Chapter XII: Part 12

"You London gentlemen are too clever for me," said the doctor, laughingly. "But never mind; I shall have to win that back."

"Mustn't win much off him if I'm to take his medicine," said Glyddyr to himself. "Might give me too strong a dose. Ugh! What a fool I am to think such things as that."

"I believe he's half a sharper," said the doctor to himself as he was rowed ashore. "But never mind; let him marry her. He will be another patient to the good, and I dare say I can manage him, clever as he is."

The next day Glyddyr called at the Fort, and found Claude at home. She received him with Mary by her side, and the triumphant feelings that filled his breast after the last encounter with Chris slowly filtered away.

He was not himself he knew, feeling nothing like so strong and well, through having gone to bed the previous night perfectly sober, and refraining that morning from taking what he called a peg to string himself up, for fear that the odour should accompany him on his visit.

He told himself that he never showed to worse advantage, for he was troubled all through the visit by a horrible sensation of nervous dread, starting at every sound, and hurriedly bringing his visit to a close.

On the other hand, Claude thought she had never liked her visitor so well.

"He seemed so full of respectful deference," she said.

"Yes," said downright Mary, "but I wish he would take a dislike to the place. I'm sick of seeing his yacht moored in the harbour. It's beginning to blow. I wish the wind would blow it right away."

But Glyddyr had not the least intention of going. In spite of his hurried ending to his visit, he came away feeling better.

"It's natural that I should feel uncomfortable there, but it will soon wear off, and it's plain enough to see that I am gradually becoming welcome. Gellow's right," he said, recalling one of their conversations. "Patience is the thing.

"I'm all right. Wish I could feel like this when I am there."

"Good-morning."

"Ah, doctor."

"Why it's `ah, patient.' You're better, Glyddyr, decidedly. You must keep on with that tonic."

"Yes, ever so much better," said Glyddyr, who was flushed with hope. "Come on board and dine with me."

"Thanks, no. I'm not such a very bad sailor, but not good enough to enjoy my dinner with the table dancing up and down. Going to be a gale."

"Humph! Yes, I suppose it will be a bit rough, even if we shift the moorings. Never mind, come and dine with me at the hotel and we can have a private room, and a hand at cards with our coffee."

"Oh, I don't know," said the doctor, hesitating.

"Yes, come," said Glyddyr eagerly. "I'm dull and hipped. Want a companion. Do me more good than your tonics. At seven."

"Very well," said the doctor, "seven be it. Do me good, too, perhaps," he muttered, as he went away. "Better for him to marry her. Yes, I can turn him round my finger."

He went home musing deeply, and, punctual to time, joined Glyddyr at the hotel, to find him looking flushed and excited.

"Hallo! That's not the tonic," he said.

"Eh! Tonic? No, it's the weather. Storm always affects me a little. I was obliged to have a pint of champagne to pull me up."

The doctor laughed as he shook his head, for he saw in the half-wrecked man before him, a life annuity, if the cards were rightly played, and during the dinner he once or twice told himself that his game was to hurry on the engagement between Claude and Glyddyr.

"If he is wise," the doctor said to himself, "Glyddyr will play the trump card. It would take the trick. Your father's wish, my dear. Poor old gentleman."

They parted almost sworn friends, for the real cards had been kindly to both, and neither had lost or won.

"It's rather rough for going on board to-night," said the doctor.

"Pish! Not a bit I'm not afraid of a few waves."

"Well, don't get drowned."

"Those who are bound to be hanged will never be drowned," came into Glyddyr's head as the doctor departed, and the old saw sent quite a chill through him.

"Confound it. What a coward I am," he muttered angrily. "I felt so much better all the evening. Here," he said roughly to the waiter, who had come in accidentally, as waiters do when the guests begin to stir. "My bill."

That document was quite ready; and after glancing at it, Glyddyr took a bank-note from his pocket-book, and laid it upon the tray.

The waiter bowed, went out, and returned with the note, crossed to a side table where there was a blotting case and inkstand, both of which he brought to where Glyddyr was smoking.

"What's the matter? Not a bad one, is it?"

"Oh dear no, sir," said the waiter, with a deprecatory cough, "only master said would you mind putting your name on the back?"

