George Manville Fenn (continued 7)

Volume Three—Chapter Six.

Two Meetings.

After a long stay within the walls of the Fort, Claude had yielded to her cousin’s importunity, and gone out.

She felt the truth of the French saying before she had gone a hundred yards from her gates. It was only the first step that cost, for, as she passed along the little row of houses facing the harbour, there was a smile from one, a look of glad recognition from another, and several of the rough fishermen who were hanging about waiting for signs of fish doffed their hats with a hearty “How do, miss?”

A thrill of pleasure ran through her, and a feeling of awakening as from a time of sloth, as she realised that life could not be passed as a time for mourning.

She turned to speak to Mary, after another or two of these friendly salutations to the lady of the Fort, and was met by a smile and a nod.

“There, I told you so, Claudie. It was quite time you came out. It was a duty.”

Claude felt her cheeks burn slightly as she noted the direction in which they were going, but she kept on, feeling truly that she would have felt the same whichever direction they had taken.

It was a glorious evening, with the sun turning the whole of the western sky to orange and gold; and, as she breathed in the soft elastic air, watched the brilliant shimmer of colour as of liquid flames at sea, she listened to the murmurs of the ripple among the boulders, where the little river ran swiftly down from the glen, and the twitter of the birds in birch and fir. The joyous sensation that filled her breast was painful, even to drawing tears.

It was to her like the first walk after a long illness, when there is a feeling akin to ecstasy, and life seems never to have been so beautiful before. She could not speak, but wandered on beside her cousin—over the bridge, where they paused to gaze down at the golden-amber water, sparkling and foaming on its way to the sea. Ever onward and up the glen, but not far before the sound of a large pebble, kicked by a heavy boot out into the rippling water, where it fell with a splash, told them that they were not alone, and the next minute Chris had overtaken them and held out his hand.

There was a look almost of reproach in Claude’s eyes, as, with quivering lip, she laid her hand in his, and yielded it, as he gently and reverently carried it to his lips.

“I have not been to you; I have not written,” he said, in a deep voice. “I felt that it was a duty to respect your sorrow. I have felt for you none the less deeply.”

She stood looking gravely in his eyes, and he went on—

“Under the painful circumstances, I could not come to you; I was driven from your side. But Claude, dearest,” he continued, with the passion within him making his words vibrate, as it were, in her breast, and her heart flutter as it had never beaten before. “I love you more clearly than ever; and listen, darling—I would not say it, but cruel words have been spoken about my mercenary thoughts.”

“Don’t, don’t,” she murmured.

“But one word—for your sake.”

“No, no,” she cried piteously.

“Then for mine,” he pleaded.

“What do you wish to say?”

“Then I am no longer the poor beggar I was called.”

“Chris!”

“But comparatively rich, love. I only said that so that those who would see evil in my acts may meet something to act as a shield to cast off these malicious darts. No, no, don’t withdraw your hand, dearest. I know how you have suffered. I have suffered too—sorrow for you—bitter jealousy of that man.”

“Chris,” she whispered, with a look of appeal, “for pity’s sake! I am weak and ill—I cannot bear it.”

“Forgive me,” he cried; “what a selfish brute I am! There, I hold your dear hand once more, and I am satisfied. I will not say another word, only go and wait patiently. My Claude cannot be anything but all that is kind and just to me. I’ll go and wait.”

She stood looking in his eyes, and he clasped her hand, while the soft, ruddy glow which struck right up the glen seemed to bathe them both in its warm light. Her lips moved to speak, but no sound came, though her eyes were full of joy and pride in the brave, manly young fellow whose words had thrilled her to the core.

“If it could have been,” she felt. And then a pang of agony shot through her, and she shuddered.

“How worn and thin you look, darling,” he said tenderly. “My poor, poor girl.”

This seemed to unloose the frozen words within her; the tears gushed from her eyes, and she tried to withdraw her hand, but it was too tightly held.

“Chris,” she said at last, and she clung to his hand as she spoke, “I do not doubt you. I know all you say is the simple truth, but it seems cruel to me now.”

“Cruel! My darling!”

“Hush, pray hush. It would be cruel, too, in me to let you speak like this about what can never, never be.”

“Claude! What are you saying?”

“That I have my poor father’s words still ringing in my ears. He forbade it, and I cannot go in opposition to his washes.”

“Claude!”

“I cannot help it. It is better that the words should be spoken now, and the pain be over. Chris, when we meet again it must be as friends.”

“No,” he cried passionately; “you must meet me as my promised wife.”

“It is impossible,” she said faintly, after a painful pause. “No, Chris, as my friend—brother, if you wish, but that is at an end.”

“But why—no, no; don’t answer me. You are ill and hysterical, dear. You think seriously of words that will grow fainter and of less import as the time goes on. There, come. Let us put all this aside now. I am content that we have met, and you know the truth—that I have spoken, and so plainly, once again.”

“No; you must hear me now,” she said with a sigh, that seemed to be torn from her breast.

“Well, then, speak,” he said, with a smile full of pity.

“Once more,” she said, after a pause; “you must never speak to me again as you have to-night.”

“Why?”

“You know, Chris, my father’s wish.”

“The result of a mistake. Claude, you love me.”

She made an effort once more to free herself, and stood with her eyes fixed upon the ground.

“Claude,” he cried passionately, “you will tell me that.”

“I cannot,” she said firmly.

He let her hand fall from between his, and a curiously heavy look came slowly into his face as the jealous anger within him began to seethe.

“You cast at me your father’s words,” he said hurriedly.

“I am obliged to remind you of his wish.”

“That you should marry this man, this Glyddyr. Claude, you cannot, you dare not tell me this.”

“I do not tell you this,” she said, quickly and excitedly. “No, that is impossible. I could not be his wife: I must not be yours.”

“You are speaking in riddles.”

“Riddles that you can easily read,” she said sadly. “Chris, my life is marked out for me. I have my duties waiting. I cannot, I will not marry a man I do not love, but I will not disobey my poor dead father and listen to you. Good-bye now—I can bear no more. Some day we can meet again patiently and calmly as in the happy old times.”

“Yes,” he said, with the angry feeling passing away, “I shall wait contented, for you will not marry this man—you promise me that?”

“Claude, dear; Claude.”

They had neither of them given Mary a thought, and she had discreetly walked away but to return now quickly, and as they raised their eyes it was to see her close at hand, and some fifty yards away Parry Glyddyr advancing fast.

Claude saw that Glyddyr looked white and strange, but it was the rage in Chris Lisle’s eyes which startled her, as Glyddyr strode up, with extended hand, ignoring the presence of her companion.

“Claude, don’t leave them alone, as there’ll be trouble,” whispered Mary, and her cousin’s words seemed to cast a lurid light upon the situation.

She did not give Glyddyr her hand, but turned to Chris and said gently—

“Good-bye. It will be better that we should not meet again—not yet.”

He took the hand gravely, let his own close over it in a firm, warm clasp, and released it silently.

“Mary.”

Claude turned to go, and her cousin went to her side white as ashes. Glyddyr stood looking from one to the other, as if hesitating what to do.

“Claude, do you hear me,” whispered Mary.

“Mr Glyddyr, are you going this way?” said Claude in a low deep voice.

“Yes, of course,” he cried, with his face lighting up, and darting a look of triumph at his rival, who stood motionless, with one hand resting upon his rod as though it were a spear, he went on down the glen by Claude’s side.

“Mr Lisle—Chris—do you not hear? Good-bye.”

Chris started back as it were into life, and saw that Mary had run back and laid her hand in his.

“Ah, little woman,” he said, with a gentle, pitying tone in his voice, “I was thinking, I suppose. Good-bye, Mary, and don’t fall in love, dear; it’s a mistake.”

“Chris,” she cried, with the tears in her beautiful eyes, as she gazed at the broad-shouldered sturdy fellow, “why do you talk like that?”

“Why do I talk like that?” he said bitterly. “Because I am a weak fool, I suppose. Look there.”

He pointed down the glen.

“Chris!”

“There, run after them, and play propriety, little lady,” he said bitterly. “Or no—they do not miss you; better stop behind, or shall I see you home?”

“Chris, dear Chris,” she whispered.

“Don’t talk to me,” he cried. “I’m half mad. Good-bye, Mary, good-bye.”

He turned sharply and hurried away up the glen, and as Mary watched, she heard his reel begin to sing as he walked on down by the stream, making casts blindly among the boulders.

“Poor fellow,” she said, as she turned and walked swiftly away. “I wish I had not said a word.”

She gave one more glance back and hurried after the retreating pair. Had she looked long enough she would have seen Chris Lisle stride into the first clump of trees and throw himself down with his face buried in his arms, and there he was lying still long after darkness had come on, and the stars were peering down and glistening in the rushing stream.

Volume Three—Chapter Seven.

Glyddyr Endorses a Note.

“There, I’m off back to London town to keep a certain party quiet. You are going on all right here. You are bound to win, but don’t be rash—play her very carefully.”

Glyddyr nodded.

“And now take my advice; go and see a doctor—that man—what’s his name? Get him to set you up, dear boy. There: good-bye. Bless you, my son. It’s perhaps a million. Don’t play with it.”

“Haven’t got it to play with.”

“No; but you will have it by-and-by. There: once more, good-bye. Be gentle with her. Go early in the day, and promise me you’ll call at the doctor’s.”

“Yes, I promise,” said Glyddyr; and he stood watching Gellow, as he was rowed ashore, cursing him bitterly the while, but confessing in his own mind that he was right.

“Yes, I’ll go and see Asher,” he muttered. “He’ll set me up. I must go on with it. I’ll be a good husband to her. It’ll be like doing penance for the past—ugh!”

