A Gamble with Life

Rufus Sterne heard the story from Mrs. Tuke with apparent unconcern. He argued quite naturally that it was a matter of supreme indifference to him whether she went to America or remained in England. His life – by fair means or by foul – was drawing to its inevitable close. There was some sense of satisfaction in the thought that she was not Gervase Tregony's wife. She deserved a better fate than that. He hoped she had discovered his true character and that among her own people in her own country she would find all the happiness she deserved; and with these reflections he tried to put her out of his mind.

His thoughts in the main were intent upon the tragedy that was daily drawing nearer. His daily hope and prayer was that God would release him from the burden of life, and so save him from the guilt and shame of dying by his own hand.

Failing this, he had no doubt as to how the final act would be brought about. Much as he shrank from the disgrace of dying in the manner contemplated, he shrank more from the disgrace of living, should his courage fail him. To face his ruined friend, his broken pledge, his tarnished honour, would be death repeated every day, and every hour of the day.

He was not a little surprised to find, as the days and weeks passed swiftly away, how without effort and without volition his mind fastened itself upon the dominant truths of Christianity. He gave up reading. He still absented himself from church and chapel. But bit by bit the rags of his materialistic philosophy dropped from him, while the simple truths of the gospel possessed him and obsessed him, until he felt that only here was life in any true sense to be found.

The philosophisings and hair-splittings of theologians did not concern him. The elaborate edifices built up by the creed-makers possessed for him no interest at all. But the warm sympathy of the Son of Man, the tender influence of the universal Spirit, the growing consciousness of a supreme Ruler, the clearing vision of a life beyond – these things seemed as parts of his being, the stuff out of which his life was woven.

He wondered now that his youthful revolt from the narrow creed of his grandfather should have carried him so far; wondered that he had not earlier seen that human creeds must of necessity be ever too narrow to represent the Divine idea; wondered that he had not seen the obvious truth that ecclesiasticism may bear but a faint resemblance to Christianity, and that "the Church," so called, may form but a very small portion of the Kingdom of God.

But it was all clear enough to him now. He had cast away what he fancied was only husk, not knowing that the kernel of truth was within. He had tried to wrap his naked spirit in something thinner than a shadow, had sought to choke the soul's deepest instinct in the quagmire of a Godless philosophy, and had prated about happiness, while steeping his senses in the fumes of a deadly narcotic.

What lay beyond he did not know. But he had a fancy that the great universal Heart of Love would give him a chance under better conditions, and that at worst it would be better than the awful torture of the last few months. He was not afraid, and he was becoming again so terribly weary that the thought of rest was infinitely sweet. There was very little he had to give up. No home ties bound him to earth, no arms of wife or children hung about his neck. His ambitions had been nipped by the frosts of disappointment, and were now dead. His love for Madeline Grover – which had been the strongest and purest passion of his life – was hopeless from the first.

It was only existence amid familiar surroundings that he had to part with – only existence! And yet how much that meant to him, even in the darkest hours, no words could tell. The passion for life nothing could kill, and that seemed to him one of the strong arguments in proof of immortality.

One afternoon, in his little office, he fell down in a dead faint, and remained unconscious for several hours. The long summer day was fading into twilight when he opened his eyes, and saw the familiar face of Dr. Pendarvis bending over him.

"Have I been ill?" he asked, looking round the room with wondering eyes.

"You've had a slight heat stroke, I think, but you needn't be alarmed."

"I'm not in the least alarmed," he said, with a pathetic smile; "but I hate giving Mrs. Tuke so much trouble."

"You've been overworking yourself rather. I've seen it for months past. When you are a little recovered, I'll give you a complete overhauling," and he smiled cheerfully.

"Then you think I shall recover?"

"Of course you will recover. But, meanwhile, keep quite still, and don't worry."

Rufus hoped for a day or two that his illness would take a fatal turn. He wanted so much to die quietly at home in bed; it would be such a perfect solution of the whole difficulty. But it was not to be.

In a few days he was up and about again. "You want toning up," the doctor said to him. "There is really nothing the matter with you except that you are run down. Take more exercise, get a sea bath two or three times a week, and be careful what you eat."

