ALARMED.
Marjorie Dale only remained at Blackthorn Farm after her father's return
from London long enough to nurse him back to health. When he had
completely recovered from the effects of his accident she left home,
Devonshire, and all she knew and loved. She went away as much in
deference to her lover's wishes as to her father's, though so far as her
own feelings were concerned she would have preferred to remain at Post
Bridge and face public opinion--scandal, cruelty, and calumny. She knew
that both she and her father would be social outcasts.
She had connections on her mother's side living at Calais. They were in
the lace trade, and had spent the best part of their lives out of
England. To them Marjorie was sent--not altogether as a guest. In return
for a home and protection she was expected to play the part of nursery
governess to their children and help in the housework.
No one was more delighted at this arrangement than Sir Reginald
Crichton. Marjorie would be away for at least six months, and during
that time much might happen.
Jim would learn to forget; work would help him.
He was so grateful that he made the mistake of thanking Marjorie for the
step she was taking. But she read his thoughts as she had done before:
she knew what he hoped would come from this parting between Jim and her.
"I'm going away, not for my father's sake, nor for yours, nor my own,
but for Jim's sake," she explained. "I know that the parting will only
strengthen our love, and his determination to marry me. With him I
believe that love is the greatest thing in the world." She smiled when
Sir Reginald shrugged his shoulders. "I know it's an unfashionable
belief, yet everything in the world depends on love. The greatest men
have always been the greatest lovers; even soldiers, sailors, and Empire
builders. When I return from abroad Jim is going to announce our
engagement. I'm not entirely selfish in agreeing to this; for I know
that his happiness and his future lie in my hand."
Sir Reginald had nothing to say. He had proved that argument was
useless. His son's attitude was a severe blow to him. For the moment
love was stronger than reason or ambition, but he still believed that by
waiting, love would weaken and even Jim would listen to wiser and more
worldly counsels.
So Marjorie bade her lover farewell one grey autumn morning and left for
France--but not before she had had an unpleasant interview with Robert
Despard and taken a very unhappy farewell of her father.
For when Despard brought the old man back from London, he had stayed on
at Blackthorn Farm, and he had seized every opportunity of making love
to Marjorie--even after she had told him his case was hopeless, that her
heart was already given.
Despard had merely laughed and said he intended to win her in spite of
all opposition. At first his attitude puzzled her, for she could not
conceive why a man of his type should wish to marry into a family whose
name was now a byword in the county. Her father encouraged him,
moreover, and did everything in his power to make her look kindly on
Despard's suit.
It was only the night before she left for Calais that she discovered the
reason.
Despard had insisted on paying off the mortgage which Sir Reginald held
on Blackthorn Farm, and the homestead was once again her father's
property. Crichton, too, had acted very generously in the matter of
paying the conveyancing expenses himself.
Instead of being grateful, Marjorie was shocked and horrified. It
seemed as if the three men had laid their heads together and planned
this thing to put her in their power. It was a trick on Despard's part,
and Sir Reginald had helped him--not really for John Dale's sake, but in
order to save his own son from what he considered would be a
mesalliance.
To a certain extent she was right. But Despard had another and stronger
motive for his generosity in paying off the mortgage on the farm and
handing the estate back to the man who had, only a month or two ago,
been a stranger to him. The reason was to be found in the old tin mine
where Rupert and he had suddenly discovered the presence of
pitch-blende, firing their imaginations with thoughts of radium--and a
fortune.
News of what was happening in the outside world seldom reached Marjorie
in Calais. And the only news she received of what was taking place in
the wilds of Dartmoor was contained in a weekly letter from her father.
He refrained from telling her everything. Jim wrote to her daily. They
were very wonderful letters telling her of his work, telling her of his
love. But for those letters she would never have remained for half
those long, weary months in the conventional Anglo-French family in the
sleepy little town of Calais.
But even Jim did not know what was taking place at Blackthorn Farm until
the news became public property, and the great boom which Despard
cleverly engineered was burst on a credulous, Tango-dancing world.
By that time Marjorie had returned home to find Despard ensconsed at
Blackthorn Farm, the land surrounded and over-run by a small army of
men, and Jim Crichton still absent with his corps at Netheravon.
Marjorie hardly recognised her old home. It was over nine months since
her brother had been convicted and sentenced. A change had taken place,
too, in her, and she knew it. Six months abroad had made a great
difference--mentally and physically. She had looked forward to
returning to Blackthorn Farm in spite of its loneliness and the bitter
memories she knew she would find there.
Her father met her at Newton Abbot station, and it was some minutes
before he found her in the crowd of passengers who alighted from the
West of England express. To the old man it seemed as if she had grown
up suddenly. Grown from a girl into a woman. From a farmer's daughter
into a lady.
"Why, how swagger we have become," he smiled. "I almost took you for a
Frenchwoman with that smart little hat and dress, and those ridiculous
shoes! It's lucky we haven't brought the dogcart, so you won't have to
walk up the hills."
Marjorie imagined they would take the train to Moretonhampstead, and
from thence by motor omnibus to Post Bridge. When she had collected her
luggage, John Dale led her across the bridge and out of the station.