He shuddered and looked ghastly.

“It’s being low makes me think of it so much,” he continued. “Yes; as soon as the boat gets back I’ll go and see Asher.”

Vacillating to a degree, he was firm in this, and stepped into the boat as soon as it reached the yacht, ordering the men to put him ashore, and this done, the men watching him as he walked sharply away, clinging to the hope that a strong tonic would calm his feelings and give him strength to go on with his plans, and trusting to time to dull the agony of his thoughts.

“Seems horrible to go on,” he said. “But it will be like penance; and, poor old boy, he did wish it.” Then aloud—“Doctor Asher at home?”

He was shown into the doctor’s consulting-room to be warmly received.

“Yes, of course,” said the doctor. “I don’t wonder you are a bit run down. I’ll soon set you right.”

Then after a short examination, and a little professional business.

“Wonder whether he knows what’s really the matter with me;” thought Glyddyr.

“Wonder whether he thinks me such a fool as not to know that he is saturated with brandy?” said the doctor to himself, as he composed a draught, while Glyddyr took up a card box from the chimney-piece, opened it mechanically, and then, as the doctor raised his hand to the shelf where the chloral bottle stood, the box slipped through Glyddyr’s fingers, fell on the edge of the fender, burst open, and the cards were scattered over the rug, and beneath the fireplace.

“I beg your pardon.”

“Oh, never mind! Don’t stop to pick them up.”

Glyddyr paid no heed, but nervously collected the pack together, rose with them in his hands, and then, watching the doctor as he wrote out the directions on a label, involuntarily, and as if naturally from feeling the cards in his hands, began to shuffle them slowly.

The doctor smiled.

“You play a bit, I see.”

“Oh! yes, of course,” said Glyddyr, hastily setting down the pack. “Confoundedly stupid of me to drop them.”

“Nonsense! Very unprofessional to have them here, eh?”

“You play, then?” said Glyddyr, repeating the doctor’s query.

“Not often. No one to play with. A game now and then would do you good.”

“Yes, yes,” said Glyddyr, eagerly. “Come on board. I’m very dull there.”

“Most happy if you’ll have a game here sometimes.”

Glyddyr accepted the proposal so readily that in a few minutes they were seated together at piquet, and when the patient rose he was ten pounds in the doctor’s debt.

“I shall have to give you my IOU, doctor,” said Glyddyr, “I have no cash down here.”

“All right, my dear sir,” said the doctor, smilingly; and Glyddyr wrote the indebtedness upon half a sheet of notepaper, to go away feeling better for his visit, and after the doctor had promised to go on board the yacht that night and give him his revenge.

This was given, Glyddyr managing to win twenty pounds, and receiving back his IOU and a ten-pound note.

“You London gentlemen are too clever for me,” said the doctor, laughingly. “But never mind; I shall have to win that back.”

“Mustn’t win much off him if I’m to take his medicine,” said Glyddyr to himself. “Might give me too strong a dose. Ugh! What a fool I am to think such things as that.”

“I believe he’s half a sharper,” said the doctor to himself as he was rowed ashore. “But never mind; let him marry her. He will be another patient to the good, and I dare say I can manage him, clever as he is.”

The next day Glyddyr called at the Fort, and found Claude at home. She received him with Mary by her side, and the triumphant feelings that filled his breast after the last encounter with Chris slowly filtered away.

He was not himself he knew, feeling nothing like so strong and well, through having gone to bed the previous night perfectly sober, and refraining that morning from taking what he called a peg to string himself up, for fear that the odour should accompany him on his visit.

He told himself that he never showed to worse advantage, for he was troubled all through the visit by a horrible sensation of nervous dread, starting at every sound, and hurriedly bringing his visit to a close.

On the other hand, Claude thought she had never liked her visitor so well.

“He seemed so full of respectful deference,” she said.

“Yes,” said downright Mary, “but I wish he would take a dislike to the place. I’m sick of seeing his yacht moored in the harbour. It’s beginning to blow. I wish the wind would blow it right away.”

But Glyddyr had not the least intention of going. In spite of his hurried ending to his visit, he came away feeling better.

“It’s natural that I should feel uncomfortable there, but it will soon wear off, and it’s plain enough to see that I am gradually becoming welcome. Gellow’s right,” he said, recalling one of their conversations. “Patience is the thing.

“I’m all right. Wish I could feel like this when I am there.”

“Good-morning.”

“Ah, doctor.”

“Why it’s ‘ah, patient.’ You’re better, Glyddyr, decidedly. You must keep on with that tonic.”

“Yes, ever so much better,” said Glyddyr, who was flushed with hope. “Come on board and dine with me.”

“Thanks, no. I’m not such a very bad sailor, but not good enough to enjoy my dinner with the table dancing up and down. Going to be a gale.”

“Humph! Yes, I suppose it will be a bit rough, even if we shift the moorings. Never mind, come and dine with me at the hotel and we can have a private room, and a hand at cards with our coffee.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said the doctor, hesitating.

“Yes, come,” said Glyddyr eagerly. “I’m dull and hipped. Want a companion. Do me more good than your tonics. At seven.”

“Very well,” said the doctor, “seven be it. Do me good, too, perhaps,” he muttered, as he went away. “Better for him to marry her. Yes, I can turn him round my finger.”

He went home musing deeply, and, punctual to time, joined Glyddyr at the hotel, to find him looking flushed and excited.

“Hallo! That’s not the tonic,” he said.

“Eh! Tonic? No, it’s the weather. Storm always affects me a little. I was obliged to have a pint of champagne to pull me up.”

The doctor laughed as he shook his head, for he saw in the half-wrecked man before him, a life annuity, if the cards were rightly played, and during the dinner he once or twice told himself that his game was to hurry on the engagement between Claude and Glyddyr.

“If he is wise,” the doctor said to himself, “Glyddyr will play the trump card. It would take the trick. Your father’s wish, my dear. Poor old gentleman.”

They parted almost sworn friends, for the real cards had been kindly to both, and neither had lost or won.

“It’s rather rough for going on board to-night,” said the doctor.

“Pish! Not a bit I’m not afraid of a few waves.”

“Well, don’t get drowned.”

“Those who are bound to be hanged will never be drowned,” came into Glyddyr’s head as the doctor departed, and the old saw sent quite a chill through him.

“Confound it. What a coward I am,” he muttered angrily. “I felt so much better all the evening. Here,” he said roughly to the waiter, who had come in accidentally, as waiters do when the guests begin to stir. “My bill.”

That document was quite ready; and after glancing at it, Glyddyr took a bank-note from his pocket-book, and laid it upon the tray.

The waiter bowed, went out, and returned with the note, crossed to a side table where there was a blotting case and inkstand, both of which he brought to where Glyddyr was smoking.

“What’s the matter? Not a bad one, is it?”

“Oh dear no, sir,” said the waiter, with a deprecatory cough, “only master said would you mind putting your name on the back?”

“Damn your master,” cried Glyddyr, snatching the pen and scribbling down his name. “There: you ought to know me by this time.”

“Yes, sir; of course, sir; but we always do that with notes, sir.”

“Get out, and bring me my change.”

“Yes, sir; directly sir.”

“It was your father’s wish, Claude—your father’s latest wish. You will not refuse me. I can wait.”

Glyddyr was muttering this as the waiter brought his change, and the words kept on running in his head as he walked down to the pier, to find his men waiting for him. The words haunted him, too, as he rode over the rough waves in the little harbour.

“Bah!” he thought, as he reached his cabin and threw himself down, flushed and in high spirits now, “it was an accident, and I am a fool to shrink with a prize like that waiting for me. I will go on, and she can’t refuse me if I only have plenty of pluck. I’ve been a bit out of order, and weak. It’s all right now. That cad hasn’t a chance. My wife before six months are gone, and then, Master Gellow, if I don’t send you to the right about I’ll—”

He stopped, for he remembered Denise.

“No,” he muttered uneasily, “one’s obliged to keep a cad to do one’s dirty work, and Gellow can be useful when he likes.”

Volume Three—Chapter Eight.

Mrs Sarson’s Appeal.

“Sit down, Mr Wimble, and how’s all Danmouth? I was coming over in a day or two perhaps, to stay at the Fort, and if I do, I dare say I shall have to make a call on you.”

“Glad to see you at any time, sir,” said Wimble, looking uneasily at the portly figure of the lawyer as he sat back in his chair, after a long study over Gartram’s papers.

For, in spite of Claude’s decision, that missing sum of money troubled Trevithick.

“It’s a reflection on me, as his business-man,” he said to himself. “Forty thousand in notes gone and nobody knows where. I’ll trace that money. I shall not rest till I do.”

He had some thought, too, that if he did triumphantly trace that missing sum, Claude would be pleased, and Mary Dillon more than satisfied. So he worked on in secret, and he was busy when his clerk announced the Danmouth barber.

“And now, what can I do for you?” said Trevithick.

The barber hesitated, looked round, and then back at the calm, thoughtful man before him.

“You need not be afraid to speak, Mr Wimble,” said Trevithick looking very serious but feeling amused, “no one can hear.”

“Sure, sir?”

“Quite.”

“Because it’s horribly private, sir.”

“Indeed! What is it? Want to borrow a little cash?”

“Me, sir?” cried the barber jumping up indignantly. “No, sir; I’ve got my little bit saved up and safely invested at five per cent.”

“I beg your pardon, and congratulate you. Then what is it?”

Wimble went on tiptoe to the entrance, opened the door, peeped out, and, after closing it, came stealthily back close to the table, upon which he rested his hand, bent forward till his face came within a foot of the lawyer’s, and gazed at him wildly.