"Damn your master," cried Glyddyr, snatching the pen and scribbling down his name. "There: you ought to know me by this time."

"Yes, sir; of course, sir; but we always do that with notes, sir."

"Get out, and bring me my change."

"Yes, sir; directly sir."

"It was your father's wish, Claude--your father's latest wish. You will not refuse me. I can wait."

Glyddyr was muttering this as the waiter brought his change, and the words kept on running in his head as he walked down to the pier, to find his men waiting for him. The words haunted him, too, as he rode over the rough waves in the little harbour.

"Bah!" he thought, as he reached his cabin and threw himself down, flushed and in high spirits now, "it was an accident, and I am a fool to shrink with a prize like that waiting for me. I will go on, and she can't refuse me if I only have plenty of pluck. I've been a bit out of order, and weak. It's all right now. That cad hasn't a chance. My wife before six months are gone, and then, Master Gellow, if I don't send you to the right about I'll--"

He stopped, for he remembered Denise.

"No," he muttered uneasily, "one's obliged to keep a cad to do one's dirty work, and Gellow can be useful when he likes."

Volume Three, Chapter VIII.

MRS SARSON'S APPEAL.

"Sit down, Mr Wimble, and how's all Danmouth? I was coming over in a day or two perhaps, to stay at the Fort, and if I do, I dare say I shall have to make a call on you."

"Glad to see you at any time, sir," said Wimble, looking uneasily at the portly figure of the lawyer as he sat back in his chair, after a long study over Gartram's papers.

For, in spite of Claude's decision, that missing sum of money troubled Trevithick.

"It's a reflection on me, as his business-man," he said to himself. "Forty thousand in notes gone and nobody knows where. I'll trace that money. I shall not rest till I do."

He had some thought, too, that if he did triumphantly trace that missing sum, Claude would be pleased, and Mary Dillon more than satisfied. So he worked on in secret, and he was busy when his clerk announced the Danmouth barber.

"And now, what can I do for you?" said Trevithick.

The barber hesitated, looked round, and then back at the calm, thoughtful man before him.

"You need not be afraid to speak, Mr Wimble," said Trevithick looking very serious but feeling amused, "no one can hear."

"Sure, sir?"

"Quite."

"Because it's horribly private, sir."

"Indeed! What is it? Want to borrow a little cash?"

"Me, sir?" cried the barber jumping up indignantly. "No, sir; I've got my little bit saved up and safely invested at five per cent."

"I beg your pardon, and congratulate you. Then what is it?"

Wimble went on tiptoe to the entrance, opened the door, peeped out, and, after closing it, came stealthily back close to the table, upon which he rested his hand, bent forward till his face came within a foot of the lawyer's, and gazed at him wildly.

"Well, Mr Wimble, what is it?" said Trevithick at last, for his visitor was silent.

"It's murder, sir," whispered the barber.

"What?"

"Murder, sir."

"Well, then, you had better go to the police, man, for that's not in my way."

"If you'll excuse me, sir, it is. You are Mr Gartram's lawyer, and have to do with his affairs."

"Good heavens, man, what do you mean?"

"That Mr Gartram was murdered, sir--poisoned, and I've got the clue."

"What?"

"I thought I wouldn't say a word, sir. That it was too horrible, and that no matter what one did, it wouldn't bring the poor man back to life; but when I see the murderer going on in his wickedness, spending the money he must have stolen, and pretending he has come in for a fortune, and on the strength of it trying to delude weak widows he lodges with, and carrying on with other ladies too, it is time to speak. The human heart won't hold such secrets without a busting out."

The lawyer started at the sound of the word _money_, for it seemed to strike a chord within his own breast.

"Look here, Mr Wimble," he said; "do I gather aright that you think that Mr Gartram was murdered?"

"Poisoned, sir."

"Good heavens! But by whom?"

"One who had sworn to have revenge upon him--one who wanted his money; and who was seen and caught lurking about the Fort, sir, one dark night, waiting for his opportunity, for he knew the place well from a boy."

"Great heavens, man, whom do you mean?"

"The man who has blighted my life, sir, Mr Christopher Lisle."

"Rubbish!"

"What, sir?"

"You're mad."

