Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover art]
*TARNISHED SILVER*
By
MARY FRANCES OUTRAM
Author of
"The Story of a Log-house,"
"The Mystery of the Ash Tree," etc
ILLUSTRATED BY STANLEY L. WOOD
LONDON
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
Bouverie Street and 65 St. Paul's Churchyard
1914
"_The eyes of the Lord are in every place,_
_beholding the evil and the good._"
*CONTENTS*
CHAPTER
I Mr. Field Lays Down the Law
II Forbidden Fruit
III Judge Simmons
IV Timothy's Three Friends
V A Thief in the Night
VI That Terrible Eye
VII The Mysterious Packets
VIII Robin Hood's Lair
IX The Tramp
X A Flash of Lightning
XI The Treacherous Shore
XII Death and the Tide
XIII Near Death's Door
XIV Pin-pricks and Pellets
XV Alive from the Dead
XVI For Conscience' Sake
XVII Well-founded Fears
XVIII Judge Simmons Again
XIX Revelations
XX Good Hope
*TARNISHED SILVER*
*CHAPTER I*
*Mr. Field Lays Down the Law*
In the breakfast-room of a large house near the seacoast Mr. Thomas
Algernon Field sat eating a plain boiled egg.
It was a long time since he had tasted such a rarity, and he was
enjoying it to the full.
Not that eggs were scarce in his establishment, but it was seldom that
they found their way to his table in so simple a form. The Earl of
Monfort, the owner of the adjoining estate, regularly ate a boiled egg
every morning of his life--three hundred and sixty-five in the year, and
one more in leap year, so he made his boast--but to Mr. Thomas Algernon
Field this would have been sheer folly and waste.
Mr. Field had a French cook--a French cook whose salary far exceeded
that of many a hard-worked clerk; and of what use was such an expensive
treasure unless to turn out elaborate and costly menus? So to the
detriment of his digestion, but with a brave effort to keep up the
honour of his table, the master of the house wrestled daily with
complicated dishes burdened with high-sounding names, though often
longing secretly in his heart of hearts for plainer and more wholesome
fare.
The room in which he sat was a fine one, with long windows opening on to
a wide terrace with heavy stone balustrades, over and through which
masses of roses climbed in graceful luxuriance of spray and bloom.
Beyond lay yet another terrace, wider and larger than the first, with
beds gay with many-coloured flowers, set in the greenest of velvet turf.
A belt of trees bounded the further side of the lower platform, their
topmost branches were bent sideways and shorn by the prevailing winds,
while in the distance stretched the straight blue line of the North Sea,
now rippling and sparkling in the morning sunshine.
Mr. Field finished his egg and leant back pompously in his carved oak
chair.
He was a strongly built man, of medium height and with a tendency to
stoutness, which did not improve his already clumsy figure. His neck
was short and thick, and more than one layer of what is popularly known
as a double chin lurked beneath his square and heavy jaws. Small eyes of
a pale tawny brown looked out from under scarcely defined eyebrows,
which twitched and frowned nervously, betokening a restless and uneasy
mind. A scrubby moustache only slightly hid the thin compressed lips,
at the corners of which ran deeply graven lines, as if they sought by
their almost cruel hardness to counteract the weakness of the brow. It
was a selfish and secretive face, and just at present it was a very
self-satisfied one as it turned towards the fair scene beyond the
casement.
"Julius," he said, turning to the other occupant of the room, "it's not
every lad of your age who starts in life with such prospects. A house
like Farncourt and enough dollars to buy up all the landowners round
about! My sakes--not many boys in England can boast of that, I can tell
you! Don't you forget it, Julius; and don't let others forget it
either."
"I think Farncourt is a horrid old hole, father, and what use is it
saying you can buy up all the landowners when you can't get the only bit
of ground you really want, however much you try, even though it only
belongs to a poor fisherman like Timothy Green?"
The speaker was a small boy of about ten years of age. He might have
been a good-looking child if it had not been for the discontented
expression upon his face, and the ill-tempered mouth and chin. From his
speech, if you did not look at him, he might have been double his age.
Thomas Field's countenance darkened as he directed his gaze beyond the
terrace boundary, where, in a gap between the trees, a whitewashed
cottage could be seen, standing out plainly against the background of
sea.
As a red rag to a bull, so was this unpretentious building to the owner
of Farncourt.
"It is absurd," he exclaimed, as he had done many a time before, "to
think that a beggarly old fellow with one foot in the grave should be
able to defy me openly and ruin my view, when I offer him good money
down, tenfold more than the ramshackle hovel is worth, if he'll only
clear out to a better house and leave me in peace. When the whole of
this fine place is mine, honestly bought and paid for, why should he be
allowed to stick there in full sight of my windows, so that I can't look
out without for ever seeing that one blot which spoils it all?"
"He says he'd rather die in his bed there than own Farncourt," replied
the boy.
"Obstinate old duffer," exclaimed his father, "but I doubt he'll get his
desire sooner than he thinks. The way the cliff is breaking away there
is a caution, and some fine night he may find his precious roof come
tumbling down upon his head; which will be a good way out of the
difficulty for me, even if it does not benefit him overmuch! I'll not
rest till I'm master of all the land I can see from Farncourt Tower, and
have the undisputed right to prevent upstarts from loafing about the
place."