“Well, Mr Wimble, what is it?” said Trevithick at last, for his visitor was silent.

“It’s murder, sir,” whispered the barber.

“What?”

“Murder, sir.”

“Well, then, you had better go to the police, man, for that’s not in my way.”

“If you’ll excuse me, sir, it is. You are Mr Gartram’s lawyer, and have to do with his affairs.”

“Good heavens, man, what do you mean?”

“That Mr Gartram was murdered, sir—poisoned, and I’ve got the clue.”

“What?”

“I thought I wouldn’t say a word, sir. That it was too horrible, and that no matter what one did, it wouldn’t bring the poor man back to life; but when I see the murderer going on in his wickedness, spending the money he must have stolen, and pretending he has come in for a fortune, and on the strength of it trying to delude weak widows he lodges with, and carrying on with other ladies too, it is time to speak. The human heart won’t hold such secrets without a busting out.”

The lawyer started at the sound of the word money, for it seemed to strike a chord within his own breast.

“Look here, Mr Wimble,” he said; “do I gather aright that you think that Mr Gartram was murdered?”

“Poisoned, sir.”

“Good heavens! But by whom?”

“One who had sworn to have revenge upon him—one who wanted his money; and who was seen and caught lurking about the Fort, sir, one dark night, waiting for his opportunity, for he knew the place well from a boy.”

“Great heavens, man, whom do you mean?”

“The man who has blighted my life, sir, Mr Christopher Lisle.”

“Rubbish!”

“What, sir?”

“You’re mad.”

“I wish I was, sir, and that I could say to myself you’re fancying all this; I should be a happier man, sir. But I can’t. I’ve fought with it and smothered it down, but it’s one living fire, sir, and it’s kept burning the day through.”

“Mr Christopher Lisle?”

“Yes, sir. Him as was turned away, and heard to say threatening things against poor Mr Gartram.”

“But found on the premises?”

“Yes, sir; the night Mr Gartram died of poison, no matter what the doctors said; and that night the deed was done this bottle of stuff was thrown out of the window down among the rocks and sand.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I found it early next morning,” said Wimble, holding up the bottle; “and I can swear it was not there the day before.”

“Nonsense, nonsense, man! It’s impossible.”

“That’s what I said to myself, sir, but nature argued it out inside me. ‘Here’s Mr Chris Lisle,’ it said, ‘wanted Miss Claude, and her father refused him, and was going to give her to Mr Glyddyr, of the yacht.’ There’s one reason. Mr Chris was thrown over, because he was poor. That’s another reason. Mr Chris is rich now. How did he become rich? Nobody knows. Mr Chris was found in the garden, hiding, on the night Mr Gartram died, and the window was open.—What do you say to that? This bottle, with some poison in it, was found under the window by me.”

“Let me look.”

“No, sir. That bottle’s mine now. I wouldn’t part with it for a hundred pounds.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a curiosity, sir, as thousands would come to see. That bottle killed a man.”

“Let me look. I’ll give it you back.”

“Honour bright, sir?”

“Yes.”

Wimble unrolled the bottle from its cover and handed it to the lawyer, who took and examined it.

“Pish!” he said, looking at the limpid fluid within. “Water.”

“I was told it was chloral, sir.”

“Chloral?” cried Trevithick; “he died of an overdose of chloral.”

“Of course he did, sir,” said the barber triumphantly. “Now, sir, am I mad?”

Trevithick rose, and walked heavily up and down the room, like a small elephant seeking to quit its enclosure, but professional training came to his aid directly, and he reseated himself, looking quite calm.

“This is a terribly serious thing, Mr Wimble,” he said sternly. “You are charging Mr Lisle with murder.”

“Terribly serious thing to take Mr Gartram’s life, sir.”

“If he did, my man—if he did. But it must be all a mistake.”

“I hope it is, sir, indeed.”

“If the police knew of this, it would be awkward for Mr Lisle.”

“Of course it would, sir.”

“But, my good man, you are taking the view that he is guilty. I tell you that it is impossible.”

“I hope it is, sir; but I’ve gone over it in my bed till I’m obliged to believe Mr Lisle did it; and I feel I couldn’t keep the secret any longer.”

“And so you came to me?”

“Yes, sir, as Mr Gartram’s business-man.”

“Dear, dear—dear, dear!” ejaculated Trevithick excitedly, as the man began to overcome the lawyer. “There are the ladies, Wimble. We must be very careful. If this reached their ears it would be horrible.”

“Yes, sir, of course; but the wicked ought to be punished.”

“You don’t like Mr Lisle?” said the lawyer, looking at him searchingly.

“Well, sir, if I must speak out, no: I don’t like Mr Lisle.”

“And so you magnify this suspicion, and seek to do him harm by setting about the story.”

“Steady there, sir, please. I don’t set about a story without good proof. Now, let me ask you, sir, was Mr Gartram the sort of man to go and kill himself with an overdose of that stuff?”

“By accident, man; yes.”

“Not a bit of it, sir. He was too clever. I don’t want to prove Mr Lisle guilty, but there’s the case. He was hanging about the grounds that night.”

“Who saw him?”

“The gardener, sir, Brime. Caught him there after he had been forbidden the place, and he persuaded the man to hold his tongue.”

“Look here, Wimble,” said Trevithick, sternly, “there may be a slight substratum of probability in what you say, but it is most unlikely that this young man can have committed such a crime. Now, then, I’ll tell you what it is your duty to do.”

“Yes, sir,” said Wimble eagerly.

“Go back to Danmouth, and keep your own counsel for the present. You can do that?”

“Hold my tongue, sir? Of course.”

“Don’t mention this to a soul.”

“And hush it up, sir—a murder?”

“Pish! It is no murder. Let the matter rest while I try to make out whether there is anything in what you say.”

“Ah, you’ll find it right, sir. Young men like Mr Chris don’t get rich in a day.”

“Never mind about that. I’ll go into the matter quietly. Recollect that it would be your ruin if it was known that you had, without foundation, made this horrible charge against Mr Lisle.”

“My ruin, sir?”

“Of course. You could not stay in the town afterwards. There, go back and hold your tongue. I’m coming over to Danmouth to-morrow, and after I have carefully weighed all you have said, I will see you again.”

“Come in and see me to-morrow, sir. You can easily do that, sir. Nobody would think it meant anything more than coming in to be shaved.”

“Well, I’ll call; and now, mind this: not a soul in the place must hear a word. It is our secret, Wimble.”

“Yes, sir, I see,” said the barber. “You may trust me. I came straight to you, sir. Oh, I can be as close and secret as grim death, sir, you’ll see.”

“That’s right, my man. And take my advice, don’t think any more of it. I confess that it looks bad, but we shall find out that it is all imagination, and I hope it is, for every one’s sake. Close, Mr Wimble, perfectly close, mind, at all events for the present.”

“Trust me, sir. I’m glad I came to you, and you shall find me close as a box.”

Wimble spoke in all sincerity, and he returned to Danmouth, feeling glad that he had seen the lawyer; but when he spoke he did not realise that there was a key that would open that box.

He had no necessity for going round by Mrs Sarson’s cottage, it was quite out of his way, but it was in the dusk of evening, when love will assert itself even in middle-aged minds.

“All alone there at the mercy of a murderer,” thought Wimble. “I’ll just walk by and see if she is quite safe.”

It was rather a hopeless thing to do, he owned, for there was not likely to be anything in the outside walls to indicate whether the widow was safe or no. All the same, he went round that way to find that all looked right; but as he passed very slowly by, he found that the window of Chris’s room was open, and he stopped short as if spellbound, for a familiar voice said, in tones which indicated that the speaker was shedding tears—

“No, no, my dear; you can’t think how much I think about you.”

The voice ceased as Wimble gave a very decided knock at the door.

Mrs Sarson came to answer it slowly, for she was wiping her eyes after a long, long talk with Chris, whom in a motherly way she had been trying to rouse from the reckless, despondent state into which he had fallen, and tried in vain.

Consequently there was a wet gleam on her cheeks, as, candle in hand, she answered the door.

“You, Mr Wimble!” she said, starting, and feeling a little confused. “So bold of him to come and call,” she thought.

“Yes, Mrs Sarson, I want to speak to you particularly.”

“Not to-night, Mr Wimble. I—I am not quite well.”

“Yes; to-night.”

“But Mr Lisle is at home.”

“Yes, I know,” he said, with a dark look in his eyes; and—fluttered and trembling before the strange, stern manner of her visitor—she drew back, allowed him to enter, closed the door, and led the way to the snug back room—half kitchen, half parlour—and then looked at him wonderingly, her heart fluttering more and more as she saw his wild look, and that he carefully closed the door.

“Goodness me, Mr Wimble, what is the matter?” she said faintly.

“Everything,” he cried, making a snatch at her wrist, and holding it tightly. “Woman, you know how for years I have had hopes.”

“Well, Mr Wimble, you made me think so; but it’s quite impossible, I assure you. Neighbours, but nothing more.”

“Why, woman, why?” he said, in a whisper.

“Because—because I am quite happy and contented as I am, Mr Wimble, with my little bit of an income and my lodger.”

“Yes,” cried Wimble, with a laugh, “that’s it. Ah, woman, woman, that you could throw yourself away upon a creature like that?”

“Mr Wimble, what do you mean?”

“Knowing how I worshipped you, for you to consort with a vile creature, who cheats and abuses your confidence—a villain too bad to be allowed to live—a man whom the law will seize before long.”

“Mr Wimble, are you mad?”

“Yes, madam, with shame and horror, to think what must come when you find out that this serpent who has wound himself about you is a convict, a murderer, who stops at nothing.”

“Mr Wimble, whom do you mean?”