"I wish I was, sir, and that I could say to myself you're fancying all this; I should be a happier man, sir. But I can't. I've fought with it and smothered it down, but it's one living fire, sir, and it's kept burning the day through."

"Mr Christopher Lisle?"

"Yes, sir. Him as was turned away, and heard to say threatening things against poor Mr Gartram."

"But found on the premises?"

"Yes, sir; the night Mr Gartram died of poison, no matter what the doctors said; and that night the deed was done this bottle of stuff was thrown out of the window down among the rocks and sand."

"How do you know?"

"Because I found it early next morning," said Wimble, holding up the bottle; "and I can swear it was not there the day before."

"Nonsense, nonsense, man! It's impossible."

"That's what I said to myself, sir, but nature argued it out inside me. `Here's Mr Chris Lisle,' it said, `wanted Miss Claude, and her father refused him, and was going to give her to Mr Glyddyr, of the yacht.' There's one reason. Mr Chris was thrown over, because he was poor. That's another reason. Mr Chris is rich now. How did he become rich? Nobody knows. Mr Chris was found in the garden, hiding, on the night Mr Gartram died, and the window was open.--What do you say to that? This bottle, with some poison in it, was found under the window by me."

"Let me look."

"No, sir. That bottle's mine now. I wouldn't part with it for a hundred pounds."

"Why?"

"Because it's a curiosity, sir, as thousands would come to see. That bottle killed a man."

"Let me look. I'll give it you back."

"Honour bright, sir?"

"Yes."

Wimble unrolled the bottle from its cover and handed it to the lawyer, who took and examined it.

"Pish!" he said, looking at the limpid fluid within. "Water."

"I was told it was chloral, sir."

"Chloral?" cried Trevithick; "he died of an overdose of chloral."

"Of course he did, sir," said the barber triumphantly. "Now, sir, am I mad?"

Trevithick rose, and walked heavily up and down the room, like a small elephant seeking to quit its enclosure, but professional training came to his aid directly, and he reseated himself, looking quite calm.

"This is a terribly serious thing, Mr Wimble," he said sternly. "You are charging Mr Lisle with murder."

"Terribly serious thing to take Mr Gartram's life, sir."

"If he did, my man--if he did. But it must be all a mistake."

"I hope it is, sir, indeed."

"If the police knew of this, it would be awkward for Mr Lisle."

"Of course it would, sir."

"But, my good man, you are taking the view that he is guilty. I tell you that it is impossible."

"I hope it is, sir; but I've gone over it in my bed till I'm obliged to believe Mr Lisle did it; and I feel I couldn't keep the secret any longer."

"And so you came to me?"

"Yes, sir, as Mr Gartram's business-man."

"Dear, dear--dear, dear!" ejaculated Trevithick excitedly, as the man began to overcome the lawyer. "There are the ladies, Wimble. We must be very careful. If this reached their ears it would be horrible."

"Yes, sir, of course; but the wicked ought to be punished."

"You don't like Mr Lisle?" said the lawyer, looking at him searchingly.

"Well, sir, if I must speak out, no: I don't like Mr Lisle."

"And so you magnify this suspicion, and seek to do him harm by setting about the story."

"Steady there, sir, please. I don't set about a story without good proof. Now, let me ask you, sir, was Mr Gartram the sort of man to go and kill himself with an overdose of that stuff?"

"By accident, man; yes."

"Not a bit of it, sir. He was too clever. I don't want to prove Mr Lisle guilty, but there's the case. He was hanging about the grounds that night."

"Who saw him?"

"The gardener, sir, Brime. Caught him there after he had been forbidden the place, and he persuaded the man to hold his tongue."

"Look here, Wimble," said Trevithick, sternly, "there may be a slight substratum of probability in what you say, but it is most unlikely that this young man can have committed such a crime. Now, then, I'll tell you what it is your duty to do."

"Yes, sir," said Wimble eagerly.

"Go back to Danmouth, and keep your own counsel for the present. You can do that?"

"Hold my tongue, sir? Of course."

"Don't mention this to a soul."

"And hush it up, sir--a murder?"

"Pish! It is no murder. Let the matter rest while I try to make out whether there is anything in what you say."

"Ah, you'll find it right, sir. Young men like Mr Chris don't get rich in a day."