"There are two new people come to live at Mrs. Sheppard's house,"
remarked Julius, "a lady and a boy. I saw him on the beach yesterday,
and he seemed rather jolly. I mean to have him here to play with me
sometimes."
"Listen to me, Julius," said his father; "you get quite enough of your
own way as it is, but I do draw the line somewhere. Ask me for anything
in reason and you'll get it, but to be allowed to bring within my doors
any chance riff-raff you may happen to pick up, that I cannot and will
not permit."
"He's not a riff-raff," answered Julius sulkily, "he's quite a
gentleman, even if he has rather shabby clothes, and he's not come on
chance. John says he's going to live here for some time."
"How often have I told you not to gossip with your groom," retorted Mr.
Field. "If the earl chooses to allow his tenants to let lodgings it's
no business of mine, and he may turn his end of the village into slums
for all I care, but the part that belongs to me, I keep for myself and
my own people. I've knocked about the world all my life, and now I've
made my pile and settled down on my private estate, no one is to go
wandering over it without my permission. I came here for quiet and
solitude, and I mean to see that I get it, in spite of all the earls in
creation. If you find that stranger woman or her boy trespassing within
my grounds, let me know about it, and I'll soon teach them their place."
"I don't see why I shouldn't play with him," rejoined Julius, petulantly
pushing back his chair from the table, and kicking his feet about. "You
won't let me talk to John, and I don't like the gardener's boys; they're
horrid rude fellows and won't do what I want."
"You've got everything you can desire that money will buy," answered his
father sternly. "Only last month I gave you that thoroughbred pony which
you had set your heart on, and which cost me a pretty penny, I assure
you, though you're welcome to another if you wish, for all it matters to
me. You've got the best games and books that can be bought, enough to
stock a shop, and yet it appears you are not satisfied. There are
motors in the garage, and boats on the lake, with servants at hand to do
your every bidding, why should you go hankering after loafers you know
nothing about, and who have the impudence to hang about my property
against my express desire."
"It's no fun playing games by myself," grumbled Julius. "Now that old
Finney has gone, I've not even got him to help me. I want a boy the
same age as me, that I can lick if he gets cheeky, and who won't call me
names, like the gardener's sons."
"Call you names, like the gardener's sons," repeated Mr. Field
incredulously. "I never heard of such a thing. Benson shall have a
piece of my mind about this before the day is out, and if he can't teach
his cubs to behave themselves, he must look out for another situation,
that's all. If things go on at the Good Hope mine as they have done in
the past, the world will hear about you, Julius, and at no very distant
time either. Folk must climb down when they speak to you, and treat you
with fitting respect. You've had advantages that I never enjoyed, and
some fine day, if I mistake not, you'll find yourself at the top of the
tree; so in the meantime, my lad, don't price yourself too cheap, but
just stand up with the best of them. There's a new tutor coming next
term in place of Finney--a younger man who has carried off every prize
he could win and charges accordingly, so you'd better get as much as you
can out of him when he arrives, and leave this shabby young rascal and
the gardener's boys to fight it out together upon the beach."
With a satisfied air, as if the last word had now been said, Mr. Field
rose from his chair and sauntered out to charge Benson with the enormity
of his offence, a congenial task which lost nothing in the doing.
Meanwhile Julius, left to himself in the breakfast-room, proceeded to
feed Pat, his Irish terrier, with chicken rissoles, until that amusement
palled, and he whistled to the dog to follow him out of doors.
Aimlessly the child wandered round to the back of the house, where a row
of splendid rabbit-hutches with pedigreed inhabitants claimed his
attention for a few brief moments. There was nothing to do there, for
the lad specially engaged to attend to their wants had just given them
their morning meal, and each silky creature was already contentedly
nibbling the tender cabbage leaves so plentifully provided for their
repast. To excite Pat by inviting him to put his nose through the wire
netting was the only interest in that quarter, and as the dog sensibly
refused to respond, there was nothing for it but to go further afield.
For about half an hour Julius watched the cleaning of the great
sixty-horse-power car, amusing himself by executing a series of
deafening hoots upon the motor horn to the distraction of the chauffeur,
who had learnt only too well that to remonstrate only meant a
prolongation of the din.
From the garage to the stables was the next move, and the order was
given to saddle the new pony.
"I'm going to take Prince over those hurdles again," Julius remarked as
John led the beautiful animal out of its stall. "You'd better come to
the field to set them up for me."
"The vet said as how Prince had been too hard set at them last time,
sir, seeing as he strained his off foreleg a bit," replied the groom,
"and the master he told me he didn't wish the pony to jump again for a
while, though he was all right for a quiet ride."
"What's the fun of a pony that can't jump?" exclaimed the boy
impatiently. "I don't want to walk about the roads as if I was at a
funeral. I won't ride at all if I can't try the hurdles, so you may take
the stupid beast away."
"There's Red Rover, sir, if you want another horse. I'll saddle him in
a jiffey, and he's a rare one at a gallop, even though he's not so light
at the fences as Prince."
Julius eyed the smart little cob that had been his favourite mount till
the new-comer arrived upon the scene, and felt half inclined to follow
the friendly advice. But after all, what was the good of going for a
gallop when there was nowhere special to gallop to, and no one to gallop
with except John, who was apt to be surly if you went too fast? So he
shook his head.