“Mean? who should I mean,” he cried tragically, “but that wretch in yonder room?”

“A murderer!”

“Yes, of the man who drove him from his home. I denounce him as the murderer of poor old Gartram, and—”

There was a wild shriek, and as Chris Lisle rushed into the room to see what was wrong, Wimble remembered his promise to the lawyer; but too late: the box was wide open now.

“Mrs Sarson—Wimble! what is the matter?”

“Oh, Mr Lisle,” cried the widow, sobbing wildly. “Oh, my poor darling, he says you murdered Mr Gartram. Tell him he is mad.”

Sarah Woodham was seated an hour later that night sewing, when she was startled by the sudden entrance of Reuben, the gardener, looking wild-eyed and strange, and she involuntarily rose from her chair, and stood upon the defensive, the other servants being down the town, and her heart telling her that “this foolish man,” as she termed him, was about to renew advances which he had been making before.

“Don’t be frightened,” he said, quickly grasping the meaning of her action; “I wasn’t going to say anything about that now. Have you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“I’ve just come from the harbour, and they’re all talking about it.”

“Yes? What—some wreck?”

“No; about Mr Chris Lisle.”

“What about him—dead?” said Sarah Woodham, in a hoarse whisper, as she laid her hand upon her side and thought of Claude.

“Better if he was, my dear,” said the gardener hoarsely, and in her excitement the woman did not think to resent his familiarity. “They are saying that he murdered master with poison.”

Sarah reeled, and would have fallen, so great was the shock the words gave her, but Brime caught her in his arms.

She recovered herself, and thrust him away.

“Mr Chris Lisle? Impossible.”

“So I thought, but he was skulking about our grounds that night, for I caught him hiding.”

“Oh, it can’t be true. You people are always inventing foolish scandals. What nonsense! Let him rest in his grave in peace.”

She looked so ghastly that even the unobservant gardener noticed it, and made a remark.

“Look white? of course,” she said, with a curious laugh. “Any woman would turn pale on hearing such talk as that. There, go away.”

“You needn’t be cross with me, Sarah Woodham,” said Brime, paying no heed to her last words, and only too glad of an excuse to hold her in conversation. “I knew how you liked Miss Claude, and the news was about her young man, and I thought it better to tell you than go and tell her.”

“What! you would not dare to tell her such a thing.”

“Well, somebody will if I don’t. She’s sure to know.”

“Hush, man! Don’t dare to speak of it again. It is a miserable scandal of some of the tattling gossips, and it will be forgotten, perhaps, to-morrow. There, not another word.”

“But, Sarah, let me talk of something else.”

She went to the door and opened it, pointing out.

“Go,” she said.

Brime sighed deeply, and went away slowly without another word.

“Poor fellow,” said the woman softly, “better for him to jump into the sea than to go on thinking about that.”

She stood for a few moments with her hands to her forehead, as if to dull the excitement from which she was suffering, uttering a low moan from time to time.

“How horrible!” she gasped. “It seems more than I can bear. Poor child, if she was to hear!”

She stood staring before her at last, with her lips moving, and her eyes fixed upon the darkness in the farther corner of the room, as if she saw something there.

“I cannot bear it,” she muttered at last; and hurriedly passing out, she hurried up to her room, and threw herself upon her knees by the bedside.

How long she remained there she did not know. Suddenly she started up, believing that she heard voices below.

“They will have heard it, perhaps,” she said excitedly; and, hurrying out, she found that the two servants who had been out had returned, and were talking quickly.

Sarah Woodham turned cold with apprehension, under the impression that the women were retailing the scandal they had heard to their mistress, and she uttered a sigh of relief as she heard Mary Dillon say quickly—

“And they are talking about it everywhere you say?”

“Yes, miss; and we thought you ought to hear.”

“Hush!—Oh, Woodham, these two have come back with a silly tale that—”

Sarah Woodham laid a thin hand upon her arm.

“That—have you heard? Oh, how horrible! But what absurd nonsense. There, go away, all of you. It is too dreadful to talk about, and you must let it die a natural death.”

“But they say, miss, that the police will take Mr Christopher Lisle, and that he will be hung for murder,” whispered the cook in awe-stricken tones; “and if Miss Claude should hear that—Oh!”

Claude had quietly opened the drawing-room door and stepped out into the hall, coming in search of her cousin, the low whispering without having attracted her attention.

“You heard what I said,” cried Mary, quickly. “Why don’t you go?”

“Stop!” said Claude, in a strangely altered voice.

“No, no, Claude, dear,” said Mary, crossing to her. “It is nothing you need listen to. Only a wretched tattling from down on the beach.”

“I know what they said,” replied Claude, hoarsely. “Sarah Woodham, have you heard this—this dreadful charge?”

The woman did not answer with her lips, but her dark eyes were fixed wildly on those of her mistress.

“Then it is true!”

“Claude, dear; pray come,” whispered Mary, clinging to her; but she was thrust away.

“I will know everything,” she cried, excitedly. “You, Sarah Woodham, speak out, and tell me all the truth.”

“No—no,” whispered the woman, and she stood trembling as if with ague.

“I will know,” said Claude, catching her up by the arm. “I heard what was said—that Mr Lisle was charged with murder. It could not be.”

“No, no, Claude, of course not.”

“Silence, Mary! Speak, woman, or must I go down to the beach and ask there. Tell me. It was a quarrel; they met and fought. Is Mr Glyddyr dead?”

They gazed at her wonderingly—stricken for the moment—the silence being broken by the two servants exclaiming in a breath—

“No, no, miss. It was master they said he killed.”

“What?”

“Come away, Claude,” whispered Mary, who was white and trembling. “It is a horrible invention. There is no truth in it. Come back into the drawing-room, and I’ll tell you quietly, dear, what I have heard.”

“Go on,” said Claude, fixing the two women with her eyes as she held her cousin’s arm and half forced her back. “Tell me everything you have heard.”

Between them, trembling the while before the wild eyes which seemed to force them to speak, the women related confusedly the report they had heard, one which had grown rapidly as is the custom with such news; and out of the tangle, as Sarah Woodham and Mary both strangely moved, stood speechless and silent, Claude learned the charge which had arisen against the man she loved, to the bitter end, struggling the while to make indignant denial of that at which her soul felt to revolt. But no words would come. Her reason, her soul, both cried out aloud within her that this was an utter impossibility, but the rumours mastered them with a terrible array of facts, till she was forced to believe that, stung to madness by the treatment he had received, and hurried on by a lust for gold, Chris, her old playmate and brother as a child, the man at last she had grown to love, had been tempted to commit this deed.

“It is not true—it is not true,” something within her kept on saying as she gazed wildly from one to the other, seeing the gap—the black gap—already existing between her and her lover, widening into an awful, impassable chasm, in which were buried her life’s hopes and happiness for ever.

Volume Three—Chapter Nine.

A Debate.

Glyddyr had undoubtedly gone backward in health with rapid strides since he and the Doctor had last met, not many hours before. His face was of a sickly yellow; there were dark marks under his eyes, and his hands trembled as he weakly arranged the flower in his button-hole, and played with his blue serge yachting cap.

“How terrible!” he murmured at last. “Poor girl! What a shock!”

“Yes; enough to give her brain fever,” said the Doctor, speaking quickly. “The wretched, cackling fools.”

“Terrible! terrible!” muttered Glyddyr. Then, after a pause, as he took a turn up and down the Doctor’s little surgery, as if it were his own cabin, he passed his tongue over his dry lips, and turned quickly to the Doctor, who was watching him curiously. “Here, I say: I’m completely knocked over. For heaven’s sake give me a dose.”

“Yes, of course.”

“No, no, not that cursed stuff,” cried Glyddyr, as he saw the Doctor’s hand raised toward the ammonia bottle. “Brandy—whisky, for goodness’ sake!”

Asher gave him a quick look, then took his key, and, opening a cellaret, poured a goodly dram of brandy into a glass, and placed it on the table.

“There’s water in that bottle,” he said.

Glyddyr made an impatient gesture, and tossed off the raw spirit.

“Hah!” he cried, setting down the glass, “I can talk now. What—what do you think of this report?”

“Oh, all madness, of course,” cried the Doctor hastily.

“Yes—yes—all madness, of course,” said Glyddyr, letting himself sink down in a chair. “All madness, of course. He couldn’t, could he?”

The two men gazed in each other’s eyes, and there was silence for quite a long space.

“But they found that bottle,” continued Glyddyr, as if speaking to himself. “Ugly piece of evidence, isn’t it?”

“Oh, but that proves nothing,” said Asher.

“And he being found in the garden that night, when Gartram was having his after-dinner nap,” continued Glyddyr, looking at the door.

“Yes, looks bad,” said the Doctor, “but all nonsense. Why can’t they let the old man rest?”

“You—you don’t think he poisoned him?” said Glyddyr.

“No, certainly not.”

“It would have been impossible, of course. But they say he is rich now; has plenty of money. How could he come by that?”

“Who can say?”

“Yes; and a large sum was missing—a very large sum.”

“That is the worst argument yet,” said the doctor. “But, pooh, pooh, my dear sir, the old man died from an overdose of chloral. My colleague and I were satisfied about that. There, don’t look so white.”

“Do I look white?” said Glyddyr, picking up the glass he had used and draining the last drops. “Oh, I feel much better now. But, Doctor, what do you think of it all? They’ll arrest that young man, I suppose. It would be very horrible if he were to be tried and condemned to death.”

“Horrible!”

“Do you think he will be taken?”

“No.”

“I’m—I’m glad of that,” faltered Glyddyr, with his trembling hands playing about his watch chain. “So horrible. He was a friend, you see, of Miss Gartram’s. Of course, with such a charge as that against him, he could never speak to her again.”