"Never mind about that. I'll go into the matter quietly. Recollect that it would be your ruin if it was known that you had, without foundation, made this horrible charge against Mr Lisle."

"My ruin, sir?"

"Of course. You could not stay in the town afterwards. There, go back and hold your tongue. I'm coming over to Danmouth to-morrow, and after I have carefully weighed all you have said, I will see you again."

"Come in and see me to-morrow, sir. You can easily do that, sir. Nobody would think it meant anything more than coming in to be shaved."

"Well, I'll call; and now, mind this: not a soul in the place must hear a word. It is our secret, Wimble."

"Yes, sir, I see," said the barber. "You may trust me. I came straight to you, sir. Oh, I can be as close and secret as grim death, sir, you'll see."

"That's right, my man. And take my advice, don't think any more of it. I confess that it looks bad, but we shall find out that it is all imagination, and I hope it is, for every one's sake. Close, Mr Wimble, perfectly close, mind, at all events for the present."

"Trust me, sir. I'm glad I came to you, and you shall find me close as a box."

Wimble spoke in all sincerity, and he returned to Danmouth, feeling glad that he had seen the lawyer; but when he spoke he did not realise that there was a key that would open that box.

He had no necessity for going round by Mrs Sarson's cottage, it was quite out of his way, but it was in the dusk of evening, when love will assert itself even in middle-aged minds.

"All alone there at the mercy of a murderer," thought Wimble. "I'll just walk by and see if she is quite safe."

It was rather a hopeless thing to do, he owned, for there was not likely to be anything in the outside walls to indicate whether the widow was safe or no. All the same, he went round that way to find that all looked right; but as he passed very slowly by, he found that the window of Chris's room was open, and he stopped short as if spellbound, for a familiar voice said, in tones which indicated that the speaker was shedding tears--

"No, no, my dear; you can't think how much I think about you."

The voice ceased as Wimble gave a very decided knock at the door.

Mrs Sarson came to answer it slowly, for she was wiping her eyes after a long, long talk with Chris, whom in a motherly way she had been trying to rouse from the reckless, despondent state into which he had fallen, and tried in vain.

Consequently there was a wet gleam on her cheeks, as, candle in hand, she answered the door.

"You, Mr Wimble!" she said, starting, and feeling a little confused. "So bold of him to come and call," she thought.

"Yes, Mrs Sarson, I want to speak to you particularly."

"Not to-night, Mr Wimble. I--I am not quite well."

"Yes; to-night."

"But Mr Lisle is at home."

"Yes, I know," he said, with a dark look in his eyes; and--fluttered and trembling before the strange, stern manner of her visitor--she drew back, allowed him to enter, closed the door, and led the way to the snug back room--half kitchen, half parlour--and then looked at him wonderingly, her heart fluttering more and more as she saw his wild look, and that he carefully closed the door.

"Goodness me, Mr Wimble, what is the matter?" she said faintly.

"Everything," he cried, making a snatch at her wrist, and holding it tightly. "Woman, you know how for years I have had hopes."

"Well, Mr Wimble, you made me think so; but it's quite impossible, I assure you. Neighbours, but nothing more."

"Why, woman, why?" he said, in a whisper.

"Because--because I am quite happy and contented as I am, Mr Wimble, with my little bit of an income and my lodger."

"Yes," cried Wimble, with a laugh, "that's it. Ah, woman, woman, that you could throw yourself away upon a creature like that?"

"Mr Wimble, what do you mean?"

"Knowing how I worshipped you, for you to consort with a vile creature, who cheats and abuses your confidence--a villain too bad to be allowed to live--a man whom the law will seize before long."

"Mr Wimble, are you mad?"

"Yes, madam, with shame and horror, to think what must come when you find out that this serpent who has wound himself about you is a convict, a murderer, who stops at nothing."

"Mr Wimble, whom do you mean?"

"Mean? who should I mean," he cried tragically, "but that wretch in yonder room?"

"A murderer!"

"Yes, of the man who drove him from his home. I denounce him as the murderer of poor old Gartram, and--"

There was a wild shriek, and as Chris Lisle rushed into the room to see what was wrong, Wimble remembered his promise to the lawyer; but too late: the box was wide open now.

"Mrs Sarson--Wimble! what is the matter?"

