A PROPOSAL.
The news of his son's arrest did not reach John Dale at once. Though
Rupert could have written or wired to him he naturally refrained from
doing so. The longer his father and sister remained in ignorance of the
crime of which he was accused, the better!
Bad news spreads quickly enough, and he wanted Ruby to remain in
ignorance, too. It was fortunate he had burnt her postcard as quickly
as he did. He had not answered it, and unless she wrote again when she
left Paris he would not know her address.
It was from the lips of Sir Reginald Crichton's son that John Dale
eventually learnt of Rupert's arrest. In Crichton's mind there was
little doubt but that Rupert was guilty of altering the cheque, and he
pitied the proud old farmer from the bottom of his heart.
For Sir Reginald also had an only son, one in whom all his hopes were
centred; he could enter into John Dale's feelings and he knew how this
blow would strike him. So he wrote to his son Jim, who was,
fortunately, at Post Bridge Hall on leave, and asked him to break the
news as best he could. Though father and son had no secrets from one
another, Jim had not yet told his father of his love for Marjorie Dale.
He himself knew there were many reasons against a definite announcement
of their engagement. He was still young; needless to say, he could not
live on his pay, and though his father made him an allowance it barely
covered his expenses. Flying was an expensive game, and, like all men
attached to the Royal Flying Corps, Jim's energy and keenness knew no
bounds. He was always experimenting, trying new engines, building new
machines--giving the benefit of his experience to his corps and to his
country.
And there was Marjorie's side of the question and her point of view to
be considered. Being both so young, having both been brought up in
natural healthy surroundings, it was impossible for them to hide their
feelings from one another, and before he was aware of it, Jim had
confessed his love and read a corresponding confession in Marjorie's
eyes.
It was not until afterwards, when quietly and soberly he thought out
their position and considered the question of their marriage, that he
realised love was all in all to a woman, but to him, while he had his
profession, it would only be part of his life. And that at present his
life was not his own. Not only did it belong to his country, but he
risked it almost daily. For that reason alone he felt he could not tie
Marjorie down to a formal engagement.
Sir Reginald Crichton little knew the effect his letter, telling his son
all about the altered cheque and Rupert Dale's arrest, would have on
him. Had he guessed he might not have written it.
He asked him to break the news to poor old John Dale, to tell him that
he, Sir Reginald, was seeing his son had the best legal advice that
could be obtained, and to advise Dale to come up to London immediately.
It was with a heavy heart that Jim Crichton walked over to Blackthorn
Farm early in the morning after he received Sir Reginald's letter. It
was not an easy or a pleasant job to tell another man's father that his
only son had been arrested on a criminal charge. He was rather annoyed
with his father for not writing direct to Dale. For, after all, he
could only blurt the news out in a way that might hurt more than if it
had been conveyed by letter.
Youth must always be a little egotistical and a little selfish, and what
troubled Jim most of all was the shock the news would give to the woman
he loved--and the effect it might have on their love and their future
life.
If Rupert Dale were guilty! Jim Crichton was a soldier, and so could
not help being a little conventional and having more respect sometimes
for the opinion of others than his own opinion. He had to consider what
the world thought and said. He knew he would have to consider his own
position as well as his father's. And he knew as he walked along the
banks of the purling Dart in which Rupert and he had often fished
together as boys, that before seeing Marjorie and telling her, he would
have to make up his mind as to the position he would take up in this
wretched affair--if her brother were found guilty. He knew it meant
that the Dales would be ruined, probably financially as well as
socially.
In the West country a social sin is never forgiven, never forgotten.
They would have to leave Devonshire and go far away. And he might never
see Marjorie again.
He halted, sat down on a giant boulder, and looked across the bleak
moorland to Blackthorn Farm not a quarter of a mile away. At that
moment he realised for the first time how deeply he loved Marjorie Dale.
Better than anyone else in the world; more than anyone else in the
world. She even came before his profession.
It was with a shock he discovered this. But he had to confess it to
himself.
He could not give her up. Not even though her brother were convicted of
being a criminal and sent to prison.
It was a glorious summer day. The sun was rising in a cloudless blue
sky. A gentle wind brought the scent of gorse. Here and there streaks
of purple showed in red heather where it had burst into bloom. Now and
then a trout leapt with a noisy splash in the pool at his feet.
