THE RETURN OF THE SQUIRE
Rufus was conscious as he descended the stairs that his feelings towards
Felix Muller had undergone considerable change. Felix was not the close
and attached friend that he had imagined him to be. Of late he had
revealed himself in a new light. It was no doubt true that he had taken
considerable risks on his account, but he began to fear that these risks
had not been taken on the score of friendship merely. It seemed to Rufus
that the passion for speculation and the desire for gain had been the
chief factors in the case.
"I think he might have helped me," Rufus said to himself, regretfully.
"If he had really cared for my friendship he would have set my life
before most things. I don't think my death will trouble him in the
least."
At the street door he paused for a few moments, and contemplated the
busy street stretching right and left. It was market-day, and the youth
of the entire country side had poured itself into the town. Up and down
they sauntered--lads and maidens--aimless, vacant, but entirely happy.
Hands in pockets, arms round waists, straws between teeth, caps tilted
to the back of heads. The world for them was the best of all possible
places, and Fore Street, Redbourne, on a market-day the most wonderful
place in the world.
Suddenly the crowd divided that a pair of horses drawing an open
carriage might pass up the street. The carriage was empty. The coachman
and footman sat stiff and erect in blue livery, and surveyed the scene
with a look of pitying condescension on their faces.
Rufus watched the carriage pass with more than ordinary interest. It was
Sir Charles Tregony's carriage and was evidently on its way to the
station. Very likely the family were returning to-day, though to put
five people into an ordinary landau would be a tight squeeze.
Rufus found his heart beating a little more rapidly than usual; the
thought of seeing Madeline Grover again quickened his pulse
unconsciously. In a moment the busy street faded, the noise died down
into silence, and he was back in a quiet country lane, watching a
carriage pass, with a strange lady sitting by the side of the driver. He
would never forget that first vision of Madeline's face. He had never
seen a face before that had so caught his fancy. He had never seen
anything comparable to it since.
That was one of the red-letter days of his life. He fancied then that
all the world lay at his feet. No dream of failure dimmed the sunshine
for a moment. He was on the heights of Pisgah, with all the fair land of
promise stretched out before him. Now he was in the valley of the
shadow, having relinquished his last hope. It was a curious coincidence
that Madeline should return that day of all days. Return, possibly, as
the wife of Gervase Tregony. To see her sitting by his side would be the
last drop in the cup of humiliation, the deepest note in the solemn
dirge of his despair.
He looked at his watch. The down express from London was due in fifteen
minutes, and it was generally well up to time.
"I think I will loiter round in town until they have gone," he said to
himself. "I need not suffer the humiliation of seeing her the happy
bride of that----fellow," and he plunged at once into the throng that
jostled each other in the street.
But the desire to have another look at Madeline's face proved too strong
for him.
"It cannot do me any harm," he said to himself, moodily. "Nothing can do
me any harm now. The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune have done
their worst."
Ten minutes later he was on the station platform waiting for the down
express. Very few people were about. He lighted a cigarette, and
strolled with apparent unconcern up and down the platform. He gave a
little start when the signal dropped just in front of him. A couple of
porters hurried across the line from the other platform, a newspaper boy
appeared from somewhere round a corner, the people who had been walking
up and down came to a sudden stop. The long train glided slowly round a
curve, and came to a standstill.
Rufus drew to the off side of the platform, and watched the scene. Fifty
heads were thrust out of nearly as many windows, but only half a dozen
people alighted. Sir Charles and party had a compartment to themselves
near the middle of the train. The Baronet alighted first--slowly and
stiffly as though cramped with the long journey. Beryl jumped out after
him with light springy step, then came Lady Tregony, ponderous, but
jaunty still.
Rufus found his heart beating uncomfortably fast as he waited for
Madeline to appear. The porter entered the compartment, and began
handing out the wraps and umbrellas, then the footman hurried away to
the luggage van. Rufus heaved a long sigh, partly of disappointment,
partly of relief. Madeline had not returned with the others, neither had
the Captain. That meant--what?
He could think of only one possible explanation. They were man and wife,
and were travelling on their own account. Perhaps they had been married
recently, and were now on their honeymoon. That seemed the most probable
supposition. It was hardly likely they would be married on the
Continent. They would wait till they got back to London, and after the
ceremony the others would return, of course, to St. Gaved, and the
Captain and his bride would wander where they listed.
He turned away from the station, and made his way slowly over the hill
in the direction of St. Gaved. The Tregony carriage passed him before he
had got very far, but no one noticed him. He kept his head bent low, and
did not raise his eyes till the carriage had got a considerable
distance.
