the situation with a knot of men at the public-house door. "The squire
goes to that there wood in the morning with his gun, and refuses to let
me come with him, as would only have been natural, for to pick up the
birds. Mrs. Power she finds a man shot in that very wood a few hours
later, and as all here know, there was no one whom Mr. Field would
sooner see put out of the way than this same identical victim. He was
in a fine temper when I met him, and it's my belief he has had more to
do with this affair than he would care to tell."
It was in vain that Mr. Field disclaimed any knowledge of the matter
when the constable went up to interview him next morning. The story of
the grey cat was scoffed at by the village in general as being an
entirely inadequate explanation of the accident, and public feeling
waxed more and more indignant against him.
The condition of the patient had improved during the night, and a
gradual return to consciousness was apparent as the hours went by. Mrs.
Power had constituted herself his nurse for the present, there being no
one else available who was competent to undertake such a task.
Meanwhile Mr. Field's sensations were not enviable as he waited in
feverish anxiety for tidings from the sick man's room.
"If he dies, I'm done for," he said, "for there are no witnesses, and I
can't deny that appearances are dead against me, however I may seek to
disclaim the deed. Even if he lives, how do I know that he will speak
the truth about it? He's got an opportunity now of ruining me
altogether, if he chooses only to say the word."
It was not till late afternoon that Mrs. Power, on glancing up from her
chair, noticed that the invalid had opened his eyes, and was gazing at
her with a puzzled look. She went to him and administered a few
spoonfuls of the beef-tea which she had ready on the hob.
"Just lie still and try to go to sleep," she said. "You'll get on all
right now."
For an hour or more he lay silent, and the watcher thought that he
dozed, but she was suddenly startled by a voice from the bed.
"I've been down to the very gates of death, haven't I?" was the
unexpected question.
"Yes," she replied, "but they are not going to open to you this time, I
think. You have turned the corner now, and we expect to have you well
again in no time."
"I shouldn't have been ready to go through if they had opened," said
Ben, ignoring her remark. "They would have been black gates to me, not
the golden ones my poor old father saw."
Afraid of exciting her patient, Mrs. Power did not answer, hoping that
sleep would come to quiet the troubled brain, but after a few moments'
pause Ben began again--
"When the doctor came this afternoon I know you all thought I was
unconscious, but I heard him say, 'Field's got a bad case against him,'
as he left the room. I was jolly glad at first, for I'd been wanting to
have a handle against him for a long time past. However, when a man's
on the brink of the grave, he's bound to think a bit, so I feel I ought
to speak up. It certainly was Field who shot me, but he didn't know I
was there. I was putting down food for the pheasants, the plantation
being a grand place for poaching, and I hid in the bushes as he came by.
He fired at a cat, but he got me instead. I was stunned for a while,
and then only managed to stagger to the wall, hoping someone would find
me as they passed along the road. I thought I was done for when I fell
again in the wood."
"Do you want to make this known?" asked Mrs. Power. "Suspicions have
been very rife in Mr. Field's direction, everyone knowing that he had a
grudge against you."
"Yes," answered Ben slowly, "I want to make it known. I've had a hard
fight inside me this last hour, when you believed I was asleep. I felt
I had him at my mercy, and at first I determined that I wouldn't lift up
my little finger to help him, knowing that if I died he would probably
have to swing for me. It's a solemn thing, though, to know for certain
that God is just on the other side of those gates, and that if they open
for you, you will have to face Him right there by yourself, and that His
holy eyes will search you through and through. Well, somehow things
look different when it comes to that, and if I should die I dare not
meet Him with a black thought like that in my heart. So I shall be glad
if you will tell them all that it was entirely my fault and not Mr.
Field's. I had no business to be there at all."
In the presence of the landlord, Mrs. Power took down the statement,
which, with much difficulty, Ben managed to sign, after which he sank
back upon the pillow, wearied with the exertion, and soon fell into a
calm and restful sleep.
During the days which followed, many a long talk had Ben with his kind
and patient nurse. The man's heart was softened by the danger which he
had so lately passed through, and his ears were attentive as she sought
to lead him to the One his father had known and trusted so well.