Rufus told Mrs. Tuke and Captain Tom Hendy what the doctor had prescribed, and proceeded at once to carry out his orders. But no one knew the thought that was in his mind. Some day he would not return from his short swim in the sea, and then he would be at rest. It would be very easy, and almost as natural as dying at home in bed.

The weather was brilliantly fine. The yellow corn was falling before the sickle in all directions, the sea danced and shimmered in the sunshine, the flowers drooped in the windless heat. To all appearances Rufus was recovering his health and spirits. He told Mrs. Tuke that he enjoyed his morning bath. His appetite seemed better than it had been for weeks past, and once or twice she heard him humming a hymn tune after he had gone upstairs to bed.

"I'm glad I stood by him," Mrs. Tuke reflected, with a smile of self-satisfaction, "for I believe he is coming back to the fold again."

One evening Rufus sat up very late. He had gone through his papers again to see that everything was in order, and now he sat staring at the clock on the mantelpiece, and listening to its solemn and regular tick.

"To-morrow will be just as good as next week," he said to himself. "As it must come, better it should come quickly. I could have done it this morning easily enough, and I don't think it will be at all painful. So let it be then," he added, rising to his feet. "The next time I go into the sea I do not return," and he put the lights out, and climbed slowly and silently to his bedroom.

Before undressing he knelt down and prayed. He asked for strength and pardon, and a just and merciful judgment.

He felt like a child when he rose from his knees, and a few minutes after he laid his head on the pillow he was fast asleep.

CHAPTER XXXIII

WAS IT PROVIDENCE?

When Rufus awoke next morning, the wind was blowing half a gale, and the rain was coming down in torrents.

"This puts an end to my morning bath," he said to himself, with a faint sigh. "I can have no excuse for going into the sea on a day like this," and he sighed again.

He was not quite sure that he welcomed the respite.

"Since it must be," he kept saying to himself, "the sooner the better."

Mrs. Tuke greeted him with a sorrowful face. "What a pity the weather's broke before all the harvest is got in," she said.

"It does seem a pity," he answered, quietly.

"The ways of Providence is past finding out," she replied; "though no doubt it's for some good end."

"Do you really think that Providence regulates the weather, Mrs. Tuke?" he questioned, with a smile.

"Why, of course I do," she answered, in a tone of reproach. "Providence over-rules everything, and not a sparrow falls to the ground without the notice of His eye," and she walked out of the room without waiting for him to answer.

Mrs. Tuke's theology was a puzzle to him still, but all the time he sat at breakfast the word "Providence" kept echoing through the chambers of his brain. What was Providence? How far did God interfere with the operation of His own laws? Did He sometimes reach out a controlling hand? Did He cause events to work together for a special end?

That day at the mine seemed one of the longest he had known. The wind moaned through every crevice of door and window, the rain came down unceasingly.

Evening came, but there was no chance of a swim in the sea. He would have to wait until the morrow or the day following. Whatever he did, he would have to avoid awaking suspicion.

Several times during the night he awoke and listened. The wind was still swishing through the trees, and the patter of rain could be distinctly heard against the window.

"If Mrs. Tuke knew," he said to himself, "she would say Providence was interposing to prevent me putting an end to my useless life."

He lay in bed an hour longer than he would have done had the weather been fine. "It is of no use getting up till breakfast-time," he reflected.

He heard the postman's rat-tat-tat while he was dressing, and wondered if there were any letters for him.

He came slowly and listlessly down the stairs. Another day of weariness and mental distress stretched out before him. "I am only prolonging the agony," he said to himself, as he took his lonely seat at the head of the table.

Then his eye rested on a large envelope by the side of his place, with a blue stamp in the corner.

He was alert in a moment. "An American letter," he said, half aloud, and his thoughts flew off to Madeline Grover unconsciously. The address, however, was in a man's handwriting – there could be no doubt about that.

He tore open the envelope quickly and mechanically, and turned to the signature at the end of the letter. "Seaward and Graythorne," he read, and a look of perplexity came into his eyes.