A long time James Crichton sat on the granite boulder lost in thought,
trying to look at the thing from every point of view, arguing and
reasoning with himself. No matter what happened, he could not give up
Marjorie. If he had only considered his own feelings, it might have
been possible, even though it meant a broken heart. But she loved him.
He belonged to her; she looked to him for her future life and happiness.
She had done no wrong. Why should she, he asked himself, suffer for her
brother's sin?
He could save her, even though it meant humbling himself, even though it
meant giving up the profession he loved.
He knew the decision to which he had come would hurt his father
terribly; but if it came to a choice between him and Marjorie, he knew
he should choose the woman who was destined to be his mate; the girl,
the whole of whose life lay before her, rather than the man, his own
father whose life had been lived.
It was a terrible choice, perhaps a strange one. But Jim instinctively
felt he was right.
So deep was his reverie that he did not hear a light step on the grassy
ground. A hand was laid on his shoulder and he started, looked up, and
found Marjorie smiling into his face.
"My dear!" he cried, jumping to his feet. "My dearest!"
He took her in his arms with a passion she had never felt before and
held her so fiercely that she would have cried out with the pain had she
not loved him as she did.
"Jim.... You frightened me--and I thought to frighten you," she panted
when he released her. "You don't know how strong you are." She glanced
at him, her cheeks scarlet, the love and dawn of passion swimming in her
eyes. She wore no hat and her hair shone in the golden sunshine. Her
neck and arms were bare, and her short, workman-like skirt showed her
tiny, well-bred ankles and long, narrow feet. Jim looked at her
silently, hungrily.
Slowly her colour fled and she came close to him again, holding out her
hands. "Is anything wrong?"
Without replying he put his arm around her and led her away towards
Blackthorn Farm.
Some one lounging on Post Bridge might see them. A labourer in the
fields, or a farmer on the hills, who would carry the news back to his
cottage at night that he had seen the young master of Post Bridge Hall
making love to old John Dale's daughter. But he did not care--now.
Every one should soon know that they loved and that Marjorie was to be
his affianced wife.
He told her as gently as he could what had happened. Of course, he made
as light of it as possible, assuring her that Rupert would be released
and the affair cleared up satisfactorily.
"That's why the guv'nor wrote to me instead of your father and asked me
to tell him and see him off to London. He was afraid if he wrote Mr.
Dale would put the worst construction possible on the affair. It's
quite a common thing for a man to be arrested by mistake on some scraps
of evidence the police get hold of.... Don't you worry, Marjorie.
You've got to leave all the worrying to me in future."
She tried to smile and press his hand, but the happiness had left her
eyes and her face was very pale now. "I'm frightened," she whispered.
"I can't help it, Jim--if father goes to London I must go with him."
But James Crichton shook his head. "That's just what you mustn't do.
That friend of Rupert's I saw the other day will see him safely up to
town. Despard was his name, wasn't it? I suppose he's still here?"
Marjorie nodded. "Yes. He and Rupert had made some discovery in the
old tin-mine. They were awfully excited about it." She tried to laugh.
"They were going to find radium and make a fortune, I believe. I heard
them say something about it.... Oh, Jim, we were so happy and
everything seemed to be turning out so well. And now this has happened.
Rupert--it can't be true. Of course, I know it isn't true. It will
kill father."
Jim forced himself to laugh. "My dear, we shall have him back here
within a week. You mustn't think anything more about it. There's
something else I want to tell you. I'm going to announce our
engagement--at once."
She looked at him with unbelieving eyes, almost as if she could not
understand. Then she shook her head.
"Not now, Jim. We must wait until--until Rupert's free; this charge
against him disproved."
He shook his head, and, stopping, held her in his arms again. "Darling,
if by any chance the worst should happen, it would make no difference to
our love! Nothing would force me to give you up. That's why I'm going
to announce our engagement now. Now, while this thing is hanging over
our heads."
Again she would have protested, but he silenced her. "I've made up my
mind, nothing can change it."
Holding her hand he led her forward and opened the gate that led into
the farmhouse garden. As they entered they saw Despard lounging in a
chair on the lawn reading the morning newspaper, a pipe between his
lips. He glanced up as they entered, smiled at Marjorie, and without
taking the pipe from his lips, or rising, gave Jim Crichton a curt nod.