"I should like to make my peace with God," was his cry, "but I've sinned
against Him all my life and I'm ashamed to come to Him now."
"Nevertheless you may be quite sure of a welcome," replied Mrs. Power.
"The wonder is that it is _He_ Who invites us to make peace with
Him--not we who have to wring forgiveness from an unwilling God. He
actually pleads with us to come to Him. Listen to what St. Paul says,
Ben, 'Now then we are ambassadors for Christ, as though God did beseech
you by us: we pray you in Christ's stead, be ye reconciled to God.'"
"To think of God beseeching us to come to Him," said Ben, "when we have
neglected Him so long! It seems too good to be true!"
"It is only through our Lord Jesus Christ that we can come to Him,"
answered Mrs. Power. "It is He Who has made it possible for God to
forgive. 'He hath made Him to be sin for us, Who knew no sin, that we
might be made the righteousness of God in Him.' You remember the old
hymn--
"I lay my sins on Jesus,
The spotless Lamb of God;
He bears them all, and frees us
From the accursed load."
"But the choice must be made," added Mrs. Power solemnly. "If we keep
our sins we lose our souls."
"I would choose Christ," said Ben. "Isn't there a verse that says,
'What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose
his own soul?' I see it all clear now, and I thank Him for having
opened up the way for me to come to God. I should like to serve Him,
with His help, during what remains to me of my life, if He'll spare me
for a little while yet."
"'Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered,'"
was Mrs. Power's rejoinder. "There are no regrets for those who enter
the service of God."
It was after this conversation, as Madelaine was walking back to Sea
View Cottage in the evening light, that she began to turn her thoughts
to the prospects which lay before her and her boy. She had not intended
staying so long at Sunbury, having purposed only to remain for the
autumn months. Julius' illness, however, had delayed her for a few
weeks, and Ben's accident had caused her to postpone her departure still
further. Both invalids being now well on the road to recovery, she felt
the time had come to bring the quiet country visit to a close.
"If I could only get a few pupils and set up a small school, I might be
able to put aside something towards Robin's future," she said. "He
ought to go eventually to some sort of college, whatever profession he
takes up, and where the fees are to come from, I don't know."
As she walked up the garden path, she saw that the lamp had been lit in
the parlour, and that Robin was already busily engaged at tea. The
blind had not been drawn down, so that she could distinguish everything
plainly.
"Why, he's got a visitor, the monkey!" she exclaimed. "I wonder who it
is that he has invited to keep him company during my absence. 'When the
cat's away, the mice do play,' I suppose."
A man was sitting with his back to the window, so that it was impossible
for Mrs. Power to recognize him from where she stood, but whoever it
was, she noticed that Robin was carrying on a most animated conversation
with his guest. It appeared also of an amusing character, for presently
the stranger threw himself back in his chair, and a merry laugh rang
through the room.
Madelaine started and the posts of the porch seemed to sway backwards
and forwards in front of her, as a film came suddenly before her eyes.
She pulled herself together and put up her hand as if to thrust the
dizzy feeling from her, then with knees trembling and palpitating heart,
she walked into the little passage and threw open the parlour door.
The visitor rose with an embarrassed air, and stood grasping the back of
a chair as he turned to meet her.
"It's only a tramp I've made friends with, mother," said Robin. "He has
come to say good-bye, and I knew you wouldn't mind me asking him to stay
to tea as you were out."
"Madelaine!--my own Madelaine!" ejaculated the stranger with a dazed
look upon his pale face. "Is it possible--or am I dreaming?"
"Gerald!--my husband!" was the answering cry, as Madelaine threw herself
into his outstretched arms. "Oh, thank God that I have got you again!"
In mute astonishment Robin watched the reunited pair, till the first
ecstasy of the unexpected meeting was past, and they could turn to him
with explanations of the strange scene.
"Come and welcome your father, Robin," was Madelaine's joyful
exclamation, as she put out her hand to the boy. "This is indeed a
wonderful day for us. Our lost one has been given back to us as from
the dead. How, I do not know. It is enough to feel that he is here."
She raised her eyes, brimming with love and tenderness, to feast her
gaze once more upon her husband's countenance, clinging closely to him
the while, as if she feared some unseen power would spirit him away.
