FORGERY.
Before leaving London, Rupert, at Despard's suggestion, had applied for
an order to go over the convict prisons at Princetown. It arrived the
morning following the interview with Sir Reginald Crichton.
Perhaps because he had lived under the shadow of the prisons all his
life, the idea of visiting them (as strangers and tourists from the
cities often did) never occurred to him. The great granite building
standing on the top of the hill above the West Dart, ugly, ominous, a
blot on nature, man's menace to mankind, had never interested him or
caused him to think for a moment of the unfortunate beings who were
incarcerated there. It was just a landmark, almost part of the life of
the moorlands. He knew that originally, in the days long past, French
prisoners of war had been kept there, the men against whom his ancestors
had fought. It was some time after the war was over and peace declared
that it had been rebuilt and turned into a penal establishment.
Despard wanted to go over it for reasons Rupert could not understand;
but he agreed to take him with just the same tolerance with which
Despard himself might have shown the Tower of London or Madame Tussaud's
to his sister Marjorie.
As a matter of fact, now that the order had come and Despard was anxious
to make use of it at once, Rupert felt grateful. It served as an excuse
to spend the day away from the farm--and the Crichton family. They made
him feel, if not exactly guilty, at least ashamed of himself. He had
passed a sleepless night, and during the long, silent hours he had
examined his conscience and not found it as clean as it had been the
last time he slept in that little room overlooking the valley of the
Dart.
Life in London was complex: by his own actions he had made it more
complicated, and by his ignorance of men and women and the ways of the
world. It seemed as if he had never had time in the city to examine
himself or to consider his actions, scarcely time to think.
The only rest for the worker in London is excitement. Down here on the
moorlands it was good to be alone--if one had eyes to see, ears to hear,
and a soul to understand nature.
In London loneliness was a terrible thing: loneliness of streets that
had no end, of walls that could not be scaled, of windows through which
one might gaze and find no perspective.
A lonely man in London was very like a convict in Dartmoor prison. For
so many hours of the day he was let out to work; for the remainder he
could eat or sleep or gaze at the great walls of his prison and listen
to the footsteps of those who passed along the apparently unending
corridors--the streets of his city.
Rupert had at first found relaxation in seeing London from the top of a
penny omnibus, in attending football matches, and occasionally visiting
the pits of theatres. And then, as he made friends music halls and card
parties became the attraction, with occasionally a race meeting near
London, followed, perhaps, by a "burst" at a "night club."
And the harder he studied to pass his examination the more insistently
did his brain demand rest, and, failing rest, excitement. Without
pausing to think he had fed it, pandered to desires sometimes unnatural,
always unhealthy, and generally expensive.
The meeting with Ruby Strode had come too late. At first she appeared
in the guise of another form of excitement. But slowly, as he realised
her worth and his own stupidity, and discovered that he loved her, he
put on the brake.
But debts had accumulated; though he gave up card parties and wine
parties he found that friendship with an actress of the Ingenue Theatre
was an expensive luxury. Falling in love made him reckless; and when he
knew that it really was love, pride prevented him from telling Ruby the
position of his affairs. He left her to find out for herself.
There was one advantage in this. It had proved the sincerity of her
affection. She had not realised the seriousness of the situation until
the fatal day when Rupert took her down to the races, and laughingly
told her that his future life and happiness depended on the favourite
winning the big race of the day.
That it meant her future life and happiness, too, perhaps had not
occurred to him. Men are inclined to overlook the women's point of view
in these matters. He did not think, and not until the race was over and
he was back in his lodgings in Westminster did he realise the havoc he
had wrought on other lives--his father's, his sister's, and the life of
the woman he loved.
Then the miracle happened. He burnt his boats behind him and left
London with a light heart, quite certain he would never make a fool of
himself again.
And now Sir Reginald Crichton made him realise that his folly might
pursue him for some little time. Rupert had made the mistake of
thinking that by repentance he could wipe out the past.
The start was made for Princetown shortly after breakfast--for which
meal Rupert put in a late appearance. He was afraid to face his father.
At the same time a feeling of resentment had grown in his heart, quite
unreasonably he knew.