"I don't want Red Rover," he said. "They're a rotten lot, all of them.
I'll get father to give me a stronger pony next time, that won't strain
its silly old legs by jumping over a footstool."
Turning his back upon the stable yard he made his way slowly into the
lane.
"I wish the new tutor was here," he said to himself, "even old Finney
would be better than nobody. I think I'll go to Timothy Green's cottage
and see how far the cliff has broken away. Father seemed to think it was
going pretty fast. I wonder if some day the house will really topple
over on to the beach."
With some definite purpose at length in his mind, Julius hurried down
the track which led through the copse to the sea. The trees thinned as
he neared the cliff, those that were left, standing out gaunt and
weather-beaten by the storms which broke upon them so fiercely from the
east.
A rough fence enclosing a patch of ground marked the boundary of the
small domain which had so excited the wrath of Mr. Field. The cottage
lay end on to the sea, its low door facing the south. Hardy flowers
bloomed within the little plot, but Julius remarked with surprise that
the wall, on the further side of the garden had disappeared since he had
last walked that way.
Passing the rickety gate that gave entrance from the lane, he crept
cautiously to the edge of the cliff and peeped down.
*CHAPTER II*
*Forbidden Fruit*
Far below lay the debris of the crag not yet carried away by the waves
which now crept sleepily along the shore. Harmless, gentle ripples they
looked that day, softly crooning a lullaby to the pebbles on the beach;
very different to the angry guise in which they appeared on winter
nights, when the mighty hissing billows came leaping up the cliff like
hungry tongues, seeking to lick out the very foundations of the land.
Many a great slice had they already snatched away. Acre after acre of
fair cornfield and forest had once stood where now the ocean rolled, and
every year fresh portions of the fruitful earth disappeared beneath the
irresistible onslaught of the foe.
North and south as far as eye could reach, Julius could trace the long
rampart of cliff facing the wide expanse of water. In the distance a
lonely church stood perched upon the edge, a mere deserted shell, with
ruined tower and roofless nave, of which the greater part had long since
fallen into the sea. Sole relic it remained of the prosperous city
which once in bygone years had clustered round its walls.
As Julius withdrew his gaze from the distant prospect to the nearer one
at his feet, he noticed the effects of the last storm on his humble
neighbour's property.
A large hawthorn hung head downward, its roots holding on like claws in
the crumbling crag, while bits of broken garden fence still clung in
untidy festoons over yawning gaps along the upper portion of the cliff.
Fragments of bricks and boards were scattered upon the shore below,
waiting in disorderly confusion for the waves to finish their handiwork
and bury them out of sight. Only a foot or two of solid ground remained
between the sea end of the dwelling and the top of the landslip.
Already great cracks were making themselves seen in the cottage walls,
showing the gradual subsidence of the soil beneath.
"I wonder old Timothy dares to stay in his house when any moment a lump
of earth may break away," said the boy to himself. "What a lot has gone
since I was here last! I remember there used to be a pigsty here in the
spring, but I suppose that's it lying in pieces on the shore. I wonder
if the pig was in it when it went down."
As he meditated upon this possible tragedy the door of the house opened
and two people came out. Julius at once recognized them as the stranger
lady and her little son, whom he had met before and been cautioned to
avoid. He crouched down behind a sheltering bush until they should pass
by.
"She's got rather a nice face," he murmured, "and the boy's not half
bad, in spite of all father says against them."
It was no wonder that the lonely child looked with longing eyes upon the
pair. Others as well as he had found comfort in the calm sweetness
which rested as the habitual expression on Madelaine Power's fair
features. As she turned at the porch to wave farewell to old Timothy,
the honeysuckle made a fitting frame to her tall, graceful figure, clad
in the simple black gown which tells the story of widowhood to the
world.
Julius watched her as she walked down the path towards the gate, her
eyes full of mother-love as she met the eager upturned gaze of the
curly-headed child at her side, and a sharp pang of jealousy shot
through his heart, leaving a sore feeling behind.
"It's a perfect beauty, mother!" the boy was saying. "I think it was
just awfully good of Timothy to give it to me."
Julius noticed that the lad was carrying something beneath his jacket,
carefully pressed against his chest--something that moved, for it needed
both hands and arms to hold it safe.
"We'll have to make a little house for it, Robin," answered his mother.
"I'm afraid it will feel rather strange at first, poor creature, in its
unaccustomed quarters."
"I wonder what he's got," soliloquized Julius. "I expect it's a puppy or
a kitten, or some idiotic thing like that. What's the use of making
such a fuss about it, when they're as common as blackberries."
But to Robin the little, warm, furry bundle he held so closely to his
breast meant a treasure precious beyond words, the possession of which
had suddenly turned his prospects rose-colour. All the way down the lane
his busy tongue never ceased. Plan after plan for the accommodation of
his new favourite was poured into his mother's attentive ear.
Julius listened enviously until the clear ringing voice had died away in
the distance. When he could hear it no longer, he rose from his
hiding-place and sauntered slowly and discontentedly home.
It was early next morning when he met Robin once again.
Yielding to John's persuasions he had condescended to mount Red Rover,
and after a good gallop on the heath was returning by the road that led
to the sea. He was about to pass in at the lodge gates which guarded
Farncourt, when he caught sight of Robin coming towards him on an
ancient grey pony, whose sedate bearing and somewhat stiff movements
proclaimed a long life of uneventful toil.