He opened out the letter, and an enclosure fluttered on to his plate. He picked it up and stared.

"There must be some mistake," he said with a gasp, and he drew his hand across his eyes as though to remove some dimness that had gathered. Yet, there was his own name clear and distinct enough. "Pay to the order of Mr. Rufus Sterne the sum of five thousand dollars."

"Five thousand dollars," he muttered. "Why, that is a thousand pounds – a thousand pounds. I must be dreaming surely."

He turned to the letter at length, and began to read. Slowly, as he waded his way through the legal jargon, the truth began to dawn upon him. It had to do with the property his father had accumulated. Some Judge Cowley, of the Supreme Court of somewhere, had authorised a distribution, and the enclosed was the sum paid on account.

That was about all he could make out. But why a firm of solicitors in New York should be acting in a case of disputed property somewhere out in Pennsylvania, was a problem he could not understand.

He was in no mood, however, to worry himself over legal subtleties. The great outstanding fact – the fact that dominated all others – was that he was in possession of a thousand pounds.

The revulsion of feeling was so great that for a moment or two it seemed to unman him. The cords that had been strung up so long to the very highest point of tension were suddenly relaxed. The hard stoicism with which he had fortified himself, melted like wax in the flame of a candle. The dull numbness of despair, which was rendering him indifferent to life, vanished like mist before the summer sun. The joy of hope, the dream of love, the fire of ambition, were all kindled afresh as by an electric spark. The wailing wind, instead of sobbing began to sing. The moaning ocean commenced to laugh and rejoice. The rain-drops were tears of joy that Nature shed. Light and love, and beauty and delight were everywhere. His breakfast remained untouched. He was quite unconscious of the fact until Mrs. Tuke came into the room.

"Why, you haven't tasted your breakfast," she said, lifting her eyes and hands in astonishment.

"Haven't I?" he said, with a smile.

"And your bacon is quite cold."

"I forgot all about it, Mrs. Tuke."

"And your tea is like ditch-water."

"I'm very sorry."

"It's like throwing money away."

"Oh, never mind."

"But I do mind, I hate wastefulness, especially in young people."

"Well, forgive me this time. I've had a surprise."

"Oh, indeed! A pleasant surprise, I hope. You've had enough of the other sort."

"A very pleasant surprise. Now, brew me a fresh pot of tea and warm up the bacon. I really feel as if I had got an appetite."

"Well, it's time you had. You've been wasting to a shadow the last six months," and Mrs. Tuke hurried out of the room.

Rufus laughed aloud when she was gone. He felt he would either have to laugh or cry. "If only granny were here I should hug her," he said to himself. "I feel so buoyant that I could almost hug Mrs. Tuke."

The wind was still blowing strong from the west as he made his way over the hill to the mine, but its voice was like a song in his ears. The rain had ceased, though the sky was still dark with clouds; but all the landscape seemed flooded with golden sunshine. His nerves were tingling with a new joy, his eyes sparkling with an unwonted fire. He was glad to be alive again, glad to feel the wind of heaven upon his face.

How wearily he had dragged his steps over the hill morning by morning; how dull and continuous had been the pain at his heart! Now all sense of weariness was gone; he seemed to tread on air; his heart was light and buoyant, and all the pain had passed away.

He paused a moment where he paused a year before to look at a patch of green lawn that sloped away from Trewinion Hall. A vision of Madeline Grover came back to him for a second and vanished.

"If it be God's will," he said to himself, reverently, and with a smile upon his face he continued his way.

During the dinner hour he lodged the precious draft in the bank, and then hurried back to the mine again. In a day or two he got word that the draft was quite in order, and had been duly honoured. With that message vanished his last fear, for he had dreamed the previous night that the whole thing was a hoax and the draft not worth the paper on which it was printed.

His first act was to pay back Felix Muller what he owed him with interest. This he did by cheque.

"I cannot see him," he said to himself. "He would pour ridicule on my beliefs, and laugh my new-found faith to scorn. Moreover, I am not sure that he will be grateful, and I would not like my faith in him to be totally destroyed."