He had hurt the old man, as sometimes he affectionately called him. He
had disappointed him. Not one word of blame had escaped John Dale's
lips. As yet he had not questioned Rupert as to the manner of his life
in London or asked the reasons which had made him run into debt. But
Rupert knew what he felt. It was written on the wrinkled, care-worn
face. He had aged in the past twelve hours.
Rupert did his best to dismiss Ruby from his thoughts. If his father
discovered that he was engaged to be married there would be further
complications, and the barrier which had so suddenly risen between them
would grow.
And there were other reasons why he did not want to think of her;
reasons he would not admit to himself, and yet which continually
intruded themselves in his brain.
Absurd fears; doubts; unwarrantable suspicions.
"To look at you, my dear fellow, one would think you were being hauled
off to Princetown to do seven years penal servitude. For heaven's sake
buck up and say something."
Despard spoke; they were swinging along the moorland road at a good
pace, just dropping down the hill to the valley through which the little
Cherry Brook rushes to join the Dart.
Marjorie laughed. She was accompanying them as far as the prison, and
while they went over it she was going on into the town to do some
marketing. She was wearing a short, workman-like little skirt and high
lace boots. She carried her hat in her hand and the wind blew through
her hair; the sunshine made it gleam like dull gold.
"I believe Rupert's bored," she said, "and he's already longing for the
excitement and gaiety of London. You must find it awfully dull here,
Mr. Despard. You don't look a bit like the type of man who would enjoy
roughing it--for that's what I suppose you call living in a farmhouse on
Dartmoor."
"I'm having the time of my life," Despard replied cheerfully. "I was
wondering last night whether I could persuade you to take me as a
permanent paying guest."
"Like the people who stay at the post office and the inn during the
summer months? Do you know," she said, looking at him out of her
beautiful grey eyes, "I always feel so sorry for those people; they look
unhappy and never seem to have anything to do but to drive about in
brakes or motor-cars, or, if the day's wet, wander about holding up an
umbrella. If I had to choose between the two, I'd rather be a convict
in the prisons than a paying guest."
Despard shrugged his shoulders. "Well, one never knows one's luck.
What do you say, Rupert?"
Rupert started. He had not been listening to the conversation. "I
can't imagine what pleasure you think you're going to get in looking at
a lot of poor brutes, half of whom will probably never know freedom
again: thieves, murderers, robbers, and heaven knows what else. The
Zoological Gardens in London are depressing enough, heavens knows; this
will be worse."
"Not a bit of it," Despard replied. "I believe they're awfully well
looked after. Sort of glorified rest-cure. As I said just now, one
never knows one's luck. You and I might find ourselves en route to
Princetown one day, handcuffed between a couple of warders. I always
like to be prepared for eventualities. I believe convicts are allowed
to choose the work for which they are best adapted or find themselves
suited, so keep your eyes open this morning, Rupert, and pick out the
softest job."
They paused for a few moments on Cherry Brook bridge, gazed into the
pool on the left and watched the trout sporting. The waters sang as
they tumbled over the granite rocks and swirled beneath the bracken and
heather which overhung the peat banks. In the distance a sheep bell
tinkled. Now and again one of the wild Dartmoor ponies neighed. The air
was sweet with the faint smell of gorse.
Rupert sighed. He almost wished he had never left the moorlands. His
father had doubtless sent him to London to make a gentleman of him with
the best intentions in the world. But it was a mistake. They were
moorland folk. The land belonged to them and they to the land. He was
not suited to the city or the ways of the men who dwelt in it.
A mirthless laugh escaped his lips, and Marjorie looked at him and laid
her hand on his. "What's the matter, Rupert? You're not worried, are
you, dear."
"Oh, he's in love, that's all," Despard grinned. And he looked at
Marjorie. "I suppose you've never been in love, Miss Dale, so you can't
sympathise with that blessed but unhappy frame of mind."
They watched the course of the Cherry Brook as it wound in and out, to
and fro, making a complete circle here, almost a triangle there, finally
disappearing behind the ridge of hill. There was a wistful look in
Marjorie's eyes.
"I think I've always been in love--in love with life. I suppose that
sounds stupid, or sentimental, to you."
"Life will fall in love with you one day, and be revenged."
She shook her head. "For a woman life is love, and love is life. For a
man I suppose it consists of fighting.... She gives life, he takes it."
