READY FOR FLIGHT.
Marjorie had reason to be grateful now for the sudden fame into which
Blackthorn Farm had sprung owing to the discovery of pitch-blende in the
tin mine, with the supposition contained in the expert's report that
radium would undoubtedly be found. For the county was far too
excited--even though still sceptical--over this discovery to have more
than a fleeting interest in the escape of two convicts.
No. 303, the man who had been hit and cleverly deceived the warders into
believing they had killed him, was, of course, eventually caught, though
not until he had enjoyed thirty hours of freedom.
Nearly a fortnight passed and No. 381 was reported to be still at large.
The police and warders scoured the county. Plain-clothes detectives
were at every seaport town and village on the coast. Nearly every tramp
steamer leaving Plymouth was searched. Hotels and common lodging houses
were kept under constant surveillance. Occasionally an arrest was
reported--but 381 was not found.
The police confessed themselves baffled at last. The authorities at
Princetown were at their wits end. That a convict should escape at all
was bad enough, but that fourteen days should pass without his being
captured was almost without precedent.
At first the moorland dwellers and village folk all strenuously aided in
the search, but soon they grew tired, and presently they began to laugh
at the futile efforts of the warders and police to capture 381. Public
opinion on Dartmoor veered round, and soon a wish was openly expressed
that the convict would really make good his escape and never be caught.
"He must be a durned smart chap, and deserves to get off. Dang me! if I
came across him now I'm not sure I'd give him up."
The police decided that he had safely got out of the county, probably
out of England. Up at Princetown, however, the officials insisted that
the man was still hiding somewhere on Dartmoor. And they had good reason
for thinking this. The news soon leaked out that 381 was none other
than Rupert Dale, of Blackthorn Farm. A moorman, one who knew every
inch of the country, born and bred on Dartmoor. Such a one, provided he
could get food and drink, might easily play hide and seek with his
would-be captors for many weeks.
When the best part of three weeks had passed, when every scrap of
country had been searched and no stone left unturned--indeed, there was
not a cairn nor a pile of boulders that had escaped examination--then
the officials began to look rather ridiculous, and were inclined to
confess that Rupert Dale, though he had not left the country, had at
least got out of Devonshire.
The moorlands resumed their normal aspect and were no longer dotted
about with detectives, constables and armed warders. But the police
increased their vigilance in all the neighbouring towns.
Old John Dale had done his best to help in the search and aid the
warders. It was only natural that at first he should be suspected of
knowing where his son was hiding, in spite of the character he bore for
straightforwardness and honesty. A very careful account was kept of the
workmen employed in erecting the plant of what was already known as the
radium mine at Blackthorn Farm.
Marjorie's sufferings those three weeks were terrible, but she hid her
feelings and showed no more anxiety as to her brother's whereabouts and
welfare than was to be naturally expected in such a case.
Curiously enough, with each passing day confidence in his ultimate
escape grew until she felt no fear at all that he would be discovered
and taken back to Princetown. While he was hidden in Jim's workroom at
Post Bridge Hall he was safe. Even the terrible risk her lover had taken
for her sake ceased to worry her.
She had to play a part, and she sometimes marvelled herself at the cool,
deliberate way in which she played it.
The one, the only person, she feared, was Robert Despard. Before
Rupert's escape she had avoided him on every possible occasion. Now,
she no longer dared do so. For she felt he suspected her--suspected she
had seen Rupert and knew where he was hiding. His work kept him so busy
that he had not much time to persecute her. Still, she knew he was at
watch--and when he was not watching her, she in turn, was watching him,
terrified that whenever he left the farm he would bend his footsteps
towards the Hall.
She had only seen Jim once since the night of Rupert's escape, when he
had called at the farm with some message from Sir Reginald for her
father. They had not been alone for a minute, but a glance at his face
told her all was well.
There were moments, of course, when she repented of what she had done.
She told herself she was a coward. For repentance meant that she was
putting her own happiness and future before that of her brother. Being
a woman, she argued that since her brother was innocent it was her duty
to help him to escape. It was criminal for an innocent man to suffer
for the guilt of another, even though, by speaking, he could have
cleared himself. In her eyes, his silence gave him an added nobility.
Her soul revolted when she thought of the long years he might still have
to endure shut up in the dreadful granite prison on the moors. For the
first time in her life she realised what it meant to be a convict, a
prisoner, a criminal.
She knew now that these men she had sometimes seen working in the fields
and quarries were treated worse than beasts of burden; in harness day
and night, knowing not one minute's liberty or freedom; doomed to years
of silence, forced to implicit obedience of every order given them.
Just enough food and just enough sleep dealt out to keep them alive.
