THE TOILS OF CIRCUMSTANCE
Madeline never felt so helpless or friendless as when she left with the
Tregonys for the South of France. She had no one to advise her, no one
to whom she could turn for a word of counsel. She wished a thousand
times that her father had never made Sir Charles her trustee and
guardian. He did so with the best intentions, no doubt. He was proud of
the distant relationship, flattered by the Baronet's attention, and
enamoured of the prospect for his only child; but for her it had meant
disillusion and disappointment.
She had not courage enough to tell Sir Charles and Gervase what she had
discovered. The Baronet almost over-awed her at times, while the Captain
was possessed of a dogged tenacity and determination that were anything
but easy to deal with. She felt almost like a bird in a cage--a cage
into which she had deliberately walked, or had been cleverly lured. To
all appearances she was free, and yet in a very real sense she was a
prisoner. The meshes of the net had been so deftly and so silently woven
round her, that she was not conscious of the fact until the last
loophole was closed.
What could she do now? To whom could she go? There was the old solicitor
in New York City, but there was no time to write to him and get an
answer back. Her step-mother was travelling from place to place, and
might be on the Pacific slope for all she knew, or in the South Seas, or
Japan. She had a good many friends--rich and influential people in the
States--but they were often on the wing, and they might be "doing
Europe" or enjoying themselves in London or Paris.
Besides, how could she explain the peculiarities of the position in
which she found herself, and if she tried to explain she questioned if
she would get any sympathy? She would have to bide her time till she was
of age, and trust in Providence for the rest.
She took away with her nearly everything she possessed that was of any
value, for she had made up her mind never to return to Trewinion Hall,
if there was any possibility of avoiding it, and that something would
turn up she had the greatest confidence. Youth is ever optimistic, and
Madeline could never look the dark side of things for very long
together.
She had only one regret in leaving Cornwall, and that was that in all
probability she would never see Rufus Sterne again. Since her interview
with Micah Martin, and the confession she had wrung from Tim Polgarrow,
her thoughts, of necessity, had turned in his direction, and her
strongest sympathies had gone out to him afresh. She knew now that he
was a much wronged man. Moreover, she could never forget what he had
done for her, and the memory of what he had suffered on her account
would remain with her to the last.
Still, life was made up of meetings and partings. We pass each other
like ships in the night, or walk side by side for a mile or two, and
then drift in different directions. Rufus Sterne would forget her as she
in time might forget him. He would win his way in spite of opposition
and misrepresentation, for he was strong and clever, and such men nearly
always came into their own in the long run.
She looked out for him on the morning they drove away from the Hall. She
would have given almost anything for even a smile of recognition, but
it was not to be. With a little sigh she resigned herself to the
inevitable, and resolved that she would extract as much pleasure out of
the tour as possible.
They spent only one night in London, and stayed at the Charing Cross
Hotel for the sake of convenience. In Paris they remained three or four
days. Madeline would gladly have remained longer, but Gervase was
anxious to push forward to a sunnier clime. The cold, he declared, got
into his bones, and he would have no pleasure of life until he found
himself in a more genial climate.
At Nice they found letters waiting them which had been forwarded, and a
copy of the local paper which Sir Charles had ordered to be sent every
week direct from the office. For a couple of days they rested from the
fatigues of the journey, and then began to make the usual excursions.
Gervase, as might have been expected, was early bitten by the
fascinations of Monte Carlo, and took to running over by train most days
to see the play.
Madeline was extremely grateful to be rid of his company. Not that he
was obtrusive in his attentions, for on the whole he was playing his
part with great tact and circumspection. But she had learned to mistrust
him and despise him. Hence, the less she saw of him the happier she
felt.
Time slipped away very pleasantly on the whole. Sir Charles did
everything possible to make her visit to the Riviera an enjoyable one.
Indeed, he played the part of prospective father-in-law with great
skill, and now and then threw out a sly hint about her cruelty in not
putting poor Gervase out of his misery. But Madeline was in no humour to
take hints, and Sir Charles often turned away with a look of
disappointment on his face.
Beryl talked to Madeline one evening with tears in her eyes.
"I'm sure Gervase spends more time in the Casino than he ought to do,"
she said, reproachfully; "and if he does, whose fault is it, Madeline?"
"His own fault, I should say," she answered, sharply. "He's surely old
enough to know what is good for himself?"
"But people who are labouring under some great disappointment, or are
tortured by some secret grief, sometimes gamble merely to forget their
trouble."