It was dark long before he reached St. Gaved, and he was so tired that
it was a pain to lift his feet from the ground. It was the first time he
fully realised how weak he was. He did not feel ill, though people were
constantly telling him how ill he looked; but he was conscious that the
spring had gone out of him, that the fires of life were burning low.
When he went to bed that night there was an unspoken prayer in his heart
that some illness would overtake him from which he would die. That would
be a splendid solution of the whole difficulty. A severe illness would
quench the passion for life, would dull all the sensibilities, would
take the sting out of all earth's disappointments, and ring down the
curtain so gently that he would not know when all the lights were turned
out.
Perhaps, after all, he would be saved the sin and the shame of taking
his own life, and with this thought in his mind he fell asleep.
The next day, however, brought back all the old pain in its acutest
form. Once or twice he felt strongly tempted to let Felix Muller bear
the brunt of his failure, and trust to the future and the chapter of
accidents to enable him to discharge all his liabilities.
Muller was not considering him in any way. Indeed, he had shown himself
exceedingly callous. The one thing that concerned him was getting his
money back with compound interest. Well, he had got three hundred pounds
of it back already. Suppose he kept him waiting for the rest?
But after a moment's reflection he would shake his head. "I should never
be able to pay him back," he would say to himself. "Seven hundred pounds
to a working man is an impossible sum. I should not be able to pay him
interest at four per cent out of my earnings. Besides, what would he
think? and it might mean bankruptcy and disgrace to him."
But the thought of what he would think was the principal crux. How
contemptuous he would be. With what scorn he would regard him. How
bitter and venomous would be his taunts, with what biting sarcasm he
would refer to his courage and chivalry, with what lofty disdain he
would speak of his honour and his regard for the truth.
Rufus would feel himself growing hot all over with shame. Shame that he
let such a temptation have foothold for a single moment. Had he not
pledged his word of honour, and was not that enough? Did it not outweigh
every other consideration? If he departed from his word of honour he
would never be able to hold up his head again, however long he might
live, and were a few shadowed years worth purchasing at so great a
price?
So he debated the question now from one side and now from another, and
still the days passed on, and he saw no escape from the doom he had
prepared for himself.
Sometimes he woke in the night with a start, and with the cry upon his
lips, "How can I do this great evil, and sin against God?" and for
awhile the thought of his responsibility to a supreme Being would
outweigh every other consideration. His pledged word, the thin veneer of
honour which took no account of honesty, the anger and contempt of
Muller, the irrevocable loss of reputation--would all seem as of no
account in comparison with the anger of an offended God.
That he should grow pale, and thin, and hollow-eyed was inevitable. The
constant nervous strain was exhausting the springs of life. The
unresting activity of his brain was consuming his physical energies as
with a fire. He was as free from disease as any child in St. Gaved, but
he was unwittingly making himself an easy prey to any malady that might
be prowling about.
Meanwhile St. Gaved was considerably exercised in its mind over the
non-appearance of the Captain--as people still called him--and Miss
Grover. Mrs. Tuke, who claimed to be on terms of great intimacy with
Madeline, and who was prepared to champion her under any and every
circumstance, was almost indignant that no reliable information could be
extracted from any source.
The servants from the Hall came into the village as usual, and certain
young men from St. Gaved, it was said, found their way occasionally into
the Hall kitchen--though that was a point on which authentic
information was difficult to obtain. But neither from the servants, nor
from the young men in question, nor from the police, could anything be
gathered as to the doings or the whereabouts of Gervase Tregony and
Madeline Grover.
Gossip, of course, ran riot, and rumour changed its headlines every day,
but the true state of affairs remained as much a mystery as ever. Rufus
found himself as much interested in the floating gossip as Mrs. Tuke
herself, and as eager to listen to the latest canard.
"It is said they ain't married at all," Mrs. Tuke remarked one evening,
as she laid his supper on the table.
"But nobody knows," Rufus said, wearily, looking up from his book.
"Well, not for certain. But if they was married, don't you think as how
it would have leaked out somehow?"
"They may have been married quietly without a dozen people knowing."
"But why should they be married on the sly? Sir Charles seemed mighty
proud that the Captain was going to marry her before he turned up."
"Yes, I believe that is so."
"And the young man was that gone on her, that if she'd consented to
marry him, he'd never have been able to keep it to himself."
"It might be her wish, and I think he would do almost anything to oblige
her."
"No, he couldn't have done it, however much he'd tried. He'd just burst,
that he would."
"Then what is your theory, Mrs. Tuke?"
"Well, I don't know that I has any theory. You see, if they ain't
married, where are they?"