“Look here, Glyddyr,” said the Doctor, “you and I may as well understand each other.”

“What do you mean?” cried Glyddyr, sinking back in his chair.

“That we have somehow become friends, and we may as well continue so. You mean to marry Claude Gartram?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” assented Glyddyr drawing a long hoarse breath.

“And, I’m sure, you feel all this very deeply. Terrible shock for the poor girl.”

“Yes, terrible,” whispered Glyddyr.

“I don’t wonder that you are so completely prostrated this morning.”

“No; it is no wonder, is it?”

“Not the slightest.”

“And I feel it, too, about young Lisle. I—I shouldn’t like him to be hung.”

“Make yourself easy, man; he will not be. There will be nine days’ talk about it, and that is all. The old man was examined; our evidence was taken, and he is at rest in his grave. The law can’t take any notice of these scandals.”

“Do—do you feel that—it will not take him and imprison him for life, say.”

“No, man, it will not; but as far as he is concerned with Claude Gartram, it will be just as if he had been put out of the way. Last night’s reports will be the making of you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know. Claude had a lingering liking for that fellow, but she can never speak to him again; and if you play your cards right, her pretty little hand will some day be laid in yours. You’ll give her a new name, and take possession yonder.”

Glyddyr looked at him rather wildly.

“Why, you don’t seem glad, man. Hallo!”

There was a sharp knock just then, and the two occupants of the surgery listened intently to the opening, and the low murmuring of voices.

The servant tapped on the surgery door directly after.

“Mr Trevithick, sir, would be glad to speak to you.”

“Show him in,” said the Doctor. “No, don’t go, Glyddyr. He has come over about that rumour.”

The lawyer entered, and shook hands with both.

“Did not want to interrupt you, Doctor; but I should like a few minutes’ conversation.”

“About that rumour concerning Gartram? By all means. Mr Glyddyr and I were discussing the matter.”

“Well, what is your opinion?”

“That it is all nonsense.”

“You have heard everything; the report of the money, the finding of a bottle, and Mr Lisle being seen that night in the grounds?”

“Yes—oh, yes; but what does all that prove?” said the Doctor decisively. “We were quite satisfied how Gartram met with his end. Let the rumour blow over, as it will do, and let the old man rest.”

The lawyer sat looking very thoughtful for a few moments, as he ran over in his mind all that had passed.

“By the way, how did you hear of it?”

“I am not at liberty to say.”

“Then I’ll tell you,” said Asher quickly. “That crazy barber came over to you yesterday. He found a bottle, and showed it to me. Bah! all rubbish. The man’s half mad.”

“I am beginning to think you are right,” said Trevithick.

“I’m sure I am.”

“But it is a bad thing for Mr Christopher Lisle to have such a charge made against him, especially after being on such friendly terms with the family.”

“Well, gentlemen, you must excuse me; I am going up to the house,” cried the Doctor.

“I will walk with you,” said Trevithick quietly.

“And I am to be left out in the cold,” muttered Glyddyr, as he followed them slowly out, only to stop hesitating, as he caught sight of the principal object of his thoughts.

“That don’t look like guilt, Mr Trevithick,” said Asher, who had seen Chris before Glyddyr had caught sight of him.

“Might be clever cunning,” said the lawyer quietly.

“Might be, but it is not. Oh, hang it all, sir, don’t let us harbour the thought for a moment. The young man’s as innocent as you are. Good-morning, Mr Lisle.”

“Ah, glad to see you, Doctor,” cried Chris, whose face looked drawn and old. “Morning, Mr Trevithick. You have heard the rumour?”

The Doctor bowed his head.

“I will not stoop to deny it, of course. The insensate fools! As if it were possible,” he cried excitedly.

“Of course no one believes such an absurd rumour—I mean no one with brains—eh, Mr Trevithick?” said Asher.

The lawyer coughed, and the pair moved on.

Chris was left standing by himself as the Doctor and lawyer went on up to the house. He stood gazing after them for a time, and then turned to go all alone towards the beach. At that moment he became aware of the fact that Glyddyr was watching him, and the feeling of love and sympathy for Claude, and the desire to clear himself in her eyes, turned to bitterness and jealousy.

“Of course,” he said savagely; “ready to believe ill of me! Ah, how I could enjoy half-an-hour with you, Parry Glyddyr, alone!”

He walked on, to become conscious directly of that which, in his excitement, he had not before observed.

There were not many people visible, but those who were hanging about in knots were evidently talking about and watching him; and as he passed on toward his home, he found that men who had known from boyhood suddenly turned away to enter their houses, or begin talking earnestly to their companions. Not one gave him look or word of recognition.

“Has it come to this?” he said, savagely. “A pariah—a leper to be avoided. Well, let them. Oh! you!” he muttered, as a great stout fisherman, whose boat he had used scores of times, passed him with his hands deep down in his pockets, staring straight out over his left shoulder to sea.

Chris’s fists involuntarily clenched, and he strode away, not once looking back or he would have seen heads thrust out of doors, and knots gathering together to discuss his case, and the burden of all the converse was: “How soon will he be took and put in gaol?”

“Hah! my dear,” ejaculated Mrs Sarson, as he reached his lodgings. “You’ve got safely back. Mr Wimble came by just now, and though I wouldn’t listen to him, he said the police were going to take you over to Toxeter and lock you up for committing murder.”

“They will if that man don’t mind, Mrs Sarson,” cried Chris, as he hurried into his room. “Curse him! I feel as if I could go at once, get hold of him, and wring his neck.”

“Mr Christopher!” cried the poor woman, bursting into a fit of sobbing; “don’t—don’t do anything rash.”

“Look here, old lady,” he cried, catching her by the arm; “you are not going to join this wretched crew, are you, and to believe I could be such a wretch?”

“Oh, no, my dear! Oh, no.”

“That’s right. But think twice. If you have the least thought of the kind, I’ll go at once.”

“Indeed, no, my dear,” she sobbed; “and even if you had done it, I couldn’t be such a cruel wretch as to tell against you, for you must have been mad.”

“Hang it, woman! if you talk like that, you’ll make me mad.”

“I’ve done, my dear. There, I won’t say another word, only to defend you. But tell me, my dear, what are you going to do?”

“What an honest man should do, Mrs Sarson,” said Chris, excitedly. “Mind I’m not wild with you, only with the wretched fools out yonder,” he said more gently, as he took his landlady’s hands. “There, my good old soul, it’ll all come right some day, here or hereafter.”

“But you’ll go and tell the magistrate, won’t you, that it’s all false?”

“No,” said Chris, sternly, and with his face growing hard and old. “I’m not going to deny anything. I’m an Englishman, Mrs Sarson, a strong-willed, stubborn Englishman, let them say what they like—do what they like, I’m here, and here I stay till they drag me away, and I do not care whether they do or do not now.”

“But one thing, my dear, one word, and I won’t ask you another question. Were you at the Fort that night, and did Reuben Brime find you?”

“Yes, Mrs Sarson.”

“Oh!—But why were you there, my dear, like that?”

“You asked one question, but I’ll answer the other. Because I am a weak young fool—in love with somebody who seemed to have cared little for me, and I wanted to get one word with her. Yes, I was a weak young fool. That seems years ago now,” he continued, half-talking to himself, “and I seem to have grown much older. Old enough to be firm and strong.”

“But you didn’t tell me, my dear, what you mean to do.”

“Mean to do?” cried Chris, with a bitter laugh. “I’m going to live it down.”

Volume Three—Chapter Ten.

Coming Back on Friday.

Chris found it a harder task than he had anticipated. “Give a dog a bad name, and then hang him,” says the old saw; and in his case Chris used to say bitterly to himself that he might as well have been hung out of his misery.

For Wimble’s shop had always been the fertile manure heap from which, fungus-like, scandals sprung, and their spores were carried away in all directions, to start into growth again and again in all directions. Often enough one scandal would grow, flourish, and then seem to die right away, but that was only the belief of the parties concerned. Just as they were hugging themselves upon the fact there had been a nine days’ wonder, and it had come to an end, a little round toadstool-like head would spring up in quite a different direction, and grow, and seed and spread itself more strongly than ever.

Even minor scandals died hard, if they died at all, in Danmouth; but, for the most part, they proved evergreen, and lived on long after the authors had been gathered to their fathers and forgotten.

This being the case with the lesser, it was not likely that one of the greatest ever known should drop away; and though weeks and months glided on, the story of the bottle found under the library window of the Fort was as fresh as ever, and people, after an easy shave, would ask quietly to see it, to have it taken with great show of secrecy from the drawer where it reposed, shaken so as to form globules of solution of chloral, and, if favoured customers, the cork might be removed and the contents smelt.

Wimble was quite right. That bottle proved to be the finest curiosity he possessed, and bade fair to become worth quite a hundred pounds to him, if not more.

As time went on, the ingenious idea occurred to him that it would be advisable to add to its attractions by giving the contents a perceptible odour, and this he did by introducing one single drop of patchouli, a scent not familiar to the lower orders of the little fishing port, and whose inhalation was thoroughly enjoyed by many a gaping idiot, who shook his Solon-like head, and said “Hah!” softly and mysteriously, before handing back the bottle and whispering, “’nuff to kill any man.”

The treasure might have had additional piquancy if Chris Lisle had been tried for murder and hanged; but as he was not, Wimble said he must make the best of things, and went on profiting by his possession; but as he felt that his declaration to the widow that night had not advanced his suit, he spent his spare time watching her house, and wondering how long it would be ere Chris Lisle realised the fact that, as public opinion let him exist, it was his duty to live somewhere else.

