Exactly two months after the arrival of our adventurers at Dualla, Jim
Braid, cap in hand, approached his father’s cottage.
It was about eight o’clock at night, and quite dark. He had come from
London that afternoon, and had walked from the station. Harry, who had
travelled with him, had been met by Mr. Langton’s dog-cart. But Jim
preferred to walk; he desired time to brace himself for the interview
which was to take place between himself and the father who had treated
him with such blind and harsh injustice.
The cottage windows were illumined. Softly he opened the door and
looked in. His mother was seated by the fire.
A moment later her arms were around his neck. With tears in her voice
she recalled the day when Jim had come to wish her good-bye. He was
then an outcast, one who was wrongly and falsely accused, who had been
turned loose in the world to roam the highways like a common tramp; and
since that day his mother had never doubted his innocence for a moment.
The head-gamekeeper was one of the old school of parents. In his eyes,
no less than in the eyes of Mr. Langton, the evidence against his son
had been crushing.
As young Braid held his mother in his arms, the door was opened, and
John Braid, the gamekeeper, dressed in corduroys, entered. When he saw
his son he lowered his head, after the manner of one ashamed.
"My boy," said he, "I did you a great wrong. I ask your forgiveness, as
indeed I ask God’s."
Jim found it difficult to speak.
"The evidence was all against me," he stammered.
"I know it was," said the gamekeeper; "but I might have known that my
son would never have done such a thing. How was I to guess?" he added,
throwing out his hands. "I knew nothing of this Sunstone, nor of German
knavery. I knew nothing of that. All I was told was that twenty pounds
had been stolen, and—as I have said—the evidence was against you, my
lad, and I believed you guilty. I repeat, I should have known better."
"Father," said Jim, holding out his hand, "don’t let’s talk of it any
more. On my part it’s all forgotten, and there’s nothing to forgive."
"God bless you, boy!" said John, lifting a hand to his black beard to
hide the emotion he was unable to control.
"There’s something else," said he, after a pause; "I’m getting old."
"You’re not sixty yet!" cried his wife.
"That’s too old for a head-gamekeeper," answered Braid, thrusting his
thumbs into the armholes of his moleskin waistcoat. "A keeper should be
a young man and an active one. Lately I’ve had rheumatism, and I’m not
up to the night work. I told Mr. Langton this morning that I didn’t
think I was fit to carry on the work, and he’s given me a pension,
though I never asked for it nor thought of it."
"You’ve given up your work!" exclaimed his wife. "You’re no longer
head-keeper at Friar’s Court!"
"No," said the man. "I’m not."
"Who’s got the place?" she asked.
Braid made a motion of his hand towards his son.
"Jim," said he—and smiled.
There followed a silence, during which there came a sharp knock upon the
door, John Braid went to the door and opened it, and there entered Mr.
Langton, followed by Harry.
The Judge held out his hand to Jim.
"I’ve come to ask your pardon," said he. "We did you a great injury.
Harry has told me the whole story. He has told me of how he found you
in London, and of the terrible act you were about to commit when he
saved you at the eleventh hour."
Jim had forgotten that fearful moment on the Hungerford Bridge. He now
lowered his face to conceal his shame.
"I had forgotten that," he murmured in an undertone, as if to himself.
"Do not think I blame you, my poor boy," said Mr. Langton. "I blame
only myself for having driven you to such a pass. You have not yet told
me that you forgive me, and I have come here chiefly for that."
Jim stammered out a few half-coherent words, implying more by the tones
of his voice than by anything else that everything was forgotten.
"And you have heard," Mr. Langton added, "that you are to be head-keeper
here?"
"If you please, sir," said Jim, "I think my father can carry on till
after the war. I was thinking I should enlist."
Mr. Langton again held out his hand, which young Braid took.
"I was expecting that," said he. "I promise to keep the place open for
you, and to do all I can to help."
A few moments afterwards, Mr. Langton and his nephew went out. Before a
roaring fire in the Judge’s study they seated themselves in comfortable
arm-chairs, and the Judge drew the Sunstone from his pocket.
"I shall give it to the British Museum," said he. "I have no wish to
keep it any longer. I cannot look at it without realizing the terrible
tragedies that this small piece of jade has brought about."
He was silent a while, playing with the Sunstone in his hand.
"Your Arab," said he very quietly, "the Sheikh Bayram, done to death;
wretched, misguided Hardenberg buried alive in that dark and lonely
vault; and all the miles you traversed, all the adventures you passed
through, and the hardships you endured! It’s not worth it!" said he,
with a sigh. "Let the treasure lie where it is."
For all his words, the subject seemed to fascinate him; for, after a
pause, he went back to it again.
"By my calculations," said he, "this stone is from six to eight thousand
years old. I have known it for not quite ten years, and during that
time it has brought about the death of, at least, five men. If it could
only speak," said he, "of what tragedies could it tell—tragedies of the
ancient world, of the long-forgotten past?"
With another sigh he got to his feet and stirred the fire into a blaze.
"And now," said he, "though you have already served your country better
than anyone else will ever know, we can see what can be done in the way
of getting you a commission. In regard to a regiment, have you any
particular choice?"
"Yes," said Harry at once, for he had already arranged the matter to his
satisfaction; "the Wessex Fusiliers."