"That's a fine old cow you've got," he said rudely, when the pair
reached the entrance of the park.
Robin flushed. Pride had filled his heart when he said good-bye to his
mother at the garden door, and he and the blacksmith's pony had gone out
alone into the great unknown. No boy was he, enjoying a rare and
unwonted ride--rather was he a knight in armour on his trusty warhorse,
pacing forth undauntedly to do battle with tyrants and dragons in the
cause of Right. And now--to hear his charger called a cow! It was
galling, to say the least of it, and his spirit rose to the occasion.
"Insult me not, caitiff!" he exclaimed, "or thou shalt rue the day.
Stand and deliver!"
With a whoop, more like that of an Indian at Buffalo Bill's Wild West
Show than of an errant knight of King Arthur's Table, the boy suddenly
applied his whip to the old pony's flanks, making him lurch heavily
forward to the charge.
Surprised by the unexpected attack, it required all Julius' horsemanship
to calm Red Rover, and stay the plunging of the fiery little cob.
Quieted at length, he managed to bring him to a standstill within the
gates, and from that safe vantage ground he turned to face the enemy.
"You'd better not come in here with your clumsy beast," he called out.
"If you do, you'll be prosecuted. Look, it's written up on that board."
"I desire not to set foot within thy territory," replied Robin grandly.
"I go forth to the great battle where the king awaits me, relying upon
my trusty sword."
Taken aback by this strange form of address, Julius watched silently as
the youthful combatant laboriously turned his steed and passed with
sober tread along the road. One more shot came Parthian-wise as they
went their way, revealing the boy beneath the knight.
"It's all very well to call my pony a cow, but it can shake hands and
open a gate, and I expect that's more than yours can do."
As Julius rode up the avenue one purpose only filled his mind. How
could he get to know this lad, and find out more about the delightful
game which he seemed to be enjoying all by himself.
"If only we could play at being knights together, what glorious
tournaments we could have in the meadow," he thought. "He looked so
jolly and brave when he came banging into Red Rover like that, just as
if he was a real warrior. I wonder how he taught his pony to shake
hands. I wish Prince could learn to do it too. Why does father hate to
have anybody here? I don't think it's fair. Anyhow, I'm going to try
and see the boy again, whatever any one may say."
The late afternoon sun was shining down on Sea View Cottage as Julius
crept up to a small hole in the hedge which separated the garden from
the lane. A pretty picture met his eye as he peered through. Not a
stone's throw from him stood the little house, nestling in a bower of
green, its long slope of rich brown thatch cut into fantastic patterns,
across which wandering creepers seemed to cast protecting arms. A
profusion of sweet-smelling flowers filled the narrow border on each
side of the path, making a bright foreground to the scene.
The stranger lady sat sewing in a low chair beneath a tree, while beside
her was the quondam knight, hard at work with hammer and saw fashioning
something out of old boxes and wire.
"Where's Peter?" suddenly exclaimed Robin, springing to his feet.
"Who's Peter?" whispered Julius to himself, as he tried to get a better
view of the group.
The words had no sooner fallen from his lips than a tiny brown rabbit
darted out of the hedge at his feet and hopped rapidly down the road.
Quick as thought, Pat the terrier had the little creature in his mouth,
from which Julius rescued it a moment later, trembling and terrified,
but apparently none the worse for its unceremonious capture.
"What a good thing it was that you and your dog were just passing when
Peter slipped out," said Robin to him as he walked into the garden and
delivered up the runaway.
It was with certain qualms of conscience that Julius had lifted the
latch of the gate and entered the forbidden ground, but he strove to
stifle them as best he could. Even if his father did see him, surely he
would not blame him for doing such a kind and simple act? It was very
unlikely, however, that he would know anything at all about it, for he
hardly ever came to that end of the village, and Sea View Cottage lay
quite off the beaten track. There would surely be no harm just finding
out if the boy was a nice fellow after all, for if he wasn't, he would
not trouble his head about him again.
Apparently his investigations proved satisfactory, for it was only when
it got too dark to see any more that he reluctantly tore himself away.
Never could he remember to have spent an afternoon that passed so
quickly. No grand patent rabbit-hutch, perfect in every detail, had
ever given him half so much joy as this rough makeshift at which the two
boys laboured eagerly as long as it was light.
When at length the crowning moment arrived, and Peter was formally
introduced to his new home, Julius was almost as excited over it as was
Robin himself. Long did he linger, so fascinating was it to watch the
little inmate as it explored the corners of the old packing-case, and
stood up on its hind legs to sniff the wire netting which had been so
carefully fastened on, with a vast amount of vigorous hammering and
super-abundance of nails. He almost danced with delight when Peter went
through the narrow doorway, sawn with infinite labour in the hard wood,
which led to the sleeping apartment within. How comfortable he would
find it, filled as it was with nice dry bracken, which the two lads had
gathered from the adjoining wood.
"I'll come back to-morrow early," he remarked to Robin, when at length
he could bring himself to say good-bye. "I think everything's right,
but there might be a nail or two we could stick in somewhere to make it
all quite secure, and we'll be able to see better in the morning."
"I think Robin's the jolliest boy I ever knew," he said to himself as he
went home. "I'll often go to see him, if only I can manage without
father finding out. We'll have some fine times together, and no one
will be any the wiser."