But Chris was as stubborn as public opinion, and, regardless of side-long glances, and the fact that he was regularly avoided, he went on just as of old, apparently living his old life, and waging war upon the salmon, trout, and fish that visited the mouth of the river; but they had an easy time.

Claude had left Danmouth, but she made no sign before she went away, and Chris was too stubbornly proud to make any advance.

“If she believes so ill of me, she may,” he used to say to himself. “A woman who can love like that is not worth a second thought from any man.”

He used to say that often, and tell himself that he could never tire. He could live it all down, and that some day he would enjoy a keen revenge on those who had doubted him. He was happy enough, he said, and the fools might think what they liked so long as they did not molest him.

The little mob of Danmouth had gone near this though once, when, soon after the news was spread, they found that no steps were taken to bring the crime home to the murderer. For Trevithick, though terribly exercised in spirit about that missing sum of money, felt himself bound to agree with the Doctor that no steps could be taken, and consequently Gartram was left in peace beneath the handsome granite obelisk cut from his own quarry.

So the wrath of those who would have liked to take the law in their own hands cooled down, and their enmity found its vent in scowls and avoidance, at which Chris laughed scornfully, or resented with looks as fierce in public; but there was a hard set of lines growing more marked about the corners of his mouth and his eyes, and there were times when he broke down in secret far up the glen, and told himself that life was not worth living. He would be better dead.

Claude went to recover her strength in the south of France, and Sarah Woodham was left in charge of the house, about which Reuben Brime sighed as he mowed the grass, and groaned as he drove in his spade; but Sarah did not heed, and he too used to think to himself that he might as well put out his pipe some night by taking a plunge off the end of the pier.

Glyddyr stayed on in the harbour till the day after Claude and Mary left, when the yacht glided slowly out, and Chris watched it till it disappeared beyond one of the headlands far away; and then the time seemed like years as he went on setting public opinion at defiance, wrestling with it still.

There were those in the place who would have met him on friendly terms, notably Asher; but Chris met all advances curtly, and went his way.

“They shall not tolerate me,” he said bitterly. “I will live in the full sunshine. Till I do, I can be content with the shade.”

There was one, though, whom he encountered from time to time when wandering listlessly whipping the streams, not very often, but on the rare occasions when she sought some solitary spot far away out on the rocky moorland to dream over the past.

The first time they met, Chris’s heart hounded, and his eyes flashed as he was about to speak.

“No,” he said, checking himself; “I shall not stoop. The advance shall come from her.”

A month passed, and again on a cold, windy day of winter he was aware of a dark-looking, thickly-wrapped figure going along the track, and his heart whispered to him, “You have only to go back a few dozen yards to speak to her, and hear the news for which, in spite of all you say, you are hungering.”

Chris nearly yielded, but the will was too stubborn yet, and he stood firm.

Then came a day in spring when the promise of the coming time of beauty was being given by swelling bud, green arum, and the tender blades of grass which peeped from among last year’s drab dry strands. It had been a cruel, stormy time for weeks, cruelly stormy, too, in Chris’s heart, for the load was more heavy than ever, and the young man’s heart was very sore.

He was going up the glen near where he had first told Claude of his love, and the time of year seemed to bring with it hope and a longing for human intercourse and sympathy; and though he would not own it, he would have given anything for news of the one who filled his thoughts.

She came upon him suddenly this time, and they were within half-a-dozen yards of each other before either was aware of the other’s presence.

“Ah, Sarah Woodham!” he said; and she stopped short to stand looking at him, with her fierce dark eyes softening, and the vestige of a smile about her thin parched lips. “Well,” he continued carelessly, though his heart beat fast, “hadn’t you better go on? You’ll lose caste if any one sees you talking to me.”

“Mr Lisle,” she said reproachfully.

“Well, am I not a murderer?”

“Oh!”

The woman shuddered, and looked at him wildly.

“Mr Lisle! Don’t talk like that!”

“Why not?”

“No one worth notice could think such a thing of you.”

“Not even your mistress!” he said, with boyish irritability; but only to feel as if he would have given all he possessed to recall it.

“Don’t say cruel things about her, sir. She has suffered deeply.”

“Yes, but—”

He checked himself, and though Sarah Woodham remained silent and waiting, he did not speak.

“What changes and troubles we have seen, sir, since the happy old days when, quite a boy then, you used to come to the quarry with Miss Claude.”

“Bah! You never seemed to be very happy, Sarah. You were much brighter and happier before you were married.”

The woman glanced at him sharply, and then her eyes grew dreamy and thoughtful again.

“Woodham was a good, kind husband to me, sir,” she said gently.

“Yes; but see what a cold, stern, hard life you lived. He—”

“Hush, sir, please,” said the woman gently; “he was a good, true man to me, and we all misjudge at times.”

“Is that meant for a cut at me, Sarah?” said Chris cynically.

“Yes, sir,” said the woman naïvely. “I don’t think you ought to be one to cast a stone—at the dead.”

He turned upon her angrily, but she met his sharp look with one so grave and calm that it disarmed him, and, led on by the fact that he had hardly spoken to a soul for weeks, he said—

“Few people have such cause to be bitter as I have.”

“We all think our fate the hardest, sir.”

“Going to preach at me, Sarah?”

“No, sir,” she said, with her eyes lighting up, and a pleasant look softening her face; “I only feel grieved and pained to see the bonnie, handsome boy, who I always thought would naturally be my dear Miss Claude’s husband, drifting away to wreck like one of the ships we often see.”

“Silence, woman!” cried Chris. “For God’s sake don’t talk like that!”

“I will not, sir, if you tell me not,” said Sarah quietly; “but I think you deal hard with poor Miss Claude for what she cannot help.”

“What?”

“She has tried to do her duty—that I know.”

“Yes,” he said bitterly; “every one seems to have tried to do his or her duty by me.”

There was a dead silence, during which the woman stood gazing at him wistfully, and more than once her lips moved, and her hand played restlessly about her shawl, as if she wanted to lay it upon his arm, and say something comforting to one who appeared so lonely and cast out.

“Miss Claude is coming home on Friday, sir,” she said at last; and she saw the fervour of hope and joy which beamed from the young man’s eyes—only to be clouded over directly, as he said bitterly—

“Well, she has a right to. What is it to me?”

“Mr Chris!”

“Oh, don’t talk to me!” he cried passionately. “The world has all gone wrong with me, and I am a cursed and bitter man. God knows that I am, or I could not speak as I do. They’ll find out some day that I am not a murderer and a thief.—I’m losing time, for the fish are rising fast.”

She stood looking after him wistfully as he strode along by the river side, and then walked away with the old dull, agonised look coming back into her face.

“Poor boy!” she said softly. “Poor boy!”

“Coming back on Friday—coming back on Friday!”

Sarah Woodham’s words kept repeating themselves in Chris Lisle’s ears as he walked on up the glen, waving his fishing-rod so that the line hissed and whistled through the air, and at every repetition of the words his heart bounded, and the young blood ran dancing through his veins.

“Coming back on Friday!”

It was as if new life were rushing through him; his step grew more elastic, his eyes brightened, and he leaped from rock to rock, where the brown water came flashing and foaming down.

“Coming back,” he muttered; “coming back.”

The past was going to be dead; the clouds were about to rise from about him, and there was once more going to be something worth living for.

“Bah!” he ejaculated, “I’ve been a morose, bitter, disappointed fool, too ready to give up; but that’s all past now. She is coming back, and all this time of misery and despair is at an end.”

It seemed to be another man who was hurrying along the margin of the river, in and out over the mighty water-worn stones, with the water rushing between, till he was brought up short by the whizzing sound made by his winch, for the hook had caught in a bush, and his rod was bent half double.

“I can’t fish to-day,” he said, turning back, and winding in till he could give the hook a sharp jerk and snap the gut bottom. “I must go home and think.”

He hurried back, with the feeling growing upon him that all the past trouble was at an end. For the moment he felt intoxicated with the new sense of elation which thrilled him, and it was as if all the young hope and joy which were natural to his age, and had been clouded now, had suddenly burst forth like so much sunshine. But this was short lived.

As he reached the bridge, a couple of fishermen whom he had known from boyhood were standing with their backs to the parapet, chatting and smoking, but as soon as they saw him approach they turned round, leaned over the side, and began to stare down at the river.

It was like a cold dark mist blown athwart him, but he strode on.

“Fools!” he muttered; and increasing his pace, he began to note more than ever now that his coming was the signal for people standing at their doors to go inside, and for the fishermen to turn their backs.

All this had occurred every time he had been out of late, but he had grown hardened to it, and laughed in his stubborn contempt; but this day, after the fit of elation he had passed through,—it all looked new, and he hurried on chilled to the heart; the bright, sunshiny day was clouded over again, and all was once more hopeless and blank.

So bitter was the feeling of despair which now sunk deep into his breast, that he shrank from Wimble, who was standing at his door in the act of saying good-day to a customer, both looking hard at him till he had entered the cottage.

Volume Three—Chapter Eleven.

Under the Cloud.

“Better go away,” said Chris to himself.

But he stayed, and in contempt of the avoidance of those he met, he was constantly going to and fro during the next twenty-four hours.

Now he was down on the beach, close to the sea; now wandering high up on the moorland, and seeing, from each point of view, trifles which showed that the mistress of the Fort was coming home.

He called himself “idiot,” and asked mentally where his pride had gone, and determined to shut himself up with his books, but the determination was too weak, and he could not rest. It was something, if only to see the home that would soon again contain the woman who held him fast.

