watched the scene. Fifty heads were thrust out of nearly as many windows, but only half a dozen people alighted. Sir Charles and party had a compartment to themselves near the middle of the train. The Baronet alighted first – slowly and stiffly as though cramped with the long journey. Beryl jumped out after him with light springy step, then came Lady Tregony, ponderous, but jaunty still.

Rufus found his heart beating uncomfortably fast as he waited for Madeline to appear. The porter entered the compartment, and began handing out the wraps and umbrellas, then the footman hurried away to the luggage van. Rufus heaved a long sigh, partly of disappointment, partly of relief. Madeline had not returned with the others, neither had the Captain. That meant – what?

He could think of only one possible explanation. They were man and wife, and were travelling on their own account. Perhaps they had been married recently, and were now on their honeymoon. That seemed the most probable supposition. It was hardly likely they would be married on the Continent. They would wait till they got back to London, and after the ceremony the others would return, of course, to St. Gaved, and the Captain and his bride would wander where they listed.

He turned away from the station, and made his way slowly over the hill in the direction of St. Gaved. The Tregony carriage passed him before he had got very far, but no one noticed him. He kept his head bent low, and did not raise his eyes till the carriage had got a considerable distance.

It was dark long before he reached St. Gaved, and he was so tired that it was a pain to lift his feet from the ground. It was the first time he fully realised how weak he was. He did not feel ill, though people were constantly telling him how ill he looked; but he was conscious that the spring had gone out of him, that the fires of life were burning low.

When he went to bed that night there was an unspoken prayer in his heart that some illness would overtake him from which he would die. That would be a splendid solution of the whole difficulty. A severe illness would quench the passion for life, would dull all the sensibilities, would take the sting out of all earth's disappointments, and ring down the curtain so gently that he would not know when all the lights were turned out.

Perhaps, after all, he would be saved the sin and the shame of taking his own life, and with this thought in his mind he fell asleep.

The next day, however, brought back all the old pain in its acutest form. Once or twice he felt strongly tempted to let Felix Muller bear the brunt of his failure, and trust to the future and the chapter of accidents to enable him to discharge all his liabilities.

Muller was not considering him in any way. Indeed, he had shown himself exceedingly callous. The one thing that concerned him was getting his money back with compound interest. Well, he had got three hundred pounds of it back already. Suppose he kept him waiting for the rest?

But after a moment's reflection he would shake his head. "I should never be able to pay him back," he would say to himself. "Seven hundred pounds to a working man is an impossible sum. I should not be able to pay him interest at four per cent out of my earnings. Besides, what would he think? and it might mean bankruptcy and disgrace to him."

But the thought of what he would think was the principal crux. How contemptuous he would be. With what scorn he would regard him. How bitter and venomous would be his taunts, with what biting sarcasm he would refer to his courage and chivalry, with what lofty disdain he would speak of his honour and his regard for the truth.

Rufus would feel himself growing hot all over with shame. Shame that he let such a temptation have foothold for a single moment. Had he not pledged his word of honour, and was not that enough? Did it not outweigh every other consideration? If he departed from his word of honour he would never be able to hold up his head again, however long he might live, and were a few shadowed years worth purchasing at so great a price?

So he debated the question now from one side and now from another, and still the days passed on, and he saw no escape from the doom he had prepared for himself.

Sometimes he woke in the night with a start, and with the cry upon his lips, "How can I do this great evil, and sin against God?" and for awhile the thought of his responsibility to a supreme Being would outweigh every other consideration. His pledged word, the thin veneer of honour which took no account of honesty, the anger and contempt of Muller, the irrevocable loss of reputation – would all seem as of no account in comparison with the anger of an offended God.

That he should grow pale, and thin, and hollow-eyed was inevitable. The constant nervous strain was exhausting the springs of life. The unresting activity of his brain was consuming his physical energies as with a fire. He was as free from disease as any child in St. Gaved, but he was unwittingly making himself an easy prey to any malady that might be prowling about.

Meanwhile St. Gaved was considerably exercised in its mind over the non-appearance of the Captain – as people still called him – and Miss Grover. Mrs. Tuke, who claimed to be on terms of great intimacy with Madeline, and who was prepared to champion her under any and every circumstance, was almost indignant that no reliable information could be extracted from any source.