"Bounder!" was the latter's silent ejaculation. But he saw old John Dale
standing in the doorway, so, giving Marjorie's hand a gentle pressure,
he left her.
Telling Mr. Dale he had something to say to him in private he entered
the dining-room.
"You bring me bad news of my son," Dale said quietly. "I know it."
"How did you?" Jim asked, off his guard. "Surely it hasn't got into the
local papers."
Dale stepped forward instantly, then, gripping the back of his chair,
sat down. "So, it's true," he said in a broken voice. "It's true." He
gave a mirthless laugh. Jim tried to speak, but the words refused to
come. He would have done anything to spare the father of the girl he
loved. He would have borrowed the money from his father, hushed the
affair up, and repaid the bank. He would have done anything.
"It's true he has been arrested," Jim said after he had given the old
man time to recover himself. "But I'm quite sure he will be able to
prove his innocence. I know my father thinks so, too. Indeed, he
himself is employing the best legal advice he can obtain, and will see
he is given every chance of defending himself. We want you to come up
to town, if you will, sir, and, if possible, to catch the train to-day."
He glanced at the grandfather clock in a corner of the room. "There is
one that leaves Newton Abbot about two-thirty, I think. I can motor you
in. I am sure Mr. Despard will accompany you."
John Dale shook his head slowly to and fro. "Yes, I must go up. I must
see him," he whispered. He rose to his feet and held out his hand.
"You're too good, Mr. James. I'm afraid--I'm afraid----"
"You needn't be," Jim interrupted quickly. "Rupert's innocent, I'll
swear. Anyway, we'll see to him and see that justice is done."
"Yes; that's so. Justice must be done at all costs." John Dale raised
his head and looked proudly at Sir Reginald Crichton's son.
The latter took his hand and shook it warmly. "Then I'll be round with
the motor in about an hour's time. Perhaps you'll warn Mr. Despard that
you want him to go with you. Anyway, under the circumstances, he could
not be left here alone with your daughter, could he?"
He walked to the door, then stopped. "There's something else I would
like to say, sir, though it may not seem quite the moment. I love your
daughter Marjorie: I hope to make her my wife. With your permission I
should like to announce our engagement at once."
It was a long time before Dale replied. "That's impossible now. But I
thank you, Mr. Crichton.... It is just the sort of thing I--I would have
expected--from Sir Reginald's son."
The old man broke down then, and Jim saw tears coursing down the lined
and furrowed cheeks. He bit his lip. "It is not impossible, sir. I
want to announce the engagement now; now, at this moment, while this
charge is hanging over your son's head. Do you think a thing like that
would make any difference to my love for your daughter? It's at this
moment she wants my love and the protection of my name. And she shall
have it."
Without waiting for a reply he opened the door. Dale stopped him.
"I ought to tell you," he said unsteadily, "that last night Mr. Despard,
Rupert's friend, made the same request--told me he loved Marjorie and
asked for her hand."
"What did you say?"
"Of course, I refused," Dale replied. "Why, they've only known each
other a few days. But, putting that aside, I'm afraid I dislike and
distrust the man. I feel he's one of the men who has led my son into
bad ways."
He bent over the table and bowed his head between his hands. Again
there was a long silence.
"You have no objection to me as a son-in-law, Mr. Dale?"
"Surely that question needs no answer--but, please say no more now.
Leave me, Mr. James."
Quietly closing the door behind him Jim walked out of the house into the
garden. Taking no notice of Mr. Despard, he drew Marjorie aside and
told her what had happened.
"I am driving your father--and Mr. Despard--to Newton Abbot in about an
hour's time. When I come back we'll have a little run in the car--tea
together at Moretonhampstead, perhaps. Or, better still, we'll go over
to Hey Tor and have a picnic on our own. Cheer up, darling, all will be
well, I know."
Bending down, he kissed her in full view of Robert Despard. The latter
scrunched the _Western Morning News_ up between his hands with an oath.
Waving a farewell to Marjorie, Jim swung through the gate and hurried
across the moorlands towards Post Bridge Hall.
An hour later he was driving both John Dale and Mr. Robert Despard to
Newton Abbot junction. And he could not help feeling some satisfaction
when the train carried the latter gentleman away from Devonshire back to
London.