And there she saw Robert Despard waiting in a motor-car. He seized the
reluctant hand she gave him, and after pressing it warmly, put it to his
lips.
"Welcome home!" he cried; then, turning to Dale: "By Jove, what a fine
lady she's become! She'll be able to play the part to perfection, eh?"
Marjorie flushed with resentment and disappointment. Despard was the
last person in the world she wanted to see.
"Have I got to drive home in that thing?" she cried, pointing
disdainfully to the motor-car.
While the luggage was being strapped on, Dale explained that it belonged
to Mr. Despard, and that he kindly allowed them to make use of it.
"It belongs to the syndicate," Despard replied. "There have been great
happenings at Post Bridge since you went away, Marjorie. I'm afraid
you'll find the place changed--not the farmhouse itself, but the
surrounding waste land."
"Mr. Despard has discovered that we've been living with a fortune under
our feet all these years," Dale explained.
He looked anxiously at his daughter and took her hand; but she made no
response. After two or three attempts at conversation when the car had
started, Dale relapsed into silence. It was not easy to talk at the
pace they went, with the wind singing in their ears. And in his heart,
too, he felt a little afraid of Marjorie. A little frightened at the
quick march of events since she had been away. And perhaps just a
little ashamed.
Marjorie guessed what had happened. When Blackthorn Farm was reached,
she knew. But instead of feeling grateful or elated, disgust seized
her. Within a few hundred yards of the farm, hideous corrugated iron
buildings had sprung up; the land all around the tin mine had been
cleared and levelled. Plant was being erected; scattered here and there
were temporary dwellings, and offices for the workmen; a miniature
railway line had already been laid on the ancient granite track. Tears
rose to her eyes as she looked at the desecration that had been done to
her moorlands and her home.
"Whose work is this?" she asked. "Mr. Despard's, of course! I suppose
Sir Reginald gave permission----"
Dale explained all that had happened, and the generous part Despard had
played. "I owe him a debt I can never repay. Ruin stared us in the
face, Marjorie, and through him it has been averted. When--when my boy
comes out of prison--though I hope I shall not live to see that day--he
will at least have the chance of living a decent life, of wiping out the
crime he committed, and becoming a useful citizen. He will have the
opportunity, for he will be a rich man. God grant that he takes it."
Marjorie shook her head. "Mr. Despard is a stranger to us. It's unlike
you, father, to accept so much from a stranger. What does Mr. Despard
expect in return?"
The old man turned away. "Nothing. Of course he'll share in our good
fortune. He'll take the larger share of whatever money we make. I have
insisted on that. A company will be floated--it's in the course of
promotion already. It's a gamble, to a certain extent. I believe
there's a deal of opposition; there are men who scoff at the idea of
traces of radium having been discovered here. Other eminent men have
made exhaustive tests, and their report leads us to believe there is no
doubt that we shall be able to extract radium from the mine. But I've
refused to take a single penny in cash; I'm to be paid entirely in
shares."
"And how is Mr. Despard to be paid?"
"I don't believe he has thought of himself," Dale replied. "He'll join
the board of directors, of course, and I suppose he'll receive a certain
number of shares. He'll become a very famous man, Marjorie. I've seen
a lot of him during the past few months, and my respect has grown daily.
He has thrown himself heart and soul into this business. At first every
one scoffed at him, but lately a change has taken place in public
opinion here. Even Sir Reginald is converted. Can't you guess why Mr.
Despard has worked so hard and been so generous? I'm sure his love for
you, born originally of pity, has been the motive."
"Then I'm sorry," Marjorie said quickly. "Even if I were not engaged to
Jim I could never care for Mr. Despard. I dislike and distrust him.
The sooner he realises this the better."
John Dale sighed and shook his head. He had forced himself to believe
his daughter would forget. He had hoped, he had prayed, that she would
have grown to see things in a reasonable way, and that this sudden
promise of wealth would entirely change her point of view of life and
love.
"Sir Reginald will never consent to his son marrying you," he replied
harshly. "Why, Jim is little more than a boy, he doesn't know his own
mind. He has already forgotten."
Marjorie smiled and said nothing more. She knew that she would see him
in a few days' time, for he had applied for special leave on urgent
private affairs, and he had written assuring her that he would be at the
Hall again within twelve or fourteen days. He also hinted that he had
important work in hand, that he might be doing some long distance
flights on a new monoplane containing improvements, which were his own
inventions, later on in the year. And he was down for early promotion.
The twelve days of waiting for her lover's return were long and weary
ones. Blackthorn Farm was no longer the lonely, forgotten homestead,
tucked away in a secluded part of the moorlands it had been formerly.
Tourists and trippers thronged to look at the curious old farmhouse and
to watch the works being erected a few hundred yards away. The place was
over-run by workmen. All day long cars and lorries were rushing to and
fro along the main road between Princetown and Post Bridge and
Moretonhampstead. Solitude and loneliness, which had been so easy to
find in the old days, disappeared. Marjorie had to take long walks
before she knew she was safe from intrusion. She dreaded meeting
friends and acquaintances more than the strangers who came to stare at
her old home. She was not afraid of being cut or shunned. Instinct
warned her, that now it was known vast wealth was hidden in the old
mine, people would conveniently forget the shame that had fallen on her
name. They would no longer think of her as the convict's sister, but as
the future heiress. Shame made her want to hide from every one but her
lover. Even from her father and the labourers and farm hands on the
estate.
