RADIUM.
Ruby Stroke threw aside the heavy veil she wore and placed her bag on
the table. Rupert heard the clink of coins.
"Of course, I've got it," she stammered. "Look! Five hundred pounds.
I've brought fifty in gold. I thought, perhaps, it would be more useful
than--than notes."
He staggered to her side and looked at the two little bags of gold she
had placed on the table. She showed him a roll of notes. He pushed them
aside, and pouring the gold out on the table he commenced to count it.
It fascinated him. He could not speak.
Presently he began to laugh hysterically. "You are sure there's no
mistake?"
"Count it again."
Again he laughed. "I didn't mean that--I mean, it's all right--I can't
believe it--that this is ours--all ours." He dropped on to his knees
beside her and put his arms around her waist. "Oh, my dear!" he cried,
"my dear!"
Ruby smiled. She sat staring at the money with hard, dry eyes. "It was
rather stupid to bring so much gold perhaps," she said in an unsteady
voice. "But I thought you could pay some of your bills with it.
And--you are so careless. You might lose notes just as you lost that
cheque yesterday."
She picked up the crisp bundle of notes on the table. "I'm going to
take charge of these, and later on pay them into your bank. So that
when you return from Devonshire, you'll find quite a nice little
nest-egg.... Now, give me a cup of tea, and then I'll pack for you.
You've only got about three hours."
It did not take Ruby long to pack. Rupert watched her and gave
instructions as to what he would take, but to which, woman like, she
paid no attention.
"I've got lots of old clothes at the farm," Rupert said. "We shall
spend all our time fishing and shooting. Gad! I'll take old Despard
down our tin-mine. Probably, it's little better than a swimming-bath
now!"
Rupert was in high spirits. Ruby encouraged him to talk, and smiled as
she listened.
"Is Mr. Despard going down with you?" she asked.
Rupert nodded.
"Then you won't mind if I don't see you off at Paddington?" She glanced
at the watch on her wrist. "I've got an appointment at half-past one,
so it would be difficult anyway."
"You don't like Despard, do you?" Rupert said; "yet he's very fond of
you."
"Yes, I know he is. I wish he wasn't."
But Rupert only pinched her cheek playfully. He did not understand.
Ruby wanted to tell him that Despard had made love to her, to put him on
his guard, but she was afraid to speak more clearly. She did not want to
make him jealous, and she was afraid lest the two men should quarrel.
So no more was said. They bade one another good-bye in the little
sitting-room where so many happy hours had been spent--and where such
great events had happened.
"I shall not be away more than a week or two," Rupert said as he kissed
her. "I suppose you will be in town all the summer?"
"Probably," she answered evasively. "Anyway, I shall be here when you
return. Enjoy yourself and don't worry."
She kissed him again and again, clinging tightly to him, unable to tear
herself away now that the hour had come.
"Why, there are tears on your cheek!" Rupert whispered, brushing them
away. "You mustn't be sad: our future never looked so rosy. Look here,
I shall tell my father I'm engaged to be married. I didn't mean to do so
until I'd passed my examination, but it's only fair to you. And we can
afford to get married now! You've got those notes safely?"
She nodded, and smiled through her tears. "I can pay them into the bank
to-morrow."
And then, giving him a final embrace, she hurried away. Rupert stood at
the front door and watched her out of sight. He wondered why she did
not turn round and wave him farewell again as she always had when they
parted.
A few hours later as he was borne rapidly in the direction of Devonshire
with his friend, Robert Despard, he had temporarily forgotten Ruby
Strode. When the train on the branch line from Newton Abbott stopped at
Moreton he saw his sister waiting for him on the platform. A wave of
boyish pride swept over him as he introduced Marjorie to Robert Despard.
Two years had changed her considerably. She was a woman now, and
beautiful. At the same time he was conscious of the humble dress she
wore, the thick cotton stockings, and rather ungainly boots. Conscience
pricked him again, and he felt a touch of remorse.
The money she should have spent in pretty clothes he had been wasting in
London! He felt he wanted to apologise, too, for the old-fashioned
dog-cart waiting outside and the sturdy, rough-haired Dartmoor pony
harnessed to the shafts. But Despard had no eyes for anything but
Marjorie Dale's beauty. He was unable to take his eyes off her, and
Rupert noticed the colour rushing to her cheeks as they drove along.
