GROWING SUSPICIONS
In the big house there were many things to be done in preparation for
Christmas. Mottoes had to be selected and cut out of coloured paper, and
surrounded with evergreens and hung in the hall, and naturally this task
fell to the lot of Madeline and Beryl. Then, it was decided to have a
house-party the day but one after Christmas Day, and invitations had to
be sent out to all the gentry of the neighbourhood. Lady Tregony
undertook this pleasant duty, but soon found the work of filling in
cards and addressing envelopes altogether too exhausting; so Madeline,
who was swift with her pen, was pressed into the service. In addition to
all this, various tokens of affection and regard had to be sent to the
extremely poor of the parish--nothing of very much value, it is
true--still, the simplest parcel took time to make up and address.
The result of all this was that the house was kept in a state of bustle
from morning till night, and Madeline had no time to pay a single visit
to any of her acquaintances in the village.
She did steal out of the house one evening after dinner, and tramped in
the bright moonlight nearly to St. Gaved and back again, but the walk
did not yield her much satisfaction. She had an uncomfortable feeling
that she passed Rufus Sterne on the way, and that he took pains not to
be recognised. She turned and looked after the retreating figure, and
felt certain she was not mistaken, but he did not halt for a moment or
look back.
It was a simple and trifling thing in itself, but it set her thinking.
Of course, he might not have recognised her, as she for the moment had
not recognised him. On the other hand, her face was toward the
moonlight, his was in shadow. She scarcely saw his face at all, her face
would be plainly visible. Moreover he hurried past, with his hat pulled
low, as if he had no wish to be recognised. What did it mean?
The more she thought about the matter, the more she was convinced that
the man she met was Rufus Sterne, and that he deliberately avoided the
chance of recognition. Was he offended with her, then? Was he sorry that
they had ever become acquainted, and wished the acquaintanceship to end?
Did he regard her as a sort of stormy petrel, heralding bad weather and
bad fortune? Did he think that safety and success could be secured only
by keeping out of her way?
That he would have good reason for cherishing such sentiments there was
no denying. She had been his evil genius in the most critical period of
his life. She had thrust him back into idleness and helplessness when
every day was of the utmost value to him.
"I really don't wonder that he shuns me," she said to herself,
regretfully. "I really don't, and if his invention should fail, he will
hate me more than ever."
Under ordinary circumstances her pride would have asserted itself, and
she would have resolved--since he had ignored her--never to speak to him
again. But the circumstances were not ordinary. The ties of gratitude,
if nothing else, bound her to him for all time; the loss that he had
suffered on her account made it impossible for her to treat him as she
might have treated an ordinary acquaintance. He had good reasons, no
doubt, for ignoring her, but that only made the pain the harder to bear.
Two days before Christmas it became evident to her that there was a
little conspiracy on foot to prevent her going into St. Gaved. She had
not noticed at first any significance in the fact that there was always
someone at hand to run errands for her and Beryl. But when, for the
sixth or seventh time in succession, her suggestion that she should run
into St. Gaved was met by the reply, "Oh, don't trouble, dear," or "You
are too tired, dear," or "Peter will see to that, dear," or, "We shall
not require it to-day, dear," she began to think that solicitude on her
account had become a trifle overstrained.
When once her suspicions were aroused, she began to put the matter to
the test. During the morning of Christmas Eve she discovered on four
separate occasions that she was short of something that she particularly
needed, and each time, when she suggested that she should run into St.
Gaved and get it, a servant was dispatched with most unusual haste to
make the purchase.
Madeline smiled to herself, but said nothing. But it set her thinking on
fresh lines. She began to recall all that had happened since her last
visit to Rufus Sterne, then her thoughts travelled farther back still,
and after a very little while she saw, or fancied she saw, a tolerably
consistent purpose, not to say conspiracy. When once she had got a clue,
or what she fancied was a clue, it was easy to read meanings into a
thousand little circumstances that otherwise would have had no
significance whatever.
She had been under the pleasing delusion that she had gone her own way,
that practically she had followed her own wishes in everything--that her
own wishes happened to exactly coincide with the wishes of her friends
was simply a matter for congratulation. No attempt had been made to
bring pressure to bear on her at any point. When Sir Charles had talked
seriously to her, it was nearly always on questions of English etiquette
and customs--subjects she was profoundly ignorant of. If she decided to
go into St. Gaved now, she felt sure no direct attempt would be made to
stop her.
To test the matter, she went to her room, put on her hat and jacket, and
announced to Sir Charles, whom she met in the Hall, that she was going
into the town for her own amusement.
"All right, Madeline," he said, with a smile; "this is Liberty Hall, you
know."
She was a little bit taken aback by his answer; it was so frank and
spontaneous that it almost disarmed her.
She walked very slowly toward the village, her thoughts being intent on
the new problem. Ever since her meeting with Gervase Tregony nearly
three years ago, her life had moved steadily in the same direction, and
toward the same seemingly inevitable end. This she had regarded in the
past as providential, and had accepted the omen with thankfulness.