"Rather a queer point of view," Despard laughed.
"But life is queer, isn't it?" she answered gravely. "If all one reads
is true. The greatest nations are the most densely populated, where all
the men bear arms--and the women bear children that the men who are
killed may be replaced! It does seem a waste, but I suppose one day we
shall find something better to do."
"Let's get on," Despard suggested. "You've got a pretty stiff hill to
tackle. And I'm a town bird, remember, and can't go the pace you can."
He rather wished that Rupert had stayed at home so that he could have
had a _tete-a-tete_ with Marjorie.
Rupert did not seem inclined to take the hint he had given him the
previous evening; possibly he knew his reputation with women too well to
trust him.
To Despard, Marjorie Dale was unique, and her beauty refreshing after
the faded and painted women he knew in London. She was a strange
mixture of innocence and fearlessness which appealed to him strongly.
The fact that he could not understand her was an added attraction. Not
an easy woman to make love to, and he knew she would be a very difficult
woman to win.
For the moment he only wanted to amuse himself, but to do that with any
measure of safety or success he knew he would have to superficially play
the game. That was why he had hinted to Rupert that he was falling in
love with Marjorie.
They reached the prison gates just before mid-day. The town itself lay
a little distance beyond, with a couple of hotels and a little railway
station, and quite a good sprinkling of shops. The two men agreed to
meet Marjorie an hour later, and Despard insisted on lunching at the
principal hotel.
They watched Marjorie out of sight. Ringing the bell outside the great
gates, a porter appeared from his lodge, examined the order, and
admitted them.
They were kept waiting a little while in the porter's lodge. Eventually
a warder appeared and asked them to sign their names in a large book
which was kept there for the purpose. They had to fill in their places
of residence, their professions, and various other details.
"I almost feel as if I were signing my own warrant," Despard chuckled.
He looked at the warder. "I suppose we shall be let out again?"
"We shall be only too happy to let you go, sir," the man replied without
moving a muscle of his clean-shaven, emotionless face.
Despard linked his arm through Rupert's as the chief warder led them
across the great stone square and put them in charge of a subordinate.
"For heaven's sake smile, man, or they'll really think you've done time
here. That's exactly what you look like."
"I can't see that there's anything to smile at. Other people's
misfortunes never amuse me."
"Think of your own, then," Despard replied, "that will cheer you up. By
the way, have you heard from Ruby since you left town?"
Rupert's cheeks flushed. He was saved the necessity of replying, by the
warder halting them outside another gate. It was opened with much
jangling of keys.
Though the sun was shining outside it could not penetrate here. The
building was almost entirely of granite, cold and grey. There was no
relief for the eye anywhere; just harsh granite underfoot, overhead, and
on all sides. Rupert, free man though he was, felt a strange sense of
repulsion, a childish desire to beat against those granite walls, to try
and break them down, to escape.
The whole time he was in the building, anywhere within the surrounding
walls of the prison, he felt as if he were a prisoner. Now and then he
heard the warder explaining. He found it difficult to pay any attention
to him.
Despard, on the other hand, was interested in everything, asking
innumerable questions, watching convicts at work and inspecting their
work. Almost every kind of trade seemed to be carried on within the
prison walls. Tailors, saddlers, shoemakers, basket-makers. The men
sat or stood in rows, each one a certain distance apart from his
fellows; and in the middle and at the end of each row was a warder.
Absolute silence reigned, a silence that to an imaginative person like
Rupert could be felt, almost seen. It seemed to be part of the stone
corridors, the granite walls. And granite appeared to be beaten into
the convicts' souls until the expression of it was graven on their
faces. Like their walls they were cold, grey, silent. Here and there a
few retained traces of humanity; others suggested primeval men of the
stone age, though they wore no hair on their faces and their heads had
been shaven until nothing but innumerable spikes stood erect from the
scalp.
Each man bent over his work as if he were absorbed in it. Rupert,
watching closely, noticed their eyes roved here and there, moving
quickly, sometimes fearfully; like the eyes of an animal ever on the
watch. Sometimes their lips moved, too, though not a sound escaped
them.
They passed into the kitchens--here there was blessed warmth again and
the smell of newly-baked bread--through innumerable corridors and
passages.