"I couldn't have believed he was such a decent sort of chap," was
Robin's comment after Julius had taken his departure. "He seemed such
an utter cad when he spoke to me at the gates."
"Poor little fellow," replied Mrs. Power, "you see he's got no mother to
help him to behave, and I expect he's not used to meeting people, as Mr.
Field leads such an isolated life. We must try and be kind to him if we
can."
*CHAPTER III*
*Judge Simmons*
"A gentleman to see you, sir," said the footman as he approached Mr.
Field with a salver on which lay a solitary visiting card.
"Eh, what? A visitor, did you say?" said his master. "What's his name,
Jenkins?"
"It's written there, sir," replied the footman. "He said you wouldn't
know him, but he would be glad if you could see him for a few moments on
business."
"Judge Simmons," read out Mr. Field, as he took up the card. "Sounds as
if he came from America."
"So he does, sir, if you can go by his accent," answered Jenkins.
"Don't like Yankees, though I've spent so much of my life among them,"
murmured Mr. Field under his breath. "What can this fellow want, coming
bothering me here?" he added in a slightly louder tone.
"I don't know, sir, I didn't happen to enquire," replied the footman.
"Don't be impertinent, Jenkins," said Mr. Field looking up sharply. He
lived in continual dread that his servants were making fun of him behind
his back, and Jenkins' tone was suspiciously polite. "Of course it's
not your place to question my visitors, and you'd pretty soon find
yourself in hot water if you did."
"Judge Simmons is a better specimen of a gentleman than old Field," was
the footman's conclusion as he piloted the visitor into the library,
"and I fancy he knows a thing or two by the look of him. I shouldn't
like to be faced by him if there was anything shady I wanted to hide.
His eyes seem to go right through you, as if he could count your very
bones."
Certainly the tall spare figure that crossed the room to shake hands
with Mr. Field was a good example of the typical well-bred American.
Clean-shaven, with a firm jaw, and quick, piercing eyes, he gave one the
impression at once of a strong man, alert and observant, with a sense of
humour tempering the sternness of the mouth.
"I must apologize," he said, "for intruding upon you in this manner, but
I shall be grateful if you will allow me to speak to you on a matter of
rather urgent business."
Mr. Field motioned him to a chair, and replied that he would be pleased
to assist him if it was in his power to do so.
"Well," continued the stranger, "the fact is this. I have a young
friend over in Mexico, who is rather too fond of embarking on commercial
enterprises of a decidedly risky and precarious nature, and as I am in a
way his adviser, I feel a certain amount of responsibility when he asks
my opinion about things. He has just written, saying he has the option
of purchasing some land in which rumour says that silver maybe found,
and he wants to know what I think about it. It is quite out of your
beat, Mr. Field, as I know your mines are in California, so I felt it
would not be trespassing on your preserves if I asked you to be kind
enough to answer a few questions in a friendly way as to the risks of
such a speculation, knowing what an authority you are upon the subject.
I am staying with Lord Monfort, and, hearing that you resided so near, I
ventured to make myself known to you, hoping that my nationality would
perhaps appeal to you, seeing you have lived so long in my country."
Mr. Field's features, which at first had been decidedly forbidding,
relaxed at the mention of the earl. Aloof though he held himself from
the ordinary run of mankind, it was his secret ambition to mix with that
society into which, except for his great wealth, he could never hope to
obtain entrance. To know that he had been the subject of conversation
at Lanthorne Abbey was as nectar to his aspiring soul.
"I shall be glad to do what I can for you," he said urbanely, "if you
will kindly give me some particulars as to locality and the like."
After about half an hour's conference Judge Simmons rose to go.
"You will stay to lunch, won't you?" urged Mr. Field. "It's getting on
towards one o'clock, and I shall be pleased to welcome you, if you will
be content with merely the company of myself and my little boy."
"I've only once been down your way," remarked Judge Simmons as they were
seated at table, "and that was some years ago, before you had made that
corner of the world a household word. Everyone knows the Good Hope
silver mine and its apparently exhaustless resources, but I wish I could
locate it better in my own mind. I don't seem able to fit it in with
what I remember of the place. I went with a nice young fellow named
Barker who was prospecting then in those parts, and he staked out a
claim somewhere thereabouts. I recollect he called it Wild Goat Gully.
I've quite lost sight of him since, and have never been up there again,
but I fancy he didn't strike it rich, or we should have heard of it
before now."
"I was told that he went completely to the dogs, and was at last drowned
when crossing one of the big rivers," replied Mr. Field. "He certainly
made nothing out of his Gully, so far as I heard, and the very name he
gave it has died out."
"One peculiarity about it struck me much at the time," remarked the
judge. "There was a high precipice bounding it on one side, with a
great orange streak right across it as if it had been daubed on with a
brush. Some geological freak, I suppose."
"Why, how funny!" exclaimed Julius, who had been sitting silently
listening to the conversation. "That's just like the Good Hope cliff.
It looks exactly as if some enormous giant had thrown his pot of yellow
paint at the rock."
"Strange," said the judge, glancing up at Mr. Field, "I heard there
wasn't another formation like it in the whole country."
"What nonsense!" ejaculated Mr. Field testily. "I've explored every
part of the district for miles round, and know every inch of it well,
and I could show you half a dozen valleys where there were similar
rocks, any one of which might be Wild Goat Gully."