"Exactly," Rufus said, with a smile; "that is a very pertinent
question."
"And if they ain't married, I say they can't be together."
"That sounds probable, certainly."
"And if they ain't together, where's he?"
"Exactly; and where's she?"
"That's the very question I was going to ax myself, but you took the
words out of my mouth as it were."
"I'm sorry I forestalled you, Mrs. Tuke, but----"
"Oh, you needn't apologise, Mr. Sterne, not a bit. This is a free
country, and anybody is allowed to ax as many questions as he likes. But
to come back to the point we was talking about, the question is, where's
she, and where's the both of 'em?"
"Sir Charles is still silent on the subject, I presume?"
"As silent as a boiled periwinkle by all accounts. The servants say they
haven't heard him mention the Captain's name since he came back."
"Perhaps they have quarrelled."
"Well, my belief is that if the Captain failed to carry off the girl as
his bride, Sir Charles would be terrible angry."
"Then you have a theory after all, Mrs. Tuke?"
"Well, no, I don't know that I has. I only puts two and two together, as
it were."
"But why should Sir Charles be so anxious that his son should marry this
particular young lady? There would seem to be any number of eligible
spinsters in the country."
"But millionairesses ain't to be picked up every day, and I reckon the
Captain ain't anything of his own to live upon, except what his father
allows him; and Sir Charles, they say, is as poor as a church mouse;
but that's all nonsense. I should like to have a quarter of what he's
got to live on."
"But you haven't his expenses, Mrs. Tuke."
"And he needn't have 'em unless he liked. Think of their wintering
abroad; it must have cost 'em a heap of money."
"No doubt. But what about the 'millionairess'?"
"Oh, well, it's this way. Squire Vivian's butler told long
Joseph--that's Sir Charles's butler, you know--and he told the
housekeeper, and she told Sarah Jelks--who is housemaid at the Hall--and
she told Siah Small--who pretends to be courting her--and he told Dick
Beswarick, and he told his wife Susan, and she told me, that he heard
the family talking about it one day at dinner----."
"Who heard the family----?"
"Squire Vivian's butler, of course."
"Yes, go on."
"Well, he heard them saying that it would be the best day's work the
Captain ever did if he got married, as the girl had no end of dollars."
"How did they know?"
"Very likely Sir Charles told them. Those big folks may be as close as
oysters to the poor, but they talk to each other."
"Well, Mrs. Tuke, and what is the inference you draw from all this?"
"I don't draw no inference at all. I don't pretend to be anything but a
plain woman, and I only put two and two together, though Miss Grover did
say my curtains was a treat."
"She took rather a fancy to you, didn't she?"
"It's not for me to say that exactly, though it's quite true she never
thought any of the other women up to much, and she came here frequent,
as you know."
"Yes, I remember. But when you have put two and two together, what
then?"
"Well, between ourselves, I shouldn't be a bit surprised if, after
living in the same house with the Captain for a month or two, she found
out he weren't her sort and told him so."
"You think that is likely?"
"Well, I can tell you, Mr. Sterne, he wouldn't be my sort, and Miss
Grover ain't the kind of young woman to be hustled into anything against
her will."
"Well, and what next?"
"Well, suppose she told him definite, that the more she'd seen of him
the less she liked him, and that she wasn't for taking him on at any
price, what would happen then?"
"Well, Mrs. Tuke, what do you suppose would happen?"
"It seems to me, Mr. Sterne," Mrs. Tuke said, impressively, "that
there'd be a kettle o' fish, as it were; a kind of general upset, don't
you think so?"
"There might be."
"She couldn't come back to Trewinion Hall again, could she?"
"Why not? I understood from her that Sir Charles was her guardian, or
trustee, or something of that kind."
"But if they was all bent on her marrying the Captain and she wouldn't?"
"The situation would be a little strained, no doubt; but she would not
shun the house because she was in no humour to marry the son."
"Well, my belief is she's cut the lot of them, as it were; that the
Captain's sick, and Sir Charles sulky, and the others too cross to talk
about it."
"Meanwhile, what has become of Miss Grover?"
Mrs. Tuke straightened herself, and looked perplexed. "That is what is
atroubling me," she said, sympathetically. "Between you and me I got
terrible fond of her. She weren't none of the starchy sort, and the way
she would just sit down and talk to me was a treat. I might be her
mother, she was that affable; and now to think she may be wandering
round this lone world without a friend, as it were, fairly worries me at
times."
"I don't think you need worry, Mrs. Tuke. She is well able to take care
of herself. But I am not convinced yet that she and the Captain are not
married."
"Well, I be," and Mrs. Tuke sidled out of the room.