No risk could be too great to save her brother. She knew a chance would
never occur again. And if he were caught and sent back until he had
served his time, then, when he came out, he would no longer be a man but
really and truly a criminal--something distorted, hideous, unnatural. A
human being at war with humanity.
It was just at the end of three weeks that Jim Crichton presented
himself at the farm to say good-bye before going back to Netheravon to
join his corps. Rupert's escape had never been spoken of in the
farmhouse. Dale had forbidden his name to be mentioned, and Marjorie
sometimes wondered if her father had lost all feeling for his only son.
She had a dreadful thought that if he knew of his hiding-place he would
instantly inform the police and give him up.
"I suppose when we meet again you will be millionaires," Crichton said
cheerily. "I see a prospectus is being issued next week of The
Blackthorn Development Company. I shall apply for a few shares--just
for luck."
"I'm afraid you won't get them," Despard answered. "The Company will be
subscribed two or three times over. You go back to Netheravon
to-morrow?"
Jim nodded.
"Alone?"
There was a moment's silence. Marjorie caught her breath. There seemed
to be a challenge in Despard's voice.
"Yes, alone," Jim replied with a laugh. "Unfortunately, I can't take
Marjorie with me--yet. Perhaps in a few months' time, though, we shall
fly off together, man and wife."
Despard shrugged his shoulders as he left the room. "Perhaps," he
murmured under his breath.
Crichton shook hands with Dale, and the old man held his hand a few
moments longer than was necessary.
"It's a brave thing you're doing in keeping the promise you gave
Marjorie; but if you insist on making her your wife, you'll break your
father's heart, Mr. Crichton."
"I hope not. I hope he'll come to see things my way. But if I had to
make a choice, Mr. Dale, I'd rather break his than hers."
Dale sighed and nodded his head. "I suppose youth must be served," he
whispered. "Perhaps it's just that the old should suffer. My boy has
broken my heart--that's why I feel for your father."
"You're convinced of your son's guilt, then?" Jim said.
"Of course I am. Why, he confessed it!"
Jim turned away. "Perhaps one day his innocence may be proved, Mr.
Dale. Oh, I don't want to raise false hopes in your breast. But I'm
beginning to believe with Marjorie that he was innocent of the crime of
which he was convicted. While there's life there's hope, remember."
He took Marjorie's hand: "Walk down as far as Post Bridge with me, will
you? We will say good-bye at the place where we first confessed our
love."
Once they were alone it was not of love they spoke. They walked side by
side, and now and then Marjorie laughed. If anyone had overheard, if
anyone had been watching them, they would never have guessed of what
these two lovers were talking.
Jim had perfected his plans for Rupert's escape. He outlined them in
detail to Marjorie. Her help would be wanted; and her task, he said,
would perhaps be the most difficult task.
On Monday evening she would receive a telegram from him telling her of
the flight he was going to make from Netheravon to Plymouth. On receipt
of the wire she was to go up to Post Bridge Hall, ostensibly at a
request the telegram would contain, to show the message to Jim's father.
But she would find Sir Reginald out. Jim knew he would be at
Moretonhampstead on business. She was to wait for him, and Jim gave her
the keys of his workroom and cellar. Rupert already had duplicates.
The telegram would contain certain code words, of which Jim gave her the
translation. She was to find some way of giving her brother the message
they contained--the exact hour he was to leave his hiding-place and make
his way across Dartmoor to a certain spot already decided on.
"If he fails it will be bad luck," Jim said. "But as far as is humanly
possible he can't fail. No one would recognise in the smart,
soldierly-looking young fellow the late Convict 381. If he gets safely
away I shall send you a wire from Plymouth--just two words: 'Flight
successful,' that's all. There's only one man I fear: the man who would
like to be my rival--Despard. Once or twice in the evening lately I've
seen him hanging around The Hall. It's impossible he could suspect the
plans we've formed. I don't believe for an instant he knows where
Rupert's hiding. If he did, he'd speak, and give him up, or only keep
silence on condition that you----"
Marjorie stopped him. "You needn't fear, Jim. He suspects something, I
know. On Monday night, after I've been to Post Bridge Hall, I'll make
it my business to keep Mr. Despard at the farm until I know that
Rupert's safely away. I can keep him--I'm a woman."
They reached the bridge, and stood for a few minutes gazing down into
the foaming waters. Presently Jim held out his hand:
"Au revoir," he said quietly. And he lowered his voice for a moment.
"Next time we meet I hope I shall have a marriage licence in my pocket."
"Au revoir, my lover," she whispered. "Remember, whatever happens, I'm
yours and only yours: ready to follow you to the end of the world."
He took off his hat, kissed her hand, then nodding cheerily, he strode
away. She watched him out of sight. He was risking his life, his
honour, his reputation, for her sake. If he failed, she knew she would
never see him again.