"I don't think there are, father," chimed in Julius, "for I asked old
Joe the trapper, who has lived there all his life, and he told me just
the same as Judge Simmons. He said it was 'unique,' and I remember when
I asked you what that was, you said it meant there wasn't another like
it in the world."
"If you contradict me in this way, Julius, you may just leave the room,"
said his father in an angry tone. "I won't have lies told at my table,
even by my own son. Do you hear me, Julius? Be off with you this
instant, or I'll give you a thrashing that you won't soon forget."
"It's quite true, father," stoutly asserted the boy. "You know you've
often said to me that no one could equal the Good Hope mine any more
than they could match the yellow splash on its cliff."
A box on the ears was Mr. Field's only reply, as he grasped the lad by
the arm and hustled him out of the door.
"I am sorry, sir," he said when he returned to the table, "but I am
ashamed to say my boy has developed a terrible faculty for telling the
most deliberate untruths, and I have to do my best to check him. He
seems to take a perfect delight in inventing stories without a shadow of
foundation, and in sticking to them at all costs."
"I believe the child's version was the right one," said Judge Simmons to
himself as he motored back to Lanthorne Abbey. "Why should Field be so
anxious to demonstrate that orange streaks were such very ordinary
things?"
Suddenly he sat up and gave a low exclamation.
"What if he wished to prove to me that Good Hope mine could not possibly
be the same as Wild Goat Gully? That's a question which opens out some
interesting answers. I guess I'll make some enquiries when I get back
to California again."
*CHAPTER IV*
*Timothy's Three Friends*
Madelaine Power wandered along the shore idly watching the waves as they
came tumbling in, their white crests curling in a succession of long
feathery lines, until with a roar and a hiss they were flung upon the
beach, spreading themselves out like great fans of foam upon the
shingle.
No figure but her own was to be seen on the narrow pebbly strip, which
ran like a yellow ribbon between the foot of the cliff and the incoming
tide. No sound was to be heard save the monotonous music of the
breakers, and an occasional wild cry as a stray sea-gull circled above
her head.
Madelaine gave a little shiver as her eye followed the desolate track.
"Only eleven years ago this month since Gerald and I trod this very
shore," she said. "Only eleven years, and yet what a lifetime it seems!
Truly much of it has been to me a sad and solitary way. It has been
heavy walking, and most of it against the wind!"
She stood for a moment gazing at the coast-line, up which a sea-mist was
slowly travelling, blotting out the distant view of ocean and headland.
"Just as my troubles have blotted out my sun," she thought to herself,
as she morbidly let her mind dwell on the dark days of the past.
It was not strange that her spirit failed her at times, for the road had
indeed been toilsome to her young feet.
The only child of a struggling country doctor, and left an orphan at the
age of seventeen, she had early engaged in a hard fight for existence,
earning a scanty livelihood by teaching in the neighbouring town. It
was there that the girl made the acquaintance of the handsome young
surveyor whose friendship made so great a difference to her lonely lot.
Small wonder was it, when he asked her to be his wife, that she should
feel as if a new and glorious era had suddenly dawned. No matter that
her home was to be henceforth in the unknown West. The heart's love of
her strong and generous nature had been given wholly to him whom she
would gladly have followed to the ends of the earth.
With high hope the youthful couple had gone forth to try their fortune
in the New World, and for some months things went cheerily enough with
them. Then came speculations and accompanying failure, and Madelaine
learnt only too well the weak side of the man whom she still loved, but
with the pitiful sustaining tenderness of a nobler and braver character
than his own.
After the birth of their boy, Gerald had for a time displayed greater
energy and perseverance in seeking to better his position, journeying
often long distances in search of work. It was during one of these
absences that Madelaine received the letter which almost broke her heart
and sprinkled her chestnut hair with grey.
It told her how her husband had been suddenly smitten by the cold hand
of death while travelling in a wild part of the country, his body being
laid to rest in the depths of the trackless forest. His watch and chain
and an unfinished diary were the only tokens enclosed in the
accompanying package, and the young widow was left to realize as best
she could the desolate and penniless position in which she and her
infant were now placed.
Neither she nor Gerald had any relatives to whom she could appeal, and
had it not been for the aid given to her in her distress by an eccentric
and benevolent neighbour she would indeed have been destitute. Touched
by the forlorn condition of the hapless pair, this aged recluse invited
them to share his humble dwelling, and when he died about three months
later, Madelaine found to her surprise, that he had willed the whole of
his little property to herself and her son. One solitary stipulation he
made, and that a hard one in the faithful Madelaine's eyes. Only by
adopting his name could she and the boy claim the legacy that he left.
It was after much searching of heart that finally the thought of the
benefit which would accrue to her child outweighed the repugnance she
felt in setting aside the sacred name of her dead husband, and as
Madelaine Power she set sail with her baby for England, and settled down
in their new home.
Helping out the small income by typewriting and fine needlework, she had
managed hitherto to make a fairly comfortable living; but at present the
thought of Robin's education weighed somewhat heavily upon her heart.
To be either a doctor or a surveyor was the summit of the boy's
ambition, but how to give him the training he required for such a career
was a problem she had not solved as yet.