She was ashamed--not of herself or her brother, but of them!
At last, one Friday morning, a note arrived from her lover saying that
he would reach Post Bridge Hall that evening. Of course the news of the
happenings at Blackthorn Farm had been carried to him. He told Marjorie
that his father would be absent on Friday evening, and asked her as soon
as it was dark to go straight up to the Hall. He did not want anyone to
know of his arrival.
So Marjorie said nothing. Her love had become too precious a thing to
be talked about. Moreover, she did not want Despard to know of Jim's
presence at the Hall. Feeling secure in the knowledge that John Dale
approved of his love for Marjorie, Despard had pressed his suit on every
available opportunity, giving her no peace. When he found it was
useless to plead, he even threatened her.
But Marjorie laughed in his face.
"You can laugh now," he said savagely. "But I mean to make you my wife.
I mean to win you. Not many men would have done for a woman what I've
done for you. I've saved you from poverty, I've saved you from
disgrace. Perhaps when we're married I can save your brother from
prison."
She had always believed in her heart that Despard could have proved
Rupert's innocence if he had chosen to speak at the trial. And these
words returned to her a few days later with redoubled force.
Soon after the midday meal on Friday she left the farm and walked in the
direction of Beardown, intending to pass the rest of the day there
reading, until it was time to meet her lover at the Hall. When the fog
came down, she had to slightly alter her plans, and she made for the
main road as she knew she could not lose her way there. She was
terrified lest the fog delayed Jim, and she hovered close to Post Bridge
Hall until it began to grow dark. She scarcely heard the boom of the
warning signal gun from Princetown, so intent was she on meeting the man
she loved. It was just as the fog lifted and she was making her way by
the long drive towards the Hall that a motor-car overtook her and pulled
up, and Jim jumped to the ground.
They looked at one another, but spoke no word. Telling the chauffeur to
take the car on, Jim slipped his arm through Marjorie's, and together
they walked up to the house. Not until they had entered the
drawing-room, where a cheerful fire was blazing, did Jim Crichton speak.
He took Marjorie's hand in his and looked deep into her eyes.
"I can hardly believe that you are really here," he whispered. "It
seems too good to be true. The months have been like years. But you
have never been absent from me--even in my work you have always been
beside me. By day and by night. If I had ever doubted that love was the
greatest thing in the world I should know it now."
Marjorie smiled: her red lips parted and she tried to speak, but no
words came. He had said just what she wanted him to say. And he had
said it quietly, almost coldly.
For a few moments there was silence. Then he released her hands, and
opening his arms he took her in them and, holding her tightly, covered
her face with kisses. The pent-up passion burst. The months of
separation, the obstacles that had been placed in their way, instead of
killing their love, had increased it ten-fold.
"My dear, my dear one, what does anything else in the world matter so
long as we have one another!" Jim whispered.
"Nothing," she sobbed, unable to keep back her tears--tears of joy.
"Nothing--but I'm a woman. Therefore love is all in all to me. But
you're a man, and----"
He silenced her with his lips: "And helpless, useless without his mate."
The darkness increased. The old oak-panelled room was only lit by the
dancing flames from the log fire. There was silence in the house, and
outside on the moorlands there was silence, too. Presently it was
broken by the shouts of men and the baying of dogs. But the lovers did
not hear.
They only heard the beating of each other's hearts and the voice of Love
calling them to walk fearlessly along the path they had chosen. And the
voice of Fate calling them to face the unknown future together.
Twice a servant knocked at the door before Jim heard, and starting up
told him to enter.
"Well, what is it?" he asked, striking a match to light the candles,
fearful lest his father had returned earlier than he expected.
The servant explained that an official from Princetown Prison wished to
see him. "I understand, sir," the man said in an excited voice, "that a
couple of convicts escaped this afternoon in the fog. They traced one
in this direction. He was wounded by a shot the warder fired. They
want permission to search the grounds and out-buildings."
Jim hesitated for a moment. "Of course they can search," he replied.
"You know where the keys of the garage, the stables, and the
out-buildings are, Perkins. You had better accompany them; and be sure
to lock up carefully."
"Very good, sir!"
The servant was about to retire when the burly form of a uniformed
warder blocked the doorway. He saluted.
"I understand Sir Reginald is away; can I speak to you a moment, sir?"
Jim glanced over his shoulder at Marjorie. She was hidden from sight,
seated in a large armchair.
"Certainly," he replied. He crossed the room and stepped into the hall,
closing the drawing-room door behind him.
As he did so a noise from the conservatory on the left of the fireplace
startled Marjorie. The sound of a sudden crash. She listened a moment,
then rose to her feet.
Very quietly stepping towards the door which led into the hot-house, she
pulled back the curtain and peered through the glass panel.