Part 44 (1/2)

For several weeks he kept hoping that he would meet Madeline again. He wanted to have one more conversation with her. He hoped that her generous nature would allow him to put his side of the case; or, if that was denied him that he might be allowed to say with all the emphasis he could command, that the accusation was false. But she gave him no such opportunity. He watched for her in the streets of St. Gaved. He took long walks across the downs, he loitered in the road that led past the lodge gates, but never once did she show her face. She evidently meant to let him see that their acquaintances.h.i.+p was at an end.

Then came the news that the whole family had gone abroad, and that no one knew when they would return to Trewinion Hall again. He heard the news with a dull sense of pain at his heart. The brightest--the most beautiful thing--that had ever come into his life had gone out again, and he was left like a man stricken blind in a land of suns.h.i.+ne.

Yet, strangely enough, his sense of grief and shame and loss increased his desire for life. He did not want to hide himself--to pa.s.s out into silence and forgetfulness. He wanted to live so that he might redeem his life from the shadow that had fallen upon it, and prove to Madeline Grover, however late in the day, how cruelly he had been wronged.

On his return from the North, however, this and every other feeling was swallowed up in a strange insensibility to pain, both mental and physical. The one thought that dominated him was that he must keep his pledge to Felix Muller. As an honourable man he was bound to do that, and perhaps the sooner he did it the better.

He had spent three-fourths of the money he had borrowed. He had a few a.s.sets in the shape of tools, the rest would have to be sc.r.a.pped, and would only be worth the value of old iron. In case there were no mishaps over the insurance money, Felix Muller would be well repaid for the risks he had taken and the world would go on just as if nothing had happened.

After a good deal of cogitation he came to the conclusion that the easiest way out of life would be by drowning. He was not a very good swimmer. He soon got exhausted and so was careful never to venture out of his depth. It would be quite easy, therefore, for him to swim out into deep water or take a header from a rock when the tide was up and then quietly drown.

That would mean that he would have to wait until summer. n.o.body in St.

Gaved bathed in the sea in March. To avoid any suspicion of foul play he would have to follow his normal habits and preserve as far as possible a cheerful temper.

It was soon whispered through the town that Rufus's great invention had proved a failure. Some sympathised with him. Some secretly rejoiced.

For, curiously enough, no man can live in this world and do his duty without making enemies. There are narrow, ungenerous souls in every community who regard the success of their neighbours as a personal affront, who can see no merit in anyone, and who are never able to shape their lips to a word of praise or congratulation.

These people always complained that Rufus was a cut above his station.

They said it would do him good ”to be taken down a peg.” But they were dreadfully sorry for the people whom he had induced to invest money in his wild-cat enterprise.

There were talks of his being made a bankrupt, and hints were thrown out that he might soon have to appear in a court of law on a worse charge than that of being drunk and disorderly. Moralists were able to see in his case striking ill.u.s.trations of the truth that ”the way of transgressors is hard.” It was against the eternal order that a man should permanently prosper who had turned his back upon the faith of his fathers. His failure was heaven's punishment on him for neglecting church and chapel, and his fall into the sin of drunkenness was to be traced to precisely the same source.

Some of these things were repeated to Rufus by not too judicious friends, but they little guessed how deeply they hurt him. It was not his habit to betray his feelings. When he was most deeply stung he said the least.

A few days after his return Felix Muller drove over to see him. He came as usual after dark, and his excuse was that he had been to see clients in the neighbourhood.

Felix was full of sympathy and generous in his language of commiseration.

”We must still hope for the best,” he said, after a long pause, looking into the fire with a grave and abstracted air. ”You have several months yet to turn round in.”

”It will be impossible for me to find the money except in the way we agreed upon,” Rufus answered, without emotion.

”It may look so now,” Muller answered, with pretended cheerfulness; ”but in this topsy-turvy world there is no knowing what will turn up. I wish it were possible for me to allow you an extension of time.”

”I fear it would not help me, if you could,” Rufus said, absently.

”Well, perhaps it wouldn't, but all the same I should like to give you an extra chance or two if that were possible.”

”I am not asking for any favours,” Rufus said, indifferently. ”I am getting things straight for you with as little delay as possible.”

”And I shall loathe myself for being compelled to receive the money when you are gone.”

Rufus looked at him for a moment with a doubtful light in his eyes.

”Why, what can it matter to you?” he questioned. ”I thought you were a man without sentiment.”

”I am in the main. I am just a man of business, and nothing else. Yet there's no denying I am fond of you. You are a man of my own way of thinking. May I not say you are a disciple of mine?”

”You may say what you like,” Sterne replied, with a hollow laugh. ”I believe you helped to destroy some of the illusions of my youth.”