Despard had a certain way with women. He treated them with a queer
mixture of deference and gallantry. He knew how to pay a compliment
with subtlety. For the first time Rupert realised there were two
distinct sides to his character. And before the long drive across the
moorland was over--still blazing with yellow gorse and bloom--he again
wished he had not asked Despard to stay with them.
Old John Allen Dale was waiting at the door of the queer, tumble-down,
thatched-roofed building which had been the home of the Dales for
generations. He took Rupert in his arms and held him closely, then, with
an apology, turned to greet Robert Despard. His manner had all the
old-world courtesy of the yeoman farmer.
"By Jove, you live off the map, and no mistake!" Despard cried looking
round him.
He gazed at the strange, almost forbidding-looking farmhouse, at the
great tors surrounding it on all sides. He listened to the river Dart
as it sang its wild way to the sea, the only song among those rugged
hills.
"Don't you feel jolly lonely sometimes?" he said to Marjorie.
She shook her head. "I haven't time. And I've known nothing better."
She took his kit-bag from the dog-cart, and before he could stop her she
had carried it upstairs to his room.
"There is nothing better," John Dale said dreamily. And he linked his
arm affectionately through Rupert's. "Well, my boy, you needn't say
anything, I see by your face that you've passed your examination. The
world is at your feet now to conquer. You're going to do great things,
eh?"
Rupert gave a quick glance at Despard. But the latter merely winked,
then, turning on his heel, entered the farm. Rupert heard him mount the
stairs in search of Marjorie.
Rupert squared his shoulders and looked his father full in the face.
"I'm sorry, guv'nor, but you must have the truth. I've failed again."
John Allen Dale winced as if some one had struck him a blow. The
strong, determined jaws met tightly, but he said nothing.
"I'm going up again in November," Rupert continued. "And I know I shall
pass. It's not an idle boast, guv'nor. I can, and I will."
The old man laid his hands on the young man's shoulders. He spoke
bravely and proudly, yet there was a tremor in his voice:
"Rupert, lad, I know you've done your best, and I'm not blaming you.
It's a severe blow because--well, you'd better know now--the money's
come to an end! I've pinched and screwed, gladly; but the savings of
the last fifty years have all gone. They were little enough. The farm
doesn't raise enough to keep us in food and clothes. I've even had to
raise money and mortgage the old place. I couldn't pay your fees for the
examination again, much less your board and lodging in London."
"I know," Rupert replied gently, though he had not dreamed it was as bad
as that. And once again remorse seized him. Once again he wondered
what he would have done if it had not been for Ruby Strode.
He would have died a coward's death and left his father and sister to
suffer shame and dishonour.
It was some little time before he could find his voice and tell his
father that he need not worry about the money.
"I don't want you to question me, guv'nor, but I've had a bit of luck
and made enough to keep myself for another year or two in London. I can
let you have plenty to go on with, too."
"Not borrowed money, not made by gambling?" John Dale asked. "But I
needn't ask you, Rupert. It was money honestly earned, I know."
Rupert dared not confess how he had obtained it. "It came through a
friend," he said unsteadily. "I can't tell you more now, father, but I
will one day. I only want you to know that you needn't worry. I shan't
fail you. I promise."
Dale took his son's hand in his great, horny fist and pressed it
tightly. "I know that, I know that, my boy."
The first thing Rupert did with the money Ruby had given him was to
repay Despard the twenty-five pounds he owed him. The second was to
hand Marjorie fifteen pounds--ten for housekeeping expenses, and five
for herself. She was overwhelmed, and at first refused to take it. To
her it seemed like a fortune.
"You needn't tell the guv'nor," Rupert said, "though he knows I've made
a bit. But if he's in want of anything just buy it for him--say it's a
present from me. Get yourself a nice frock and some pretty shoes."