“She will meet me again,” he said, with his hopes rising once more toward the evening of the next day. “I’ll go up boldly like a man. My darling! And all this misery will be at an end. Nine weary months has she been away, and it has seemed like years. Why didn’t I write? Why didn’t I crush down all this foolish pride and obstinacy? I ought to have gone to her, instead of letting myself be maddened by that miserable scoundrel, believing she could listen to him, even if it was her father’s wish.”

He had strolled down the pier and lit a cigar, to stand gazing out to the west, where the sun was setting behind a golden bank of cloud which began to darken with purple as the plainly-marked rays spread out towards the zenith, while the calm sea gently heaved, and began to glow with ruby, topaz and emerald hues.

Far out beyond the shelter of the headland and the long low isle which acted like a breakwater to the bay, the sea was ruffled by the gentle evening breeze; and as Chris loitered, with his breast once more growing calm, he could see lugger after lugger, that had been tugged out with the large oars, hoisting sail to catch the soft gale and then glide slowly away, the tawny sails catching the reflected light, till all around was beautiful as some golden dream.

Chris turned and looked back at the Fort, to see that its windows were aglow, and the cliffs that rose behind and on either side were more lovely than ever.

“What a welcome home for her!” he said softly. “My darling! Oh, if she could see her old home now! if she would only come, and I could be the first to welcome her and take her by the hand.”

“Yes,” he said, as he turned and gazed out to sea and shore, heedless of the fact that a group of sailors were slowly coming down the pier. “I will be there to meet her and take her by the hand. She could not have believed it; and, now that the time of sorrow is at an end, she will—she shall listen to me. Heaven give me strength to master this bitter, cruel pride and foolish jealousy. I will hope.”

“Bet yer a gallon it is,” cried a voice behind him.

“Yah! Yer don’t know what yer talking about. Such gashly stuff!”

“Oh, you’re precious clever, you are. Think that there schooner lay here all those many months and I shouldn’t know her again? Here, let’s go up to the point, and get the coastie to lend us his glass.”

“I don’t want no glass,” said another voice. “My eyes are good enough for that. Jemmy Gadly’s right enough. I could swear to her.”

The speaker made a binocular of his two hands, and gazed out to sea, at where the white sails of a yacht came well into view from beyond the island.

Chris heard every word, but he did not turn. He stood gazing at the yacht, which with every stitch of canvas set, was running fast for the harbour, beautiful in the evening light—a picture in that gleaming sea.

“Ay,” said the man at last, as he dropped his hands and turned to Chris, who was gazing out to sea with a strange singing in his ears, and a sensation at his temples as if the blood was throbbing hard. “Ay, that’s Mr Glyddyr’s yacht, sure enough, and he’s come back o’ course to meet young Miss. Oh, it be you?”

This last as Chris turned round upon him with a ghastly face glaring at him wildly.

“Lor’! Look at that,” cried the man addressed as Gadly, and with an ugly grin overspreading his face as the love of baiting came uppermost. “Come away, Joe; he means mischief. Look out or there’ll be another murder done.”

Thud!

It was as quick as lightning. Chris Lisle’s left fist flashed out, caught the man full in the cheek, and he staggered back, tried to save himself, and then tripped over a rope and fell heavily upon the stones, while his assailant glared round seeking another victim as a low angry murmur rose.

“You coward!” he growled between his teeth.

“Ay, and sarve him gashly well right,” said the sturdy fisherman, who had had his hands up to his eyes, and had addressed Chris. “He is a coward to say that there. Howd off, my lads, and let him bide. There’s been quite enough o’ this gashly jaw. I don’t believe you did kill the old man, Mr Chris, sir, and there’s my hand on it.”

He thrust out his great brown hairy, horny paw, and it was like help held forth to a drowning man. Chris grasped the hand with both of his, and stood gazing full in the rough fellow’s eyes, his face working, his breast heaving, and a great struggle going on as he tried to speak, while the little group around looked on at the strange scene.

It was the first kindly word man seemed to have spoken to him all those weary months, and Chris, completely overcome, strove hard to utter his thanks, but for a time nothing would come. At last it was in a low, hoarse murmur that he said—

“God bless you for that, my man!” and hurried back to his room.

“And you call yourselves mates,” growled the fisherman, who had prudently kept in a reclining position, and who now slowly rose; “and you call yourselves mates. Why, you ought to ha’ chucked him off the wall.”

“And I felt so happy!” groaned Chris; “and I felt so happy!”

“How did he know she was coming back?” he cried suddenly, as he sprang up and caught a telescope from where it lay upon a row of books, adjusted it, and stood looking out of the open window.

“Yes, its his boat; and there he stands using a glass watching her home.”

He shrank away, with his eyes looking dull and sunken as he laid the glass upon the shelf.

“How did he know—how did he know?”

He sank down in a chair, and buried his face in his hands, as a flood of surmises rushed through his brain, every one full of agony, and all pointing to the idea that Claude must have been in communication with Glyddyr, or he never could have timed his return after all these months like that.

Half-an-hour had passed, and then he started from his chair, for there was a loud report.

He sank back in his seat again, with a mocking laugh.

“Beer!” he said bitterly. “Beer! What a world this is!”

And in imagination he saw the white smoke curling up from the mouth of the little cannon which stood by the flagstaff in front of the Harbour Inn, knowing, as he did, that the piece had been loaded in honour of Glyddyr’s return, and fired with the taproom poker, made red for the purpose.

Then there arose a boisterous burst of cheering, taken up again and again, as Glyddyr’s gig was rowed up to the steps, and he stepped out upon the pier.

“Yes, cheer away, you idiots,” cried Chris, rising from his seat in his jealous agony; “cheer and shout, and go down on the stones and grovel before him.”

Bang!

“That’s right! Again. Again. Down with you, and let him walk in triumph over your necks. The new man—the new master of the Fort.”

“They know it,” he groaned, as he dashed to the window, and then backed away, after seeing that he was right, and that Glyddyr was coming along the pier, scattering coins among the little crowd that had gathered round, while the sound of hurrying feet could be heard as men and boys, attracted by the gunfire, were running down to the harbour.

“Yes, they know it. The new lord of the Fort, and I stand here instead of joining them, and cheering too for the new king of the castle. My God, what a world it is!”

He stopped short, pale and ghastly, as the cheering came nearer, and just then, looking proud and elate, Parry Glyddyr passed the window on his way to the hotel.

“And leave him to triumph over my death!” muttered Chris, in a low fierce voice. “No,” he added, after a pause; “I’ve been too great a cur as it is. Not yet: it has not come quite to the worst.”

Chris was right. There had been communication between Claude and Glyddyr, and quiet pertinacity, mingled with the greatest show of gentle respect and consideration, had not been without result.

It was only a short run across to Ettreville, and one morning, during a walk with Mary, Glyddyr came up to salute Claude with grave, respectful courtesy.

They had just put in for a few hours, he said, and they sailed again that afternoon. He was so glad to see Miss Gartram again, and he was sure she was better for the change.

Only a few minutes’ conversation, and he was gone.

A fortnight later he was there again, and the stay was a little longer; but there was always the same shrinking show of respect for her, and even Mary could say nothing.

And so time wore on, till the coming of the yacht and a stay for at least a few days was no uncommon thing.

“No, I wouldn’t say a word,” said Gellow, in conference with his man. “Keep quiet, dear boy, till she gets back, even if it’s months yet, and then strike home.”

“But I’m getting sick of it.”

“Never mind, dear boy. It’s a very big stake, and I can’t understand, seeing what a darling she is, how you shy at her so. No other reason, have you?”

“No, no,” said Glyddyr hurriedly.

“But it looks as if you had, even when you say no. But there, it’s all right. Give her plenty of time. You have hooked her. If you are hasty now, she’ll break away, and never take the fly again. Wait till she goes back into her own quiet little groove. Then be quite ready; job the landing-net under her with a sure and steady hand, and though she’ll kick and struggle a bit, and try to leap back into deep water, the pretty little goldfish will be yours. And well earned, too.”

So Glyddyr waited his time, knew exactly when Claude would return home, and was ready to incite the fishermen and the workers at the quarry to get up a reception in her honour.

This was done, and as Chris Lisle stayed at home, gnawing his lips with agony, he knew that flags and banners were being strung across from house to house, that yachts’ guns were to be fired, and that the band from Toxeter was to be there.

It was short time for preparation, but enthusiasm was at high pressure, and the first dawning Chris had of the hour at which Claude would return was given by the band.

For a moment he hesitated. Jealousy said stay, but the old boyish love carried all before it, and, reckless of the lowering looks which greeted him, he hurried along the beach, and made for the Fort, so as to be one of the first to welcome its mistress back.

The bells in the little church began to ring musically, for Glyddyr had well done his work, and then the guns were fired, and as this was supplemented by the distant music, a fierce pang shot through Chris Lisle’s heart.

“Why did I not think to do all this?”

He went on, and joined the little crowd by the gateway of the Fort, where the school children were in front, ready with handkerchiefs and coloured ribbons, for there were no flowers to be had.

As he approached to take his stand by the gate, the children began to cheer, and he bit his lip angrily as he heard them rebuked and hushed into silence.

But he forgot all this directly, for fresh firing and the nearing of the band told that Claude must be close at hand—she for whom his heart yearned—she whom his eyes longed to see, and they grew dim in the excitement, as, forgetful of all past trouble, he strained them to catch her first glance.

Would she smile at him? Would she stop and stretch out her hands, and in spite of all those gathered around her, should he clasp her in his arms?

All excited thoughts, as there was the crashing sound of wheels, the loud cheering caught up now by the children as the carriage which had been to meet her rolled slowly up toward the gateway.

At last. Bending forward with her pale face flushed, her eyes humid, and her black gloved hand waving her white kerchief in answer to the bursts of cheers.