The servants from the Hall came into the village as usual, and certain young men from St. Gaved, it was said, found their way occasionally into the Hall kitchen – though that was a point on which authentic information was difficult to obtain. But neither from the servants, nor from the young men in question, nor from the police, could anything be gathered as to the doings or the whereabouts of Gervase Tregony and Madeline Grover.

Gossip, of course, ran riot, and rumour changed its headlines every day, but the true state of affairs remained as much a mystery as ever. Rufus found himself as much interested in the floating gossip as Mrs. Tuke herself, and as eager to listen to the latest canard.

"It is said they ain't married at all," Mrs. Tuke remarked one evening, as she laid his supper on the table.

"But nobody knows," Rufus said, wearily, looking up from his book.

"Well, not for certain. But if they was married, don't you think as how it would have leaked out somehow?"

"They may have been married quietly without a dozen people knowing."

"But why should they be married on the sly? Sir Charles seemed mighty proud that the Captain was going to marry her before he turned up."

"Yes, I believe that is so."

"And the young man was that gone on her, that if she'd consented to marry him, he'd never have been able to keep it to himself."

"It might be her wish, and I think he would do almost anything to oblige her."

"No, he couldn't have done it, however much he'd tried. He'd just burst, that he would."

"Then what is your theory, Mrs. Tuke?"

"Well, I don't know that I has any theory. You see, if they ain't married, where are they?"

"Exactly," Rufus said, with a smile; "that is a very pertinent question."

"And if they ain't married, I say they can't be together."

"That sounds probable, certainly."

"And if they ain't together, where's he?"

"Exactly; and where's she?"

"That's the very question I was going to ax myself, but you took the words out of my mouth as it were."

"I'm sorry I forestalled you, Mrs. Tuke, but – "

"Oh, you needn't apologise, Mr. Sterne, not a bit. This is a free country, and anybody is allowed to ax as many questions as he likes. But to come back to the point we was talking about, the question is, where's she, and where's the both of 'em?"

"Sir Charles is still silent on the subject, I presume?"

"As silent as a boiled periwinkle by all accounts. The servants say they haven't heard him mention the Captain's name since he came back."

"Perhaps they have quarrelled."

"Well, my belief is that if the Captain failed to carry off the girl as his bride, Sir Charles would be terrible angry."

"Then you have a theory after all, Mrs. Tuke?"

"Well, no, I don't know that I has. I only puts two and two together, as it were."

"But why should Sir Charles be so anxious that his son should marry this particular young lady? There would seem to be any number of eligible spinsters in the country."

"But millionairesses ain't to be picked up every day, and I reckon the Captain ain't anything of his own to live upon, except what his father allows him; and Sir Charles, they say, is as poor as a church mouse; but that's all nonsense. I should like to have a quarter of what he's got to live on."

"But you haven't his expenses, Mrs. Tuke."

"And he needn't have 'em unless he liked. Think of their wintering abroad; it must have cost 'em a heap of money."

"No doubt. But what about the 'millionairess'?"

"Oh, well, it's this way. Squire Vivian's butler told long Joseph – that's Sir Charles's butler, you know – and he told the housekeeper, and she told Sarah Jelks – who is housemaid at the Hall – and she told Siah Small – who pretends to be courting her – and he told Dick Beswarick, and he told his wife Susan, and she told me, that he heard the family talking about it one day at dinner – ."

"Who heard the family – ?"

"Squire Vivian's butler, of course."

"Yes, go on."

"Well, he heard them saying that it would be the best day's work the Captain ever did if he got married, as the girl had no end of dollars."

"How did they know?"

"Very likely Sir Charles told them. Those big folks may be as close as oysters to the poor, but they talk to each other."

"Well, Mrs. Tuke, and what is the inference you draw from all this?"

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

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

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

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

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

"You think that is likely?"

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

"Well, and what next?"

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

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

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

"There might be."

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

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

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

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

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

"Meanwhile, what has become of Miss Grover?"

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXIX

GETTING AT THE TRUTH

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes? What did he say?"

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

"Me, Micah?"

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

"I'm sure you would, Micah."

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

"And what did the other say?"

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

"Did he, really?"

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

"Do you wonder, Micah?"

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

"What a shame!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I want to ask you a question."

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

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

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

Madeline quickly followed the first blow with a second.

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