Saturday, being half-holiday, he made his way to Tregannon, to see his grandparents and tell them the news. The old folks were greatly excited, and the Rev. Reuben hunted up all the papers and correspondence dealing with his son's property. The names of Seaward and Graythorne did not appear, however, in any of the documents; nor was the name of Judge Cowley ever mentioned.

"I do not understand it at all," the old man said in his most solemn tones. "But then what can you expect in a new country like America? Everything appears to be haphazard and go-as-you-like."

"Haphazard or no," Rufus replied, "the property has not been all eaten up by the lawyers."

"Well, yes," the old gentleman said, reflectively, "there would appear after all, to be some sense of honesty and justice in the country. But why don't you take a journey across and look after things for yourself?"

Rufus gave a little start, and looked at his grandfather with a questioning light in his eyes.

"I mean it," the old man said, quietly. "If I were a few years younger nothing would please me better."

"It had never occurred to me," Rufus replied, slowly and thoughtfully.

"Then think about it. You can travel cheaply in these days; besides, you may be able to pick up ideas."

"Yes, that is true," he answered, reflectively. "At any rate it is worth considering."

For the rest of the evening Rufus thought of little else. Conversation ranged over a dozen topics, but he heard scarcely half of what was said. Constantly his thoughts harked back to his grandfather's suggestion, and his eyes caught a far-away expression.

"I think you are tired," his granny said to him at length, and she looked at him with a quizzical smile on her wrinkled face.

"I am a little."

"Will you remain while we have prayers?" she questioned, hesitatingly.

"Yes granny. I would like to hear grandfather pray again."

They both started, and looked at him and then at each other, but neither made any remark.

The chapter the old man read was a long one, and the prayer was longer still, but Rufus showed no sign of weariness. In fact, the little granny's quick ears fancied they heard a whispered "Amen" when the prayer ended.

Rufus rose slowly from his knees with a serene look upon his handsome face.

"My dear boy, we have never ceased praying for you," his granny said, placing her thin hands upon his strong shoulders and looking up into his face.

"I hope you will continue to pray for me," he answered, quietly. "I shall need all your prayers."

"Rufus?" the old man said, in a questioning tone, and he turned suddenly and looked into his grandson's eyes.

Rufus felt that, having said so much, he was bound to say more.

"No, grandfather," he answered, quietly; "you must not claim me as a returning prodigal. Your creed is as far beyond me as ever. But – I think – I think I have found the Christ."

Instantly the old man's arms were about his neck, and, raising his face, he laughed aloud.

"It is enough," he said, exultantly. "It is enough! To God be all the praise."

The ice being broken, conversation flowed in a deeper channel, and when the Rev. Reuben laid his head upon his pillow that night, it was with a kindlier feeling in his heart for those who doubted, and with a larger charity for those who preached a broader creed.

"It is very strange," he mused, "that my preaching should have driven the lad to doubt, while the preaching of my successor should have helped him back to faith."

On the following morning Rufus went with the old people to chapel. The place seemed very cool and restful after the glare of the sunshine outside, and while the familiar hymns were being sung he felt like a boy again.

Marshall Brook took for his text: "Are ye not better than many sparrows?" It was a quiet, thoughtful, searching sermon, without dogmatism and with no trace of declamation. The care of the Great Father for His children, the doctrine of a Divine Providence, was unfolded carefully, lucidly, reasonably. There was no attempt to ignore difficulties or to give scientific objections the go-by. Providence was not in conflict with the operations of nature. Providence worked on parallel lines. The universal Spirit was ever moving upon the hearts of men, suggesting, inspiring, renewing.

"I am hungry and in need," said the preacher, "and someone is moved to bring me help. Why did he think of me at all? Who put the impulse into his heart? Ordinarily, it may be, he is not a generous man; yet he trampled down his selfishness, and came to my succour when I needed it most.

"Was it a miracle? Not in the ordinary sense, and yet in truth it was a miracle. To me it was the interposition of God's Providence. God saw my need and sent His help."