She was startled to see the spasm of pain which passed over his features
at her words, while a deep groan escaped his lips.
"Gerald!" she exclaimed, "what is wrong? You look so ill, and as if
something dreadful had happened. What can anything matter so long as we
are together again?"
"My darling," said Gerald, with lips that trembled in spite of the
effort he made to obtain command over himself, "how can I spoil the joy
of this blessed reunion by bringing fresh pain to your dear true heart?
And yet I must speak, and tell you all. Madelaine, it had been better
for us if we had never met again. Far happier for you would it be if I
were really dead, for we must part again, beloved, and that at once. I
must still remain to you as one whose name is blotted out of the book of
life. To recall me to the world would only mean anguish untold both to
you and the boy."
"If you think I am going to let you go, Gerald, now that I have got you
again, you are very much mistaken," said Madelaine resolutely. "'Where
thou goest I will go,' and no arguments will ever shake my
determination. Surely my right place is at my husband's side?"
"You were always braver than I, Madelaine," replied Gerald, "but when
you hear all, you may not feel the same towards me as you once did. Let
the boy go while I make a clean breast of the past, and then you will be
more able to judge of how you will behave in regard to me in the
future."
*CHAPTER XVI*
*For Conscience' Sake*
As Robin left the room, Gerald disengaged himself from his wife's
embrace, and stood upon the hearthrug, his two hands extended towards
her.
"Madelaine," he said, and his voice sounded harsh with pain as he spoke,
"I shall not keep you in suspense, but tell you the whole terrible truth
at once. Look at your husband's hands, and then turn away if you will.
They are not fit to touch a hair of your head. The curse of Cain is
upon them, for they are guilty--stained with the life-blood of a
fellow-man."
Madelaine gave a little gasp of horror.
"It simply can't be true!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Gerald, I can't believe
it. You never could have done such a thing. You, so good and gentle!
It must all be some ghastly mistake!"
"It is true, Madelaine, sadly and woefully true," replied Gerald. "I
saw him lying there with his poor eyes all glazed and dim. He was an
old man too, and had done me no harm. I had no grudge against him,
indeed I was his guest at the time when I gave the fatal blow. The awful
fact remains that in a fit of drunken rage,--for which God forgive
me,--I killed old Wattie, the miner, in his little shanty on the banks
of a Californian stream."
Madelaine covered her face with her hands as if to shut out some
dreadful sight, and sank down on her knees beside the table.
"O God, forgive him, for he knew not what he did," she moaned. "Oh, lay
not this sin to his charge."
"You are right in saying that I did not know how the dastardly deed was
done," replied her husband. "It was not till I came to my senses again
that I was told what the consequences of my act had been. You remember,
Madelaine, that drink had never been my temptation, and it was rarely
that I joined with others even in a friendly glass. I think the liquor
I took in old Wattie's hut must have been singularly fiery, for I have
never been overcome in the same way, either before or since. Indeed
from that day to this, no drop of strong drink has passed my lips. I
don't say this to excuse myself, for I am fully aware that there is no
sort of palliation for my sin. I would only have you know, Madelaine,
that it was unwittingly done, and gladly would I have given my life to
see vitality come back to those powerless limbs again. I helped to
carry him into the little room behind, and laid him on his bed. He
looked so white and still, as we left him there alone."
"Oh, my husband, why did you not tell me this before," asked Madelaine.
"Surely you might have trusted me to understand? Why did you leave me
without a word, making me think that you were dead?"
"Because I was a coward," answered Gerald. "I dared not face the
consequences of my rash act. I could not have met you without telling
you all, and I thought it was the better way both for you and me if I
simply disappeared from your sight, making no explanation or excuse. It
seemed to me that it would be easier for you to hear the news of my
death, than to carry the burden of my crime. I pictured your grief, and
thought of the innocent babe who might be branded all his days as the
son of a common felon. I tried to end my life that same dark night in
the river that flowed so swiftly only a few paces from the door. God in
His mercy had other plans for me, unprepared as I was then for coming
into His presence, and frustrated the deed which would only have added
to the weight of guilt which I already bore. I was cast up on the bank
some way down the stream, only to submerge myself in the scarcely less
terrible depths of a friendless world, for I had not strength of mind to
repeat the attempt to take away my life."