But she fancied now she saw a human motive running through all. Since
her meeting with Gervase, she had practically never a chance of becoming
acquainted with another man. As a matter of fact, the only man she had
become intimate with was Rufus Sterne, and directly that intimacy was
discovered, she was whisked off to London and kept out of his way. She
was being guarded and protected until Gervase's return.
Gervase was expected home that very day. He had landed at Marseilles the
previous day, and was coming straight through without a break. For a man
like Gervase such rush and hurry was most unusual.
That a man like Gervase wanted to marry her was, no doubt, very
flattering. He was a great soldier, a man of immense courage, and a
distinguished-looking man to boot. On the other hand, she was a nobody,
her father had been an ordinary working man--that he had "got on" late
in life she knew. But what his financial position was she would not know
till she was twenty-one. So that looking at the matter merely from a
social point of view, it was a great condescension on the part of
Gervase.
But not only did Gervase want to marry her, but it had become extremely
clear of late that Sir Charles was as eager as his son. In fact, events
were being rushed. It was understood when she arrived in England that
Gervase would not be home till the New Year. Now he was risking his neck
in an eager rush to be here by Christmas. Why all this haste? Why was
everybody so anxious she should marry the heir to a baronetcy, or, to
put it the other way about, why were all the Tregonys so eager to marry
the heir to an unknown American girl?
That American girls by the shoal had married titled Englishmen she knew,
and titled foreigners of all sorts and conditions. But it was clear and
obvious to outsiders generally that the attractions had been dollars on
the one side and titles on the other--a fair exchange, no doubt. There
had been a _quid pro quo_ in each case.
But in her case----!
Then she pulled herself up suddenly, and a hot blush mantled her cheeks.
Was she any better than the rest? Had not her girlish imagination
been carried away by pictures of a baronial hall, ivy-grown and
weather-beaten? and had not the thought of being "My Lady Tregony"
dominated nearly everything else?
"No," she said, at length, "I admired Gervase for his own sake. He is
brave and distinguished-looking and--and--oh! I like a man who is strong
and masterful."
But the other question still remained unanswered. Why did Gervase want
to marry her? He belonged to one of the oldest families in the county.
Why did he not seek a wife in his own circle? Lord this and the Duke of
that who went to America for their wives, married dollars. But----She
stopped again, and looked round her, but no one was in sight. A keen
north wind was blowing, and the pale wintry sun had not yet melted the
hoar-frost from the grass, and yet she felt as hot as though she had
been thrust suddenly into a Turkish bath.
Was it possible that dollars lay at the bottom of all this haste and
anxiety? For some reason she had been kept in ignorance of her father's
financial position. He had never talked to her about the matter. She was
at school when he died, and remained at school long after he was laid in
his grave. Why she had been kept at school so long was always something
of a puzzle to her.
That she would have enough money to live upon comfortably she knew. She
was allowed a thousand dollars a year now as pin-money--a sum much too
large for her needs in St. Gaved, though in London she could easily
spend it all. But that she was rich, or in any sense of the word an
heiress, was an idea that had never occurred to her. It did not seem at
all likely that she could be, or her allowance would be very much
larger. On the other hand there might be method in the modest pittance
that was meted out to her. To keep her in ignorance of the extent of her
possessions might be part of the game. If she were rich and knew it she
might be too ready to discover a reason why Gervase wanted to marry her.
"I wonder if suspicion always comes with knowledge and experience," she
said to herself. "Is it one of the penalties of being grown up? When I
was a girl I wasn't suspicious of anything or anybody. Now I'm certain
of nothing, not even of myself."
She walked on more rapidly after awhile, but she took no notice of
anything on the way. She was too absorbed with her own thoughts.
"I am glad, at any rate, I did not give Gervase a definite promise," she
said to herself. "I hardly know why I didn't, for I meant to at first.
But it is best I should see him again before deciding. Best that I
should find out everything I can. I think he wants me for my own sake.
I'm almost sure he does, but it's well to be quite sure."
"Well, anyhow, I shall see him again this evening," she said to herself,
after a long pause. "I wonder if he has changed? I wonder if I have
changed?"
She reached the outskirts of the village, then turned back, and in a
moment or two came face to face with Sir Charles. The meeting was
unexpected, and the Baronet looked a little confused.
"What, turning back so soon?" he questioned, nonchalantly.
"I only came out for a little exercise and fresh air," she answered.
"And you find the air too keen, eh?"
"Oh! not at all; I am enjoying it immensely."
So they passed each other. But a little way on, Madeline paused and
looked back, but Sir Charles was out of sight.
"Now, I wonder if he followed me on purpose?" she said to herself. "Has
he begun to suspect me? Did he imagine I had gone to call on Mr. Sterne
in defiance of his wishes? I wish I hadn't grown suspicious; it spoils
everything."
She was so busy with her thoughts that she scarcely noticed the turn in
the road leading back to the Hall. Also there was no particular reason
why she should return at once. So she tramped on into the country. The
roads were dry and frosty. The keen wind hummed in the bare hazel bushes
that crowned the tall hedges, the too brief glimmer of sunshine was
fading on the hillside.