"Oh, Mr Lisle," cried the widow, sobbing wildly. "Oh, my poor darling, he says you murdered Mr Gartram. Tell him he is mad."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sarah Woodham was seated an hour later that night sewing, when she was startled by the sudden entrance of Reuben, the gardener, looking wild-eyed and strange, and she involuntarily rose from her chair, and stood upon the defensive, the other servants being down the town, and her heart telling her that "this foolish man," as she termed him, was about to renew advances which he had been making before.

"Don't be frightened," he said, quickly grasping the meaning of her action; "I wasn't going to say anything about that now. Have you heard?"

"Heard what?"

"I've just come from the harbour, and they're all talking about it."

"Yes? What--some wreck?"

"No; about Mr Chris Lisle."

"What about him--dead?" said Sarah Woodham, in a hoarse whisper, as she laid her hand upon her side and thought of Claude.

"Better if he was, my dear," said the gardener hoarsely, and in her excitement the woman did not think to resent his familiarity. "They are saying that he murdered master with poison."

Sarah reeled, and would have fallen, so great was the shock the words gave her, but Brime caught her in his arms.

She recovered herself, and thrust him away.

"Mr Chris Lisle? Impossible."

"So I thought, but he was skulking about our grounds that night, for I caught him hiding."

"Oh, it can't be true. You people are always inventing foolish scandals. What nonsense! Let him rest in his grave in peace."

She looked so ghastly that even the unobservant gardener noticed it, and made a remark.

"Look white? of course," she said, with a curious laugh. "Any woman would turn pale on hearing such talk as that. There, go away."

"You needn't be cross with me, Sarah Woodham," said Brime, paying no heed to her last words, and only too glad of an excuse to hold her in conversation. "I knew how you liked Miss Claude, and the news was about her young man, and I thought it better to tell you than go and tell her."

"What! you would not dare to tell her such a thing."

"Well, somebody will if I don't. She's sure to know."

"Hush, man! Don't dare to speak of it again. It is a miserable scandal of some of the tattling gossips, and it will be forgotten, perhaps, to-morrow. There, not another word."

"But, Sarah, let me talk of something else."

She went to the door and opened it, pointing out.

"Go," she said.

Brime sighed deeply, and went away slowly without another word.

"Poor fellow," said the woman softly, "better for him to jump into the sea than to go on thinking about that."

She stood for a few moments with her hands to her forehead, as if to dull the excitement from which she was suffering, uttering a low moan from time to time.

"How horrible!" she gasped. "It seems more than I can bear. Poor child, if she was to hear!"

She stood staring before her at last, with her lips moving, and her eyes fixed upon the darkness in the farther corner of the room, as if she saw something there.

"I cannot bear it," she muttered at last; and hurriedly passing out, she hurried up to her room, and threw herself upon her knees by the bedside.

How long she remained there she did not know. Suddenly she started up, believing that she heard voices below.

"They will have heard it, perhaps," she said excitedly; and, hurrying out, she found that the two servants who had been out had returned, and were talking quickly.

Sarah Woodham turned cold with apprehension, under the impression that the women were retailing the scandal they had heard to their mistress, and she uttered a sigh of relief as she heard Mary Dillon say quickly--

"And they are talking about it everywhere you say?"

"Yes, miss; and we thought you ought to hear."

"Hush!--Oh, Woodham, these two have come back with a silly tale that--"

Sarah Woodham laid a thin hand upon her arm.

"That--have you heard? Oh, how horrible! But what absurd nonsense. There, go away, all of you. It is too dreadful to talk about, and you must let it die a natural death."

"But they say, miss, that the police will take Mr Christopher Lisle, and that he will be hung for murder," whispered the cook in awe-stricken tones; "and if Miss Claude should hear that--Oh!"

Claude had quietly opened the drawing-room door and stepped out into the hall, coming in search of her cousin, the low whispering without having attracted her attention.

"You heard what I said," cried Mary, quickly. "Why don't you go?"

"Stop!" said Claude, in a strangely altered voice.

"No, no, Claude, dear," said Mary, crossing to her. "It is nothing you need listen to. Only a wretched tattling from down on the beach."

"I know what they said," replied Claude, hoarsely. "Sarah Woodham, have you heard this--this dreadful charge?"

