A Gamble with Life Part 54

"Well, yes. You deserve to be sent to prison for robbing an honest man of his character, but for the information I want I will pay the price of silence."

"You take your oath on it?"

Madeline hesitated for a moment. She would like to clear Rufus Sterne's character if possible. But he had just as much proof of perjury as she had unless this man confessed, and he refused to confess unless she promised secrecy.

"I take my oath on it," she answered.

"Then he paid me twenty pounds."

"Only twenty pounds?"

"He offered me five at first, then ten, then fifteen; but when he rose to twenty it was too much to resist. He said 'twouldn't harm Sterne.

That every gentleman got drunk now and then, and that as he was drunk it might be as well to prove he got drunk here as anywhere else."

"And you didn't serve him with any drink?"

"I never served him with a drink in my life. He pa.s.sed the "Three Anchors" that night, but he didn't call."

"Thank you; that is all I wish to know."

"And you'll not set the police on me?"

"No."

She rode home by another way, and rode slowly. She was not an expert horsewoman yet, though she was rapidly becoming one.

She entered the house without anyone seeing her, and went at once to her own room. She wanted time to think, to shape her plans for the future.

Her life's programme had been torn into shreds. She would have to begin over again. But how, or when, or where?

After lunch she took a stroll on the Downs and along the cliffs. "I shall never come back here again," she said to herself. "This must be my farewell."

She walked slowly, and with many pauses. She half hoped she would see Rufus Sterne. She wanted to say good-bye to him, and in saying it tell him that she believed in him.

But Rufus was busy elsewhere that afternoon, and they did not meet. She looked in all directions as she strolled back across the Downs to the Hall, and with a little sigh she pa.s.sed through the lodge gates.

Another chapter had been completed in the story of her life. To-morrow a fresh page would be turned.

CHAPTER x.x.x

THE TOILS OF CIRc.u.mSTANCE

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 relations.h.i.+p, 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 j.a.pan. 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 pa.s.s each other like s.h.i.+ps 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 circ.u.mspection. 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, pa.s.sionately 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."