They were shown into a cell, A.C. 2061. "Just room enough to die"--as
Despard humorously expressed it.
The cells in which the majority of prisoners were confined were built in
the middle of a square, the floors rising one above the other, all
securely railed off, so that one warder on guard above, could command a
view of every cell in the square.
Rupert felt a sense of relief when they reached the porter's lodge
again. They had to wait a moment while a gang of convicts marched in
through the courtyard. They were accompanied by warders with loaded
carbines. They had been at work out on the moorlands, quarrying and
farming and digging peat.
"Well, I hope you're satisfied," Rupert said, when they found themselves
walking along the road towards Princetown. "I felt a beast all the
time. I only wonder the poor brutes didn't get up and go for us."
"Oh, they're happy enough," Despard said carelessly. "But, I confess
it's good to be outside again in the air and the sunshine, and, by gad!
it has given me an appetite. I hope the local hotel can provide us with
something to eat."
They met Marjorie just outside the market-place, and though all she
wanted was a little bread and cheese and a glass of milk, Despard
insisted on ordering a big luncheon and opening a bottle of champagne.
"We want something to take the taste of the granite out of our mouths,"
he laughed.
Rupert's spirits rose when they started to walk back to Blackthorn Farm.
Marjorie found an opportunity of telling him that she had bought herself
some material for a new dress, and made several purchases for her
wardrobe out of the money he had given her. Her pride and pleasure in
having money to spend made him realise how selfish he had been, and he
again made a solemn vow that when he returned to London he would work
day and night and not spend a penny more than was necessary.
Ruby would help him in that, he knew, and he would no longer have any
shame in appearing before her in his true light.
He had been afraid that when she knew he was a poor man he would lose
her. And but for her he would now be ruined!
That evening after supper John Dale drew his son aside. Rupert realised
that an interview was inevitable, and though he dreaded it he knew that
the moment had come. He expected some kind of a lecture, a warning on
the folly of gambling and living beyond his means, and an appeal as to
his future conduct. He knew his father would not be angry, probably
would not even blame him for what he had done. He almost wished he
would. It would be easier than kindness and the pain and disappointment
he saw in the old man's eyes whenever he looked at him.
To his surprise Dale made no reference to the past. He simply told him
that Sir Reginald had received a letter that morning from his bankers,
and he outlined the contents.
The cheque which Rupert had lost and which had since been altered from
five to five hundred pounds, had been brought to the bank by a messenger
boy, who was given the amount in gold and notes.
On enquiry at the office from which the messenger had been despatched,
it had been ascertained that a young man had handed the cheque in to the
office in an envelope addressed to the bank, and he had called later on
for the money, which had been handed him.
Rupert listened with a sense of relief. "Have they traced the man?" he
asked.
Dale shook his head. "Not yet. But, of course, now the affair is in
the hands of the police. The manager of the district messenger office
where the message was handed in described him as a tall, fair man with a
slight moustache, well dressed, and, as far as he remembered, wearing a
tall silk hat, and a light overcoat." Dale laid his hand affectionately
on his son's shoulder. "Last night, at one dreadful moment, I had a
feeling that Sir Reginald suspected you, my boy, so this is a great
relief to me."
Rupert laughed a little uneasily. "I suppose it did seem rather queer
my losing the beastly cheque and Sir Reginald knowing we were so awfully
hard up for money. But you see, father, it arrived at a critical
moment, just when I was awaiting the result of my exam., knowing I was
dreadfully in debt, and I had made up my mind to risk everything by
backing the favourite in the big race. The money I had in hand was
borrowed money. I know now it was rotten of me and I'm awfully ashamed.
I promise you I shan't make a fool of myself again. I've--I've plenty
of money to go on with, and if you want any----"
Dale shook his head. "I'm old-fashioned, I daresay you'll laugh at me.
If I were a rich man I don't say I wouldn't do a bit of gambling myself
occasionally. But we're poor, and perhaps that makes me extra proud.
Keep your money, my boy; pay all your debts, but don't ask me to take
any. I couldn't take money that you had won like that. You had no
right to take the risk; therefore, to me it almost seems as if you had
no right to the money. But it's too late to go back now, so use what's
left, but use it carefully for your own sake."