"Then they are very foolish."
"You do not know, Madeline. You have never had any bitter
disappointment. You have the world at your feet. You are an heiress, and
will have millions when you come of age."
"Is that so?" she asked, innocently.
"Of course it is so!" she answered. "Why do you question me in that way?
One might think you did not know how rich you are. But I do not think,
for all that, your money gives you any right to treat Gervase badly."
"Beryl!" Madeline said, indignantly. "Do you know what you are saying?"
"I hope I am not rude, Madeline," was the quiet answer. "But Gervase is
my brother, and I am very proud of him, and it cuts me to the heart to
see him suffer."
"I do not think he is suffering at all," Madeline replied. "Indeed, he
seems in very good spirits."
"That is all put on, Madeline, as you ought to know. Gervase is deeply,
passionately attached to you. He came home from India hoping and
expecting to marry you. He thought everything was settled. Cannot you
imagine how hurt and humiliated he must feel?"
"I do not see why. We were not engaged."
"Not formally, perhaps, but it was your father's wish. We were all
agreeable, because Gervase seemed devoted to you. You seemed wonderfully
pleased with the idea when you first came to Trewinion; and, after all,
it is no small thing to marry a man with Gervase's prospects."
"Marriage is a serious thing, Beryl," Madeline said, gently. "When I met
Gervase first I was only a school girl. I did not know my own mind. I
own he attracted me greatly, and all the time he was away I cherished,
and almost worshipped, an ideal----"
"But surely Gervase has realised your ideal?" Beryl questioned. "He may
not be as handsome as some men, but think how brave he is, how
self-sacrificing, how devoted! He would almost lay down his life for
you!"
"I don't want any man to do that," Madeline said, quietly.
"But surely such devotion as his is deserving of some recompense? He has
waited patiently for you week after week, and month after month, and I
am sure your coldness is driving him to the gaming-tables."
"Would you have me marry him, Beryl, if I do not love him?"
"Oh, you can love him well enough if you try, unless--unless----"
"Unless what, Beryl?"
"Oh, unless you have given way to some romantic nonsense about another
man!"
"What do you mean by that?" Madeline asked, raising her eyebrows
slightly.
"You know well enough what I mean, Madeline; so you need not pretend."
"I am not pretending. Besides, it is not fair to fling out mere hints
that may mean a great deal, or may mean nothing at all."
"Oh, I am not blaming you very much. It was only natural, perhaps, that
he should take your fancy for a moment."
"That who should take my fancy?"
"Why, the young man who saved your life, of course. You knew nothing
about him, and there is no denying that he is very good-looking. But you
have discovered his true character since."
"I have, Beryl."
"He pretended, too, to have made a discovery and induced, it is said, a
number of people to lend him their savings, so that he might develop it,
and now that is gone to smash. I pity the people he has swindled."
"Who said it had gone to smash?" Madeline questioned eagerly.
"It's in the St. Gaved _Express_ that came by post last evening."
"Are you sure?"
"Quite sure. There is quite a long paragraph about it. Besides, I heard
father talking to mother about it last evening."
"I wish I could see the paper. Where can I find it?"
"I will run and fetch it for you if you like? But it is quite true, what
I have told you."
Beryl watched Madeline's face with great interest while she read, but it
revealed nothing to her. Madeline was conscious that Beryl's eyes were
upon her, and so held herself resolutely in check. Not for the world
would she betray what she felt.
The St. Gaved _Express_ was printed and published mainly in the
interests of the landed and moneyed classes. Its politics were those of
the people who held the shares. Its comments on local matters were
coloured by its political views. Its snobbery was beyond dispute.
Rufus Sterne received scant courtesy at its hands. He had been heard to
say that he believed in the government of the people by the people, for
the people. That was quite sufficient for the _Express_. Politically he
was a dangerous character--a little Englander and a pro-foreigner.
When it became known that Rufus had failed, that he had been forestalled
with his invention, the _Express_ openly rejoiced. Such unpatriotic
characters did not deserve to succeed. It hinted that there was a rough
and ready justice in the world that dealt out to men the measure of
their deserts--which, being interpreted, meant, that to those who had
was given, and from those who had not was taken away even what they had.
It further hinted its hope that the dupes of what was little less than a
public fraud would do their duty to the public, to themselves, and to
the ingenious young gentleman whose exposure was now pretty well
complete.
Madeline folded the paper without a word and handed it back to Beryl.