Her thoughts alternated between the Squire, Gervase and Rufus Sterne. It
seemed to her as though a big stone had been dropped into the still and
placid pool of her life and that the troubled waters refused to settle
again. It seemed but yesterday that the plan of her life lay before her
like an open book. Everything was just as it ought to be and there was
no hitch anywhere. Now the book was shut, the map was destroyed, and her
future lay before her a treeless, trackless, mist-shrouded desert. What
was the reason of it? Was Sir Charles to blame, or Gervase, or Rufus
Sterne? Or should she take all the blame to herself?
She was disturbed in her meditations by the sound of a quick and firm
step behind her. Her first impulse was to turn her head, but she
resisted it. The steps drew nearer; the hard road echoed distinctly. She
drew slowly to the side of the road, so that the pedestrian, whoever he
might be, might pass her. It was time she turned round and retraced her
steps to the Hall, but she would wait a few minutes longer, until the
man had passed her. Now he was almost by her side. She turned her head
slightly and their eyes met. In a moment her face brightened, and her
lips parted in an eager smile. He dropped a small bag he was carrying,
so that he might grasp her outstretched hand. It was fate or destiny,
and there was no use fighting against it.
"I have been wondering if I was ever to see you again," she said, in her
bright, unconventional way. "You are quite well again, I see. Oh, I am
so thankful! I would have called round, only--well, you see the
conventions of this old country have to be observed even by an
American."
"And you find them rather irksome?" he questioned, an eager light
brightening his eyes.
"Well, on the whole I fear I do. But we have to take things as we find
them, I suppose. Discipline, they say, is good for us."
"I believe that is a generally accepted doctrine," he said, with a
laugh.
"But you doubt it?" she asked, looking coyly up into his face.
"I did not say so," he answered, jocularly. "Do you think I am such a
doubter that I doubt everything?"
"Well, no," she answered, slowly. "I will not go quite so far as that. I
guess there are still a few things you stick to."
"We all believe what we cannot help believing," he answered,
enigmatically.
"Oh, what a profound utterance!" she said, laughing brightly in his
face.
"It is rather profound, isn't it? But how have you enjoyed yourself in
London?"
"Oh! moderately well. For the first two weeks or so we had rather a gay
time, then things got flat, or I got flat. And then the weather, you
know, was atrocious. Those London fogs are a treat!"
"So I've heard. I've had no experience of them."
"Well, you needn't be envious. But how about your invention? I've been
looking for your name in the papers. When are you going to astonish us
all?"
His face clouded in a moment and his eyes caught a far-away look. "It is
never safe to prophesy," he said, after a pause.
"But you are still quite sure of success?" she questioned, a little
anxiously.
He smiled a little bit sadly, and answered, "A friend of mine sometimes
encourages me by telling me that there is nothing certain in this world
but death."
"Your friend must be a pessimist," she said, "and I don't like
pessimists. But tell me candidly, has your success been imperilled in
any way by--by--your accident?"
"No, I do not think so," he answered, quickly. "My work has been delayed
a little, that is all. If I fail, it will not be on that account."
"But you are not going to fail, of course you are not."
"I hope I shall not," he answered, seriously. "But in the chances of
life there must be a great many failures. Think of the millions of
toiling people in England to-day and how few of them have reached their
hearts' desire."
"Yes, I suppose that is so," she answered, thoughtfully, "or perhaps the
bulk of them have never had any large desires. But don't you think that
most of the great men who have striven long enough have won in the end?"
"I was not thinking of the great men," he answered. "It is given only to
a few men to be great, and of the rest, if they fail once, their chance
is gone."
"And do you mean to tell me that if you don't succeed this time you
won't try again?"
"If circumstances would let me, I would never cease trying," he
answered. "But we are all of us more or less the slaves of
circumstances, some more than others."
"You told me once that you had staked your all on the success of this
enterprise."
"That is true."
"And if you fail, you will lose everything?"
"Everything!"
"You mean, of course, your time and your money, and your labour!"
"Yes, I mean that," he said, smiling wistfully.
"Oh, well! that is not everything, after all," she answered, brightly.
"You are young enough to begin again. And, after all, what we call
failures may be stepping-stones to success, and you will win in the end,
I know you will. God will not let you fail."
"I wish I believed in God as you do," he said, with downcast eyes.
"So long as God believes in you it won't matter so much," she answered,
cheerfully. "But I must be going back now. You are going further, I
presume?"
"I am going to spend Christmas with my grandfather, at Tregannon."
"Is that far?"
"About six or seven miles."
"And are you going to walk all the distance?"
"I expect so, unless someone overtakes me who can give me a lift by the
way."
"I hope you will have a very happy Christmas."
"Thank you. Let me wish the same wish for you."
"We shall be gay at any rate," she said, with a little sigh. "The
Captain returns this evening."
"Ah! then you are sure to be happy. Good-bye!"
He took her outstretched hand and held it for a long moment, looking
earnestly the while into her sweet, fearless eyes. Then without another
word he picked up his bag and hurried away.