As she let her mind wander again to the future, she chanced to look down
upon the beach where a wave had run up higher than its fellows, almost
to the spot where she stood. There at her feet lay a tiny fish,
struggling vainly on the sand, a helpless waif, left high and dry by the
retreating sea.
"You poor little thing," she cried, as she stooped, and, lifting it
gently, threw it with a steady hand into the deep water beyond. "I
couldn't leave you to die there all by yourself. How strange to think
that in all these miles of desolate shore you should have been washed up
just at my feet. I wonder if God knew? Yes, of course He did, for
we're told plainly that the eyes of the Lord are in every place. If He
hears the young ravens when they cry, and notices if a sparrow falls, He
knows surely when the humblest of His human creatures are in need."
She turned and walked back by the shore, now brightened by a gleam of
sunshine, as the sea-mist cleared away. The waves seemed to sing a new
refrain as she passed along, the melody of which put vigour into her
steps and a light into her eyes;
"How much more .... How much more
Will He clothe you,
O, ye of little faith?"
"I may as well go up and pay Timothy a visit," she thought, as she
reached a rough ladder-like staircase which gave access to the top of
the cliff from the beach below. The wall of the aged fisherman's
cottage could be seen almost on a line with the edge of the crag.
"How terrible it must be to live there," she exclaimed as she looked up.
"I hardly like even to go in to visit him for a few minutes, and to
think of trying to sleep in such a place!"
She knocked at the door, and entered the little kitchen, which was
fortunately at that end of the house which was furthest from the sea.
It was a low room with heavy wooden rafters and whitewashed walls. The
old man was sitting by the open fireplace in his high-backed chair,
placidly smoking his pipe, while at his elbow stood an oak table an
which lay a well-worn Bible in its brown leather binding, and a pair of
horn spectacles.
After a few words of greeting, Mrs. Power's thoughts turned naturally to
the danger threatening the occupant of the perilous dwelling.
"I wonder you're not afraid, Timothy, of staying here all by yourself.
Any night the waves may break away another piece of the cliff, and the
house may go."
Timothy slowly took his pipe out of his mouth and laid it carefully upon
the table; then placing both his withered hands upon his knees, he leant
forward and nodded his head gently, while he kept his kindly eyes fixed
on the face of his visitor.
"I be ninety-four year old come next Lady-day," he commenced in his high
quaking voice, "and I've seen many a good friend pass away. The old wife
she's gone, and the two little ones that God took with the whooping
cough when they were but babes. My brothers are all gone, and my three
sisters, and the fine comrades I started with on life's journey. We
went together down to the sea in ships, and not one on 'em's outside the
harbour now, except my old worthless self. They're all gone, all my
good true friends, all gone but three. And them three, I think on them
by day, and I dream on them by night, the only three on 'em that's left.
Like as not you'll smile when I tell you their names. They be right
strange friends even for an old man like me."
"Tell me who they are?" said his visitor, for Timothy had ceased
speaking and was gazing absently into the fire.
He hesitated a moment.
"Well," he said at length, "I'll tell you. One on 'em's Death, and
another be the Tide, but the third be the best One of all."
"What do you mean?" asked Madelaine, for the old man had paused, as if
his thoughts had wandered back again to long past days. "How do you
count them your friends?"
"This here little house was my father's before me," continued Timothy,
as if talking to himself, "and man and boy I've never lived elsewhere,
though when I was a little lad there were two fine fields between us and
the cliff. I was always a running to the edge to watch the tide, it
fair bewitched me to see it come creeping up and then backing away, day
in, day out, like some mighty living thing with a living breathing
heart. And when I got a bit older, that there sea made a fisher of me.
Summer and winter it gave me my daily bread; it never failed me yet.
The sea's been a rare good friend to me from the one end of life to
t'other; a rare good friend it's been. It'll not go back on me now, it
won't. 'Twould be a mean trick to play on me, it would, if it took the
old place from under my feet, after four and ninety years of good
fellowship! I'm not afraid of the Tide."
Mrs. Power knew not what to say. No arguments rose to her lips, though
she vainly longed to remonstrate.
"Well, Timothy," she said at last, "I can't say that I'm as well
acquainted with the ways of the tide as you are, but the other of your
friends that you seem so sure of, I have often heard mentioned as the
great Enemy."
Timothy's face lit up with a triumphant smile as he raised one hand and
pointed upwards.
"And why?--I reckon it's because they don't understand. I thought that
once myself, but I see clearer now. The Tide's a good friend, but
Death's better."
"How did you find that out, Timothy?" questioned Mrs. Power.
"It was many a long year ago now," was the reply. "The old clergyman's
sister, Miss Alice, she was a good one, she was, and she would have us
young chaps up at the big house to learn us summat when the winter
nights did come, and the sea was too rough for the fishing. She was
always for book learning, was Miss Alice.
"'Don't go and waste your life, lad,' she would say, 'thinking it's
enough to feed the poor body; 'stead of that, do something for the soul
too.'
"It's dead and buried she's been this long while now, but she comes back
to me plain, she do, my eyes they seem to see her sitting there yet,
same as I saw her last, the week before she died. She sent for me, she
did, seeing I was one of her old scholars, to tell me she was going
home, and to bid me take more thought for heaven. She was always a
wonderful kind teacher, was Miss Alice, and her face fair shone when she
spoke of God and the golden city.