Rupert felt afraid that the rough fare and humble life at Blackthorn
Farm would bore or disgust his friend, but he soon found that he was
wrong. Despard settled down to the new mode of life as if he had been
thoroughly used to it. He was up soon after daybreak helping Marjorie
to milk the cows; watching her scald the cream and make the butter, and
he insisted on being taught how to do these things himself. He made
himself useful about the farm, too, and quite won John Dale's heart. He
proved himself nearly as good a shot at the rabbits as Rupert, though he
quite failed to catch the cunning Devonshire trout, and frankly admitted
that it bored him to throw a fly.
"I want to look at this old tin-mine of yours," he announced one day;
and he asked Dale for particulars about it, as to how long it had been
worked, why it had failed, and the state it was now in.
"It has failed because there wasn't enough tin to make it worth while
working," Dale told him. "We thought we were going to make a fortune out
of it, but it turned out the other way."
Despard nodded and stroked his black moustache thoughtfully. "I know
something about the Cornish mines, and I've got a bit of money in one or
two of them. As you know, they restarted working a year or two ago, and
they're doing well now. There might still be money in yours, Mr. Dale."
"You're welcome to all you can find," the old man laughed.
Rupert and Robert Despard spent the whole of one afternoon exploring the
mine. The examination was not made without danger and difficulty. To
Rupert's surprise very little water had penetrated the main shaft, and
Despard pointed out that the river and the surrounding bog-land probably
acted as drainage. It was easy to find traces of tin in the tunnel
right up to where the working had ceased.
"It ought to have paid to follow this up," Despard said thoughtfully.
"A case of too much capital or too little. Or else the engineer was a
duffer."
"You don't think it would pay to erect a new plant and start operations
again, do you?" Rupert said eagerly.
Despard shrugged his shoulders. "The risk would be too great. If it
were a gold mine, now, people would fall over one another to put money
into it. Or the magic word, radium!"
Despard stopped suddenly, and raising the light he carried glanced into
Rupert's face. He had been scraping and poking about in the bed of the
tunnel while he talked, using a short, pick-like instrument he had
commandeered from the farm.
He held out a small piece of black substance having something of the
colour and consistency of tar. He told Rupert to examine it closely.
The latter did so.
"Well?" Despard cried sharply. There was a trace of nervous excitement
in his voice which Rupert had never heard before.
"Well?" the latter said.
"Good Lord! no wonder you've been plucked three times!" Despard cried.
"Don't you know what this stuff is?"
Rupert examined it again. "Rather like pitch-blende."
"Yes--something," Despard sneered.
A sharp cry escaped Rupert's lips. He bent down and examined the black,
sticky substance more carefully.
"It is pitch-blende!"
"Extinguish the light," Despard said sharply.
Rupert obeyed. A long time they stood in the darkness. Presently
Despard commenced to dig and scrape the surface and sides of the tunnel.
After a little while he struck a match and re-lit the lantern.
"That was expecting rather too much," he whispered.
They collected the pitch-blende they had found, and putting it into his
handkerchief Despard dropped it into his pocket.
"I'll examine this and test it to-night. But don't say anything about
it, not even to your father. Just because we've found pitch-blende it
doesn't mean there's radium. But--they have found traces in some of the
Cornish mines, you know."
Marjorie was waiting for them at the surface of the mine. She gave a
shriek as she saw them, for their clothes were torn and discoloured, and
they were wet through.
"Well, how much tin did you find?" she asked jokingly. "Are you going
to make our fortunes?"
Despard looked at her. "Supposing I were to make a fortune for you,
what reward should I get?"
"Oh, fifty per cent. of the profits," she laughed, lowering her eyes.
"I shouldn't ask that," he whispered. "I should want something money
couldn't buy."
When they reached the farmhouse supper was waiting. It was growing
dark, and work was over for the day. John Dale had not returned home.
"We had better wait," Marjorie suggested, "He's never late. Probably he
has gone up to Post Bridge Hall to see Sir Reginald Crichton on
business."
The mention of Reginald Crichton's name reminded Rupert of what his
father had told him about having to mortgage the property. Supposing
there was anything in their discovery that afternoon the mortgage would
have to be paid off before anything else was done. He went up to
Despard's room and suggested that while they were waiting for supper
they should examine the sample of pitch-blende they had taken from the
mine.