"I should think you feel sorry now that you ever spoke to him," Beryl
said, after a long pause.
"There are many things we feel sorry for when it is too late," she
answered, quietly, then turned and walked slowly out of the room.
She had not thought much of Rufus for several weeks. She never expected
to see him again. He had come into her life for a few months and passed
out again, and the sooner she forgot him the better.
But this story of his failure with the cutting comments and insinuations
of the _Express_ called out her sympathies afresh, and in larger measure
than ever. She did not think the less of him because he had not
succeeded. He had not laboured at an invention that was useless. His
failure was not due to the worthlessness of his idea, but simply to the
fact that another man had got in before him.
"Oh! I am sorry," she said to herself, when she got to her own room.
"How terribly disappointed he will feel. It will seem as though
everything is against him, and he had staked his all on the enterprise."
Once or twice she was strongly tempted to sit down and write him a
friendly letter of sympathy. But she could not summon up quite
sufficient courage. If she had cared less for him she would have been
less sensitive. Beryl had just told her that she had been carried away
by a foolish and romantic attachment, or words to that effect, and it
would never do to give colour and substance to the insinuation. She must
keep her self-respect whatever happened.
For several days Rufus was more frequently in her thoughts than was good
for her peace of mind. She pictured his disappointment, his
helplessness, his despair. She saw him in imagination wandering out on
the cliffs alone, with knitted brows and troubled face. She wondered
what he would do. She knew he had staked his all--though how much that
"all" meant she never guessed--would it be possible for him to rise
above this last calamity that had overtaken him, or would he go down in
the general crash and ruin, and never be heard of again?
He had ability, she knew, and energy and determination; but so had many
another man who had absolutely failed. No man could do the impossible.
Bricks could not be made without clay. Circumstances were sometimes
stronger than the strongest.
Rufus Sterne was not only penniless, but in debt. The money he had
borrowed had gone with his own, and how was it possible in a sleepy
little place like St. Gaved to retrieve his position? She wished she
could help him. The beginning of his misfortunes seemed to be associated
with her. His broken leg was entirely due to her adventurousness, while
the loss of his reputation was the outcome of her friendliness to him.
Try as she would she could never wholly dissociate herself from him. She
was irretrievably mixed up with his success or failure.
She did her best to appear cheerful and unconcerned before the Tregonys.
Beryl informed her father that Madeline had seen the account in the
paper of Sterne's failure, and had manifested not the slightest interest
in the matter.
"Did she say nothing at all?" Sir Charles questioned.
"Scarcely a word."
"And did you say nothing?"
"I did suggest that I thought she would feel sorry now she had ever
spoken to him."
"And what did she reply?"
"Oh, she just said, 'There are many things we feel sorry for when it is
too late,' and walked out of the room."
"She never saw him after the police court affair, I think."
"I am sure she never did, father."
"So that this will pretty well complete the disillusionment."
"If she ever had any illusions."
"I am afraid she had, Beryl, I'm afraid she had. That was a most
unfortunate adventure on the cliffs--most unfortunate," and Sir Charles
turned again to the paper he had been reading.
Had the Tregonys been close observers they might have detected a forced
and an unnatural note in Madeline's gaiety. She was mirthful at times
when there appeared to be no sufficient reason for her mirth, and
cheerful when the conditions were most depressing.
When alone in her own room she generally paid the penalty. Frequently
her spirits sank to zero. The desire to help Rufus Sterne was natural
enough; but her helplessness drove her almost to despair. She could not
even help herself. In a sense she was as much in the toils of
circumstance as he was. She not only wondered what would become of him,
but what would become of herself.
The weeks were slipping away rapidly, and the Tregonys were beginning to
talk about their return to England. The days were often almost
insufferably warm, and the birds of passage that crowded the hotels were
beginning to take flight to more Northern latitudes. Day after day she
had hoped she might discover some way of effecting her deliverance, but
no way revealed itself. She was without a friend outside the Tregony
family, and yet to return with them to Trewinion Hall would be to put
herself in a position as intolerable as it would be compromising.
"What helpless things girls are," she would sometimes say to herself.
"If I were only a man I could snap my fingers at everybody. But because
I'm a girl I can just do nothing."
She felt so miserable one morning that she refused everyone's company,
and went out for a walk alone.
Sir Charles was very cross when he knew, and he was still more cross
when lunch time came and she did not return. As the afternoon wore away
and she did not put in an appearance, his anger gave place to anxiety,
and ultimately to very serious alarm.