Madelaine's face was still buried in her hands as she knelt on silently,
but Gerald could see that her frame was shaken by an agony of weeping,
while she listened to the sad and shameful tale. It was only with a
mighty effort that he was able to continue.
"There was another reason why I did not tell you all this before. I
feared to lose your love, Madelaine, if you ever came to a knowledge of
the truth. I felt that I could bear anything rather than your scorn and
shrinking, and I knew only too well how richly I deserved such treatment
at your hands. A friend who was witness when old Wattie fell, promised
to write and tell you how I met my end. He was to say nothing of what
had gone before, only to give you to understand that I had been drowned
in some far-off river in the west."
"Yes," sobbed Madelaine, "that is what I heard. How could anyone be so
cruel as to send such false tidings to me, when you were still alive?"
"He only told you what he believed to be true," answered Gerald. "He
saw me swept away by the rushing current, and in a few moments I was out
of his sight, lost in the grey gloom of the early dawn. He never
imagined that I escaped, and I took good care not to tell him, desiring
that all trace of me should be lost. I feared that he might give
information against me if I turned up again, knowing as he well did that
death in some form was only my due. I am glad however that he fulfilled
his promise, so that at least you were not kept in suspense as to what
had become of me."
"Oh, Gerald, why did you not send for me to join you, when you knew that
you would have after all to face life with this dreadful weight upon
you?" said Madelaine with a pained look in her honest eyes, as she rose
at last from her knees and stood beside her husband. "Why did you not
at least give me the option of bearing it with you?"
"I could not ask you to share such a dark future, dear one," replied
Gerald. "My life for the last ten years has been a hideous nightmare, a
constant dread of discovery and of the punishment which would inevitably
follow. You were far better without me in your innocent ignorance of
what had come to pass. Now, Madelaine, there is my confession. I have
kept nothing back. The best thing you can do is to let me pass out of
your life again, so that you and Robin may continue your quiet way in
peace and honour. Even though it tear my heart out to leave you, it is
the least atonement I can make for what I have done."
Madelaine stood for a moment looking up into her husband's face, then
putting both her hands into his, she said softly--
"'For better, for worse,' Gerald. I am your wife, and nothing shall
ever part us again. Robin and I will go with you to begin over again in
some quiet corner, where we may yet be happy together through the
blessing of God."
"The blessing of God?" questioned Gerald with a sharp note of anguish in
his tone, as he put his arms round his wife, and fondly kissed her
cheek. "Before I can look for that, I have yet to speak to you of the
future, and I must put your love to a still harder test. You are indeed
a faithful comrade and a brave, true soul, and you must help me to be
strong, for sorely do I need courage. What I have now before me was bad
enough to contemplate yesterday, but it is well-nigh unbearable since I
have found you and my little son again."
"What can be worse than that which you have already told me?" asked
Madelaine anxiously. "Be quick and let me hear what it is, so that I may
know what I have still to face."
"Sit down beside me," said her husband, "and listen as patiently as you
can, for the sequel to my crime is a long story and hard to tell."
It was indeed a pitiful tale that Gerald Barker unfolded in his wife's
ears.
Cut off though he had been by his own hand from the old life, his heart
yet hungered for news of those he loved, and many a time had he sought
to gain tidings of them in the past. Hampered, however, as he was by
the continual fear of detection, it was only under a feigned name and by
circuitous ways that he could prosecute his search. He told Madelaine
how, some months after the tragedy, he had written to the postmaster of
the little Canadian town where last their home had been, to find out if
she and the child were still in the same place where he had said
farewell to them in his departure upon the ill-fated journey. The reply
came that so far as the official was aware, they had sailed for England
a short time before, leaving no address nor any indication as to their
final destination.
Believing that his wife would probably return to her former haunts, he
made further enquiries in the secluded Hertfordshire village where her
father had so long practised as doctor to the countryside. Once again
came the disheartening answer that information concerning her could not
be supplied, no one of the name of Barker being resident in the
neighbourhood.