Despard locked the door and laid the mass of putty-like substance on the
table. "To get a proper test we ought to take or send it up to town,"
he said. "But there's one simple method----"
He was interrupted by Marjorie calling to Rupert. "You're wanted at Post
Bridge Hall at once," she told him. "Father is there, and they've sent
a servant over to ask you to go up."
Rupert swore under his breath. "What on earth can the matter be? You
don't think anything has happened to--the old man?"
Marjorie shook her head. "I don't think so. The message is simply that
you're wanted."
Rupert put on his hat and hurried down the path which led to the main
road. Crossing Post Bridge he turned to the right and soon found
himself in the avenue that led to the Hall. It was situated fairly high
up under the shadow of the tors and surrounded by trees. Lights shone
cheerfully from all the windows. Before he could ring the front-door
bell Sir Reginald Crichton stepped out and met him.
"Sorry to trouble you," he said curtly; "but the matter is rather
important. Do you mind coming up to my study?"
Rupert followed, wondering what had happened. To his relief he saw his
father standing with his back to the fireplace.
Sir Reginald shut the door, then sitting down an old oak bureau motioned
Rupert to a seat. But the latter remained standing.
"Perhaps you will explain," said Sir Reginald, looking at John Dale.
Rupert looked from one man to the other, and he noticed that his
father's face was pale, the features drawn. Before speaking Dale
cleared his throat nervously.
"It's about that cheque I sent you eight days ago. Just before you left
London. A cheque for five pounds which Sir Reginald drew and made
payable to me. It wasn't crossed, so I endorsed it and sent it to you."
Rupert nodded. "Yes, I received it."
"And cashed it?" Sir Reginald spoke.
Rupert started. "No, I----" Again he looked from one man to the other.
He felt suddenly guilty. "As a matter of fact, I'm sorry to say I lost
it."
"Lost it? You never told me." Dale spoke. "Of course you wrote to the
bank?"
Rupert bit his lip. "I forgot all about it--in the excitement of
packing up and coming home."
John Dale was about to speak, but Crichton held up his hand. "Did the
loss of five pounds mean so little to you, then?" he asked Rupert.
The latter moistened his lips. His sense of guilt increased, though he
had only been guilty of gross carelessness. Yet, how could he explain
the situation?
"I was fearfully rushed and worried at the time," he said, fumbling for
words. "As a matter of fact, the morning I received it I went to the
races, and I only discovered the loss when I got back. I must have
pulled it out of my bag with some letters and papers. I hope--nothing
is wrong?"
Sir Reginald leant forward and stretched out his hand. "Look at this,
sir."
Rupert took the slip of paper he held out. It was a cheque. He saw
written across the back of it his father's name. He looked at the face
of the cheque.
"_Pay John Allen Dale or bearer the sum of five hundred pounds._" Then
underneath in figures "_L500 0s. 0d._"
"Exactly," Crichton said. Rising to his feet he stood in front of
Rupert and looked at him searchingly. "Your father sent you a cheque
for five pounds. Since it left your possession the pounds have been
changed to five hundred. That sum was paid out by my bankers.
Naturally, I want an explanation. Your father sent it to you. You
admit having received it, and say you lost it. I'm afraid that
explanation doesn't satisfy me."
"You don't mean to say you think----"
Rupert flared up, then stopped.
Five hundred pounds! The significance of the amount suddenly struck
him. The amount Ruby Strode had won for him over Ambuscade. Once again
he saw himself sitting in his rooms in Westminster facing ruin; he saw
himself take his revolver from the drawer and hold it to his breast.
Then he felt the arms of the woman he loved round him; he heard her
voice telling him it was a coward's way. And when he told her it was
the only way, she confessed that she had secretly backed the outsider
and won him five hundred pounds.
He began to tremble. His body became wet with perspiration. He heard
his father's voice raised apprehensively.
"Rupert, my boy. Speak, for God's sake, speak! Say you know nothing
about it."
Rupert raised his face and tried to look at his father. He did not see
him; he only saw the face of the woman he loved. She had confessed she
loved him better than life itself.
"Speak!" John Dale cried, his voice rising. "Speak!"
"Speak!" Sir Reginald Crichton echoed. "Confess that you are either
guilty--or not guilty."