Chris strained forward, and was about to press up to the carriage-door as it came slowly into the gateway to avoid crushing those who flocked round.

“Three cheers for the Queen of the Castle!” cried a loud voice; and then to Chris Lisle it was as if heaven and earth had come together.

For the voice was the voice of Glyddyr, who had risen from his seat beside Claude, unseen till then; and as the answering chorus rang out, sick almost unto death, his brain swimming and a dull throbbing at his breast, Chris shrank away without encountering Claude Gartram’s eyes, veiled almost to blindness by her tears.

Volume Three—Chapter Twelve.

Conscience Pricking.

“It does seem so hard to think that we have been away all these months, Claudie,” said Mary the next morning. “Aren’t you glad to be back once more in the dear old home?”

“Yes, dear; and no,” said Claude sadly.

“Now, who is to understand what that means? But, Claude, dear, I did not speak last night—”

“What about,” said Claude quickly.

“I don’t like to say. The subject is tabooed.”

Claude turned toward the window, so that her cousin should not see her face.

“The last time I mentioned his name you scolded me.”

Claude remained silent.

“Did you see him yesterday when we came up to the gate?”

“No.”

“He was there, and coming up to the carriage when he saw Mr Glyddyr get up to call for three cheers, and then he shrank away.”

Claude shivered, as if from a sudden chill, but she remained silent.

“May I say what I think?” asked Mary.

Claude turned upon her an agonised look.

“If you wish to give me pain,” she said, almost in a whisper; and at that moment Sarah Woodham entered the room.

“Mr Glyddyr, ma’am. He asks you to excuse his calling so early, but if you would see him for a few minutes he would be grateful.”

The shiver ran through Claude again, but she smothered her emotion.

“Show Mr Glyddyr in,” she said calmly, and Sarah Woodham’s face grew harder as she left the room.

“What are you going to say, Claude?” said Mary quickly.

“Say?”

“Yes. Why do you put on that air of ignorance? You know why he has come.”

“Mary!”

“Yes, I will speak. All these quiet calls have meant that, I am sure. He has only been waiting till you came home to ask you to be his wife.”

“Hush!”

The door opened, and Glyddyr entered, looking sallow and nervous; but he began to brighten a little, as if the presence of Mary were a reprieve from the task he had set himself to do.

It was only a short one, though, for, after the first greetings, Mary rose to go.

Claude looked at her wistfully.

“Don’t let me drive you away, Miss Dillon,” said Glyddyr quickly.

Claude uttered no word to stay her, but sat gazing straight before her at a large photograph of her father, her eyes wild and fixed with the emotion from which she suffered, and for a few moments after the door was closed neither spoke.

“Miss Gartram—Claude,” said Glyddyr, at last, in a husky voice, and at his words she started, as if from a dream.

Her look seemed to freeze him, but he had taken the step now, and he rose and crossed to her side, taking the hand she surrendered to him unresistingly.

“Claude, you know how all these weary months I have been silent,” he whispered; “how I have feared to intrude upon you in your grief, though all the while I have suffered painfully too.”

“Yes,” she said gently, “you have been very patient with me, I know.”

“Because I dared to hope that the time might come when I could speak to you as I do now. You know how I love you, and—forgive me for saying what I do—you know how my happiness is in your hands. Tell me to be patient even now, and I will wait.”

Her wild fixed look intensified as she listened to his impassioned prayer, for she saw only the face of her father as she had seen him last in life.

“I hardly dare to say the words,” he went on; “it seems like putting pressure on one whom I want to love me of herself, to make me happy by her own gentle confession; but I must speak now, even if it gives you pain. Claude, dearest, it was his wish. Tell me you will be my wife.”

He uttered his last sentence or two in a hesitating whisper.

“You heard what I said, dearest?” he whispered.

“Yes—yes,” said Claude dreamily.

“You will not hold me off longer. Claude, dearest, what can I say to move you? Is it to be always thus?”

She looked at him wildly for a few moments, and he was about to speak again, but her lips moved, and she said slowly—

“You say it would make you happy?”

“Happy?” he exclaimed passionately, “oh, if I had but words to tell you all.”

“Hush!” she said, slowly withdrawing her hand. “Six months ago I thought I saw my course marked out for me; but now all appears changed. You know how, long before we ever met—”

“Yes,” he cried eagerly, “I know everything you would say, but, Claude, dearest, it is impossible. If that was to make you happy, I would have gone away, and patiently borne all, but it is impossible.”

“Yes,” she said, shuddering slightly, “it is impossible.”

“Then you will let me hope?” he cried quickly.

“It was my dear father’s wish,” she said dreamily; “I have thought of this, and what was my duty, left as I am, his child and the steward of his great wealth.”

“Yes—yes!” he cried excitedly.

“It was all darkness—black, black darkness for a time, but by slow degrees the light has come.”

“Claude, my love!”

“Oh, hush: pray hush!” she said with a slight shiver as she gazed straight past her wooer at the photograph upon the table. “It was his wish; and if you desire this, Parry Glyddyr, I will try to be your true and faithful wife.”

“My own!” he whispered, and he tried to pass his arm around her, but she shrank back with so pained a look that he forbore. “There,” he said, “I will be patient. I have waited all these long months, and I know now how your love for me will come. I can wait. But, Claude, let me go away quite happy. How soon?”

“It was his wish.”

“In a month from now?” he whispered tenderly.

“Yes,” she said, still gazing past him at the photograph.

“My own!” he cried, “I had not dared to hope for this. But, Claude, dearest, why do you look so strange?”

He felt as if a hand of ice had touched him, and his own closed upon hers with a spasmodic grip, as he looked sharply round and saw the photograph, the counterfeit presentment gazing sternly in his eyes.

But Claude was too intent upon her own thoughts to notice his ghastly pallor, and, uttering a low sigh, she at last withdrew her hand.

“Do not say more to me now, Mr Glyddyr,” she sighed faintly. “I am weak. The shock of coming back here has been almost more than I can bear. You will go now. Do not think me unkind and cold, but you will leave me till to-morrow.”

“Yes, yes,” he cried huskily, as he forced himself to take her hand which felt like ice, and, bending over it, he pressed his lips upon the clear transparent skin. “Yes, till to-morrow,” he said; and, carefully keeping his eyes averted from the photograph, he walked quickly from the room.

“Claude! Claude!” cried Mary entering, but there was no reply. “Claude!” and she laid her hand upon the girl’s shoulder, to start back in alarm at the waxen face that was slowly turned towards her. “Claude, darling, don’t look like that. Tell me. He did ask you?”

Claude nodded.

“And you refused him?”

She shook her head sadly.

“Oh, Claude!” cried Mary reproachfully. “And poor Chris!”

“Silence!” said Claude excitedly. “Never mention his name again.”

“But you can’t—you don’t think that horrible charge was true?”

“I think it was, my dear—my dead father’s wish that I should wed Mr Glyddyr. I have prayed for strength to carry out his will.”

“And you have accepted him!”

“Mary, a woman cannot live for herself. It was my duty. In a month I shall be Parry Glyddyr’s wife.”

Volume Three—Chapter Thirteen.

A Strange Wooing.

Chris Lisle heard the news without showing the slightest emotion, and as soon as he was alone he sat down and wrote as follows:—

“I pray God that you may be happy.

“Chris Lisle.”

That was all, and he dropped it into the post-box himself, turned back to meet Trevithick on his way to the Fort, nodded to him and went straight to his room, where he stood for a few moments in silence.

“Yes,” he said slowly and solemnly, “I pray God that you may be happy.”

Then, after a pause:

“But,” he cried, with terrible earnestness, “if—”

There was another pause in which he silently continued that which he might have said. Then, with a fierce light flashing from his eyes, he clenched his hands and said in a whisper more startling than the loudest words—

“I’ll kill him as I would some venomous beast.”

He threw himself into a chair and sat looking white and changed for quite an hour before he rose up and drew a long deep breath.

“Dead!” he said softly; “dead! Now, then, to bear it—like a man—and show no sign.”

There was a gentle tap at the door.

“May I come in, sir, please?”

“Eh? Oh yes, Mrs Sarson. What is it?”

“I was going to—Oh my dear, dear boy!”

The poor woman caught his hand in hers, and kissed it, as her tears fell fast.

“Why, Mrs Sarson,” he said, smiling, “what’s the matter?”

“Oh, my dear,” she said; “you haven’t lived here with me all these years from quite a boy as you were, without me feeling just like a mother to you. And you so alone in the world. I know what trouble you’re in, and what you must feel; and it hurts me too.”

“There, there. You’re a good soul,” he said. “But that’s all over. Why, I’ve had the aching tooth taken out, and I’m quite a new man now.”

“Oh, my dear—my dear!”

“I’m off for a few hours’ fishing, and I shall want a good meat tea about six. I sha’n’t be later.”

He nodded cheerfully, and took his creel and rod from the passage, Mrs Sarson hurrying to the window, and watching till he was out of sight, “Ah!” she said, shaking her head; “but it don’t deceive me. I’ve read of them as held their hands in the fire till they were burned away; and he’s a martyr, too, as would do it, without making a sign. But he can’t deceive me.”

Meanwhile Trevithick had gone up to the Fort to see Claude about certain business matters connected with the quarry, and with the full intent to ask her a few questions about the missing money in spite of her former words; but on his way that morning he had heard startling news, which made his face look peculiarly serious, and he said to himself—

“Well, it was her father’s wish, but if I don’t make the tightest marriage settlements ever drawn up I’m not an honest man.”

He was admitted by Sarah Woodham, and shown into the library, where, quite at home, he took his seat, unlocked his black bag, and began to arrange a number of endorsed papers, tied up with red tape.