"Why, of course not!" exclaimed Madelaine. "The postmaster there was a
new man, and had only heard of me as Mrs. Power, so he would not
recognize me as the same person about whom you were asking. I must tell
you how the change came about, for I have something to confess to you,
Gerald, something which I must ask you to forgive. I do hope you will
not think I did wrong, but truly it was a difficult matter to decide."
"You did perfectly right, Madelaine," replied her husband, when he had
heard the story of the generous friend who was raised up so opportunely
to care for the helpless ones he had himself deserted in their need. "I
am only thankful that you did not suffer more from my selfish cowardice.
It has been misery to me to think what you might be enduring, and I
powerless to make amends. During all my wanderings I have tried to put
by small sums from time to time, hoping that one day I might find out
your retreat, and be able to make life easier for you, anonymously at
least, even if I were unable to reveal myself as your rightful provider
and guard."
It was in furtherance of this desire that Gerald had at length taken the
voyage to England, trusting that the ten long years which had passed had
so effectually altered his appearance, that he could safely revisit the
scenes where he might most probably hear news of those he had lost. A
morbid terror of recognition had by this time fastened upon him,
becoming a second nature, so that he could not easily associate with
other men. Thus all his enquiries had ended in disappointment and
failure, being only addressed to strangers who would naturally be unable
to give him the personal clue which he sought.
"I went as a last chance to Norwich," he said, "knowing that you had a
relative there who might help, but I found that he was dead, and his
wife also, so that hope fell to the ground. By this time I was quite
worn out by privation and anxiety, so that my heart got affected, and I
had such a bad attack that I was obliged to go into hospital for some
weeks. It was there that the change came, and I saw my life in the
light of Heaven. I realized that I had sinned not only against man but
against God. As I lay upon what might have been my death-bed, I made a
solemn vow that if I was spared I would go back to California, and give
myself up to justice, so as to atone as far as I could for what I had
done so many years ago. I determined to delay only long enough to get
back my strength, and it was for this reason I decided to come to
Sunbury, knowing the pureness of its air, and remembering too the happy
days of our short honeymoon here, when we were young and knew not what
life held of bitterness for us both."
Madelaine's face was strained and grey as she sat listening silently,
trying to take in what her husband's words signified, and her parched
lips almost refused to utter the question which she strove to ask.
"Do you mean to say you are going to leave me again, and to deliberately
give yourself up to trial and perhaps even death? After all this time
too? Oh, Gerald, is it really necessary? It is more than I can possibly
bear. Surely there is some other way?"
"It is the only way," replied Gerald, "there is no other. I have not a
shadow of doubt about it. But, oh, my darling, it is a cruel blow to
deal you, and to know that it is I who have inflicted this pain upon you
is a worse punishment than any that can possibly come to me from the
hands of the law."
Madelaine made no reply. She sat as if stunned by the terrible future
which had opened out before her, following so closely upon the sudden
joy. Her hands were tightly clasped together, and she gazed out of the
window as one who saw nothing.
"Madelaine!" exclaimed Gerald suddenly, "is it too great a sacrifice
that I am asking you to share? Am I wrong in demanding it of you? We
are one, my wife, and you have a right to speak on this matter which
concerns us both so intimately. I put it to you--shall I stay so long
as you need me, or do you agree that it is right for me to go? Help me
to decide, only remember it must be a decision which is made in the
presence of God."
Madelaine gave a shiver as at length she turned her eyes from the
window, and fixed them mournfully upon her husband's face.
"It is right for you to go, Gerald," she said with a little choking sob.
"I will not hold you back. God have you in His keeping, and may He in
some way bring light into this black dark night which has settled down
upon us all."
*CHAPTER XVII*
*Well-founded Fears*
One slight reprieve did Gerald and his wife allow themselves, as they
talked over their future plans. It was decided that he should not
disclose his identity until he had reached the district where the crime
had been committed. Until then they would make the most of each other's
companionship, Madelaine and Robin going with him to California, so that
they might be together as long as possible before the final separation.
"I must find out about berths and the dates of sailing," said Gerald,
"and in the meanwhile, we had better go to London or Liverpool, where we
can easily lose ourselves in the crowd."