"That evening she was sitting by the fire, and on the wall just behind
her was a big picter. Well--that picter it transfixed me wholly; it
stuck in my mind, it did, I have it before me now, as plain as a
pikestaff."
"What was it like?" asked Mrs. Power.
"There was an old chap--as it might be me," answered Timothy, "and he
was sitting in his big arm-chair--as it might be this 'un, and his Bible
by his side, and his vittles on the table--just as I have here. He did
look so wonderful tired, that poor man, and he was resting so
comfortable in the big chair. His eyes they were shut, and his head it
was leaning back, and he was sleeping so quiet and peaceable-like. But
you'd never guess what was in that room along of him. No, you'd never
guess."
"I would rather you told me," said Madelaine, "I'm not good at
guessing."
"Well," continued Timothy, "along side of the table was a great big
skeleton, dressed up in long flowing clothes, and its face looked right
kind and gentle, it did, and its hands were stretched up, a-pulling the
rope of a great bell that hung in the belfry over the old man's head.
The sun was just sinking, you could see it out of the little window in
the back of the picter. Says I to Miss Alice, 'The old chap'll be finely
scared when he wakes up and sees the ghost.' 'No,' said she, 'there's
writing here below, and it means something quite different. The name of
that picture is "Death as Friend." It means that he's come to call the
poor man away from all his want and all his weariness, and to tell him
it's time to go up to the beautiful city and the light of God.' He's no
enemy--he's a right good friend for an old man to have."
"So you're expecting him to come for you, Timothy," said Madelaine
gently.
"Yes, I'm just waiting here for my friend," was the quiet answer. "He
won't be long now, and the other friend down below there, I know he'll
wait till I'm in the mansions of gold before he takes down the walls of
my little house here. I'm waiting quite patient, and I'm not afraid.
We're waiting, all of us, my friends and me, for we're all in the Hand
of Him that's mightier than the mightiest, Him that's the best Friend of
all. I be safe to trust in Him, for He knows the end from the
beginning, and the times and the seasons are His alone."
The old man took off his fisherman's cap as he spoke, and closed his
eyes as if in prayer. Mrs. Power did not like to disturb him, but
silently left the hut.
The sunny landscape look blurred to her as she walked home along the
edge of the cliff.
"I've had a lesson," she said to herself. "The Lord knoweth them that
are His. Surely we may well commit ourselves to the care of our Best
Friend."
*CHAPTER V*
*A Thief in the Night*
It was a warm August evening, and the windows of Sea View Cottage were
opened wide to let in the faint breeze which had risen with the turning
of the tide. The lamp was lit in the little sitting-room, and in its
soft glow sat Mrs. Power, her head bending low over her work.
Suddenly she looked up.
"What was that curious noise?" she exclaimed. "It sounded as if someone
was in the garden. I really wish old Mrs. Sheppard would keep a dog.
It is not safe to be so far off the high road, and she so deaf."
She rose and went to the window, peering vainly out into the darkness,
where nothing was to be seen save the dim outlines of the trees lazily
waving their branches against the starlit sky.
"I wonder if it was Robin walking in his sleep again," she said. "I'll
take the light and see if he's all right."
She turned to go, but before lifting the lamp she glanced at the watch
which lay beside it on the table.
"Half-past ten!" she remarked, as she took the key and wound it up.
"Late hours for this Sleepy Hollow, but I think I'll go on a little
longer with my embroidery before I go to bed."
Replacing the watch, she disappeared with the light into the passage.
As the door closed, a man's face glanced stealthily in at the window,
and the next moment a rough figure in a long overcoat had crept
unobserved into the room.
"Ladies shouldn't leave their jewellery so tempting-like in a poor man's
way," he muttered. "What else can they expect but to find their trinkets
gone when they come back? Serves 'em right for dangling them in front
of a fellow's nose!"
He made his way cautiously to the table and groped about with his hands
until he found what he wanted. "Gold!" he ejaculated, "I'm pretty sure
of it by the feel, and a gent's too, by the size of it; not to speak of
a good thick chain that'll bring in a nice little sum by itself."
He slipped his spoils into the pocket of his coat, and stood pondering
for a moment.
"Is there nothing else that I could nab?" he said to himself. "Silver
spoons aren't usually found in country lodgings, so it's no use looking
in the sideboard, but I think I caught sight of a missionary-box on the
mantelpiece which might be worth enquiring into, seeing there's not much
else to bag.
"Ha! Pretty heavy!" he added, as he weighed the box is his hand. "With
no disrespect to the missionary, I'll relieve him from having to dispose
of too much wealth. Pennies, no doubt, mostly, but they tell no tales,
and come in handy for a drink."
As he was in the act of putting the box into his other pocket, he saw to
his dismay that the light was again approaching the door.
"I've particular reasons for not showing my attractive face in this
neighbourhood, lady," he continued under his breath, "so with your leave
I'll decline the pleasure of making your acquaintance this evening, and
go back by the way I came."
He made his way hastily to the window, and was in the act of getting
out, when the light of the lamp flashed out over the garden from the
porch.
Madelaine had found her little son fast asleep in the tiny room which
opened off her own, and her motherly anxiety being allayed, her thoughts
turned again to outside dangers.
"I'll close the parlour window," she said, "as it's getting late, just
in case there might be some one loitering about."