The woman did not answer with her lips, but her dark eyes were fixed wildly on those of her mistress.

"Then it is true!"

"Claude, dear; pray come," whispered Mary, clinging to her; but she was thrust away.

"I will know everything," she cried, excitedly. "You, Sarah Woodham, speak out, and tell me all the truth."

"No--no," whispered the woman, and she stood trembling as if with ague.

"I will know," said Claude, catching her up by the arm. "I heard what was said--that Mr Lisle was charged with murder. It could not be."

"No, no, Claude, of course not."

"Silence, Mary! Speak, woman, or must I go down to the beach and ask there. Tell me. It was a quarrel; they met and fought. Is Mr Glyddyr dead?"

They gazed at her wonderingly--stricken for the moment--the silence being broken by the two servants exclaiming in a breath--

"No, no, miss. It was master they said he killed."

"What?"

"Come away, Claude," whispered Mary, who was white and trembling. "It is a horrible invention. There is no truth in it. Come back into the drawing-room, and I'll tell you quietly, dear, what I have heard."

"Go on," said Claude, fixing the two women with her eyes as she held her cousin's arm and half forced her back. "Tell me everything you have heard."

Between them, trembling the while before the wild eyes which seemed to force them to speak, the women related confusedly the report they had heard, one which had grown rapidly as is the custom with such news; and out of the tangle, as Sarah Woodham and Mary both strangely moved, stood speechless and silent, Claude learned the charge which had arisen against the man she loved, to the bitter end, struggling the while to make indignant denial of that at which her soul felt to revolt. But no words would come. Her reason, her soul, both cried out aloud within her that this was an utter impossibility, but the rumours mastered them with a terrible array of facts, till she was forced to believe that, stung to madness by the treatment he had received, and hurried on by a lust for gold, Chris, her old playmate and brother as a child, the man at last she had grown to love, had been tempted to commit this deed.

"It is not true--it is not true," something within her kept on saying as she gazed wildly from one to the other, seeing the gap--the black gap-- already existing between her and her lover, widening into an awful, impassable chasm, in which were buried her life's hopes and happiness for ever.

Volume Three, Chapter IX.

A DEBATE.

Glyddyr had undoubtedly gone backward in health with rapid strides since he and the Doctor had last met, not many hours before. His face was of a sickly yellow; there were dark marks under his eyes, and his hands trembled as he weakly arranged the flower in his button-hole, and played with his blue serge yachting cap.

"How terrible!" he murmured at last. "Poor girl! What a shock!"

"Yes; enough to give her brain fever," said the Doctor, speaking quickly. "The wretched, cackling fools."

"Terrible! terrible!" muttered Glyddyr. Then, after a pause, as he took a turn up and down the Doctor's little surgery, as if it were his own cabin, he passed his tongue over his dry lips, and turned quickly to the Doctor, who was watching him curiously. "Here, I say: I'm completely knocked over. For heaven's sake give me a dose."

"Yes, of course."

"No, no, not that cursed stuff," cried Glyddyr, as he saw the Doctor's hand raised toward the ammonia bottle. "Brandy--whisky, for goodness' sake!"

Asher gave him a quick look, then took his key, and, opening a cellaret, poured a goodly dram of brandy into a glass, and placed it on the table.

"There's water in that bottle," he said.

Glyddyr made an impatient gesture, and tossed off the raw spirit.

"Hah!" he cried, setting down the glass, "I can talk now. What--what do you think of this report?"

"Oh, all madness, of course," cried the Doctor hastily.

"Yes--yes--all madness, of course," said Glyddyr, letting himself sink down in a chair. "All madness, of course. He couldn't, could he?"

The two men gazed in each other's eyes, and there was silence for quite a long space.

"But they found that bottle," continued Glyddyr, as if speaking to himself. "Ugly piece of evidence, isn't it?"

"Oh, but that proves nothing," said Asher.

"And he being found in the garden that night, when Gartram was having his after-dinner nap," continued Glyddyr, looking at the door.

"Yes, looks bad," said the Doctor, "but all nonsense. Why can't they let the old man rest?"

"You--you don't think he poisoned him?" said Glyddyr.

"No, certainly not."

"It would have been impossible, of course. But they say he is rich now; has plenty of money. How could he come by that?"

"Who can say?"

"Yes; and a large sum was missing--a very large sum."

"That is the worst argument yet," said the doctor. "But, pooh, pooh, my dear sir, the old man died from an overdose of chloral. My colleague and I were satisfied about that. There, don't look so white."

"Do I look white?" said Glyddyr, picking up the glass he had used and draining the last drops. "Oh, I feel much better now. But, Doctor, what do you think of it all? They'll arrest that young man, I suppose. It would be very horrible if he were to be tried and condemned to death."

"Horrible!"

"Do you think he will be taken?"

"No."

"I'm--I'm glad of that," faltered Glyddyr, with his trembling hands playing about his watch chain. "So horrible. He was a friend, you see, of Miss Gartram's. Of course, with such a charge as that against him, he could never speak to her again."

"Look here, Glyddyr," said the Doctor, "you and I may as well understand each other."

"What do you mean?" cried Glyddyr, sinking back in his chair.

"That we have somehow become friends, and we may as well continue so. You mean to marry Claude Gartram?"

"Yes, yes, of course," assented Glyddyr drawing a long hoarse breath.

"And, I'm sure, you feel all this very deeply. Terrible shock for the poor girl."

"Yes, terrible," whispered Glyddyr.

"I don't wonder that you are so completely prostrated this morning."

"No; it is no wonder, is it?"

"Not the slightest."

"And I feel it, too, about young Lisle. I--I shouldn't like him to be hung."

"Make yourself easy, man; he will not be. There will be nine days' talk about it, and that is all. The old man was examined; our evidence was taken, and he is at rest in his grave. The law can't take any notice of these scandals."

"Do--do you feel that--it will not take him and imprison him for life, say."

"No, man, it will not; but as far as he is concerned with Claude Gartram, it will be just as if he had been put out of the way. Last night's reports will be the making of you."

"What do you mean?"

"You know. Claude had a lingering liking for that fellow, but she can never speak to him again; and if you play your cards right, her pretty little hand will some day be laid in yours. You'll give her a new name, and take possession yonder."

Glyddyr looked at him rather wildly.

"Why, you don't seem glad, man. Hallo!"

There was a sharp knock just then, and the two occupants of the surgery listened intently to the opening, and the low murmuring of voices.

The servant tapped on the surgery door directly after.

"Mr Trevithick, sir, would be glad to speak to you."

"Show him in," said the Doctor. "No, don't go, Glyddyr. He has come over about that rumour."

The lawyer entered, and shook hands with both.

"Did not want to interrupt you, Doctor; but I should like a few minutes' conversation."

"About that rumour concerning Gartram? By all means. Mr Glyddyr and I were discussing the matter."

"Well, what is your opinion?"

"That it is all nonsense."

"You have heard everything; the report of the money, the finding of a bottle, and Mr Lisle being seen that night in the grounds?"

"Yes--oh, yes; but what does all that prove?" said the Doctor decisively. "We were quite satisfied how Gartram met with his end. Let the rumour blow over, as it will do, and let the old man rest."

The lawyer sat looking very thoughtful for a few moments, as he ran over in his mind all that had passed.

"By the way, how did you hear of it?"

"I am not at liberty to say."

"Then I'll tell you," said Asher quickly. "That crazy barber came over to you yesterday. He found a bottle, and showed it to me. Bah! all rubbish. The man's half mad."

"I am beginning to think you are right," said Trevithick.

"I'm sure I am."

"But it is a bad thing for Mr Christopher Lisle to have such a charge made against him, especially after being on such friendly terms with the family."

"Well, gentlemen, you must excuse me; I am going up to the house," cried the Doctor.

"I will walk with you," said Trevithick quietly.

"And I am to be left out in the cold," muttered Glyddyr, as he followed them slowly out, only to stop hesitating, as he caught sight of the principal object of his thoughts.

"That don't look like guilt, Mr Trevithick," said Asher, who had seen Chris before Glyddyr had caught sight of him.

"Might be clever cunning," said the lawyer quietly.

"Might be, but it is not. Oh, hang it all, sir, don't let us harbour the thought for a moment. The young man's as innocent as you are. Good-morning, Mr Lisle."

"Ah, glad to see you, Doctor," cried Chris, whose face looked drawn and