Rufus did not hear the end of the sermon. He was thinking of his own case. Help came to him when he needed it most. He had prayed for death, prayed that he might be saved from an act which was unworthy of any true man. And in the very nick of time salvation came. Was it a mere accident, a stroke of luck, a fortunate turn in the wheel of chance? Or was it Providence, an impulse or an inspiration from the all-pervading Spirit?

His faith was but a tender plant as yet, and it would need much watchfulness and care if it was to grow.

He was brought back from his reflections by the announcement of Cowper's well-known hymn:

God moves in a mysterious wayHis wonders to perform;He plants His footsteps in the seaAnd rides upon the storm.

Rufus stood up with the rest and tried to sing, but a lump rose in his throat constantly and threatened to choke him. It seemed as if every line met his case and expressed some experience of his own:

Blind unbelief is sure to err,And scan His work in vain:God is His own interpreter,And He will make it plain.

The congregation sang on with deep feeling and emotion. Most of them had known trouble. Many had experienced the joy of deliverance. And the tune was one that seemed exactly to suit the words:

His purposes will ripen fast,Unfolding every hour.The bud may have a bitter taste,But sweet will be the flower.

How wonderfully true and apposite it all was! More than once he swept his hand across his eyes to remove the mist that had gathered. Surely God had led him to that little chapel that morning. He knelt with the rest when the benediction was pronounced, and breathed an audible "Amen" at the close.

Marshall Brook walked home with him and remained to dinner and to afternoon tea. But they did not spend the time in discussing knotty theological problems; their talk ran on the strange happenings and experiences of life.

After the evening's service Rufus walked all the way back to St. Gaved, so that he might be in time for his work on the following morning. The way did not seem a bit long. He had so much to think about, so much to dream about, so much to be grateful for and to rejoice in, that the old church tower loomed into sight before he knew he had covered half the distance.

He astonished Captain Tom next morning by throwing up his post.

"You really don't mean it?" was the incredulous reply.

"I do. I am going to America, and the sooner you can let me off the better I shall be pleased." And he told Captain Tom some of the things that had happened.

"You are in the right of it, sonny," was the reply. "Yes, you are in the right," and he laughed, good-humouredly. "And, mark my words, we shall see some time what we shall see."

"No doubt about that," Rufus answered, with a smile.

"I'm glad you think so. Yes, some time we shall see what we shall see," and he laughed again. "But," – and he took off his hat and scratched his head, "my stars! but won't it be just – Well, well, we'll wait and see. You have my best wishes, sonny, and my blessing."

On the following Saturday but one, Rufus sailed for New York.

CHAPTER XXXIV

DISCOVERIES

On reaching New York Rufus made his way at once to the office of Messrs. Seaward and Graythorne. He discovered that Mr. Seaward had been dead a dozen years and that Mr. Graythorne was a man well advanced in life.

Mr. Graythorne received him without enthusiasm, and with some slight evidence of embarrassment, and during the time they talked he appeared to be preoccupied and more or less distraught.

Rufus wondered if this was some new type of American that he had not heard of, or whether it was merely professional dignity. He had to drag everything out of him, and what he did say appeared to be capable of divers interpretations.

Rufus wanted facts about his father's property – why the litigation had continued so long, what was the nature of the claims that had to be considered, in what court or courts the litigants were heard, and on what principle the distribution of funds had been made.

But to none of these questions could he get an intelligible answer. Mr. Graythorne talked vaguely and ponderously. He enlarged on American law in general, pointed out how different methods obtained in different States, showed how the interests of clients were safeguarded by the judges of the supreme courts, and how the wastefulness of English Chancery cases was avoided by the simpler American methods.

But all this failed to touch the real point at issue. Rufus became pertinacious, and Mr. Graythorne somewhat restive.

In the end the lawyer had to admit that he knew little about the matter. It was a very old case, and his partner, Mr. Seaward, had been dead a dozen years. A hint was given that Mr. Seaward had the case in hand at the beginning, but at present the case was entirely in the hands of the judge. The claims were disposed of as they rose; in time they would all be disposed of. He (Mr. Graythorne) had been commissioned to forward five thousand dollars, which he had done. If he received any similar commission he would execute it with the greatest pleasure.