Rupert bowed his head. He made up his mind to make a clean breast of
everything, to tell his father about Ruby Strode and his love for her.
But just as he was about to speak Dale interrupted him.
"I'm afraid you'll have to start by going back to town to-morrow
morning. Sir Reginald left to-day and he said he was afraid it would be
necessary for you to go up. It will only be for a couple of days, I
expect, and you'll come straight back here, won't you?"
Rupert nodded. "Of course--I'll go if necessary, but I can't see why I
should be wanted. I've told Sir Reginald all I know."
Dale cleared his throat uneasily. "It's not Sir Reginald, it's the
officials at the bank and--Scotland Yard has charge of the affair. They
want you to give them an exact account of your movements, what you did
and where you went on the day you received and lost the cheque. It's
the least you can do under the circumstances, my boy. You see, if the
money's not recovered, I shall have to make it good."
Rupert nodded and said no more. His heart sank again. Yes, unless the
bank recovered the money, whether his father was legally liable or not,
Rupert knew that if it meant selling the old homestead and everything he
possessed in the world to pay Sir Reginald, he would do so.
After all, perhaps he had won only to lose.
Before going to bed that night he knocked at the door of Marjorie's
room, and he sat on the edge of her bed just as he had been accustomed
to do in the old days when they were boy and girl together with not a
thought in the world to trouble them, happy and contented in the life
and work of the moorlands.
At first they talked of little things, things which had lost their
importance to Rupert, but still went to make up life for Marjorie. Then
she fell to questioning him, asking him about his life in London, and if
he were happy.
"Somehow, you've changed," she confessed. "You don't look as well or so
jolly as you used to. There's nothing seriously wrong, is there, old
boy?"
He shook his head. "I'm all right. I've a secret which I want to tell
you soon, but it's one that makes me happy, and I hope it will make you
happy, too.... Of course, now you'll guess, but don't say anything.
While I'm away I don't want you to be too much alone with Despard. He's
all right, but he's a man's man--the sort of fellow who makes love to
every pretty woman he sees. He can't help it, you know."
Marjorie sat up in her bed and laughed. "Is that a man's man?"
Rupert did not reply, but continued: "Last night, as I was coming back
from Post Bridge Hall, I saw you and young Crichton pass me on the
bridge. I don't want to interfere, dear, but, somehow, I wondered
whether--it looked as though you cared for one another, perhaps----"
Marjorie's cheeks grew the colour of red roses. And, looking at her, as
she sat up in her little white bed, with her auburn hair falling in wild
disorder about her shoulders, her sun-kissed arms and neck warm against
the white lace of her nightgown, he realised for the first time with
something like a shock how very beautiful she was. Being a brother he
had taken her for granted. He had only looked at her with a brother's
eyes. Now he saw her as a man sees a woman; young, in the first flush
of youth with warm blood in her veins, a body moulded and made for love.
"Yes, we do love one another," she whispered. "He wants me to marry him
one day, but I haven't promised yet. Our positions are so different.
I'm not good enough for him."
Rupert laughed. "You, not good enough!"
Marjorie nodded. "That's just what he said when I told him. But it's
true. I'm only a farmer's daughter; he's the son of a gentleman. Don't
say anything more, dear," as Rupert was about to reply. "Time will
tell. If we really care for one another we can both wait until we're
quite sure."
Bending down Rupert kissed his sister very gently. There were tears in
his eyes. He rose from the bed and blew out the candle and the room was
in darkness.
"To tell you the truth, I've been a bit of a rotter since I've been in
London," he said, finding it easier to speak in the darkness. "Owing to
my stupidity and selfishness, I've got to go up to town to-morrow, but
it will only be for a couple of days, and when I come back I'll tell you
my secret. For I've fallen in love, Marjorie. I'm beginning to feel as
you do--that I'm not good enough for her.... She's wonderful."
He groped his way towards the door and opened it.
"I'm glad, dear," Marjorie whispered. "Good-night."
"Good-night," he replied as he shut the door quietly and went to his own
room.
Perhaps it was true. Marjorie was only the daughter and he the son of a
farmer. That was why he had made such a mess of things in London. But
his eyes had been opened just in time. Love had opened them.
A farmer's son. But his father's ambition should be realised. He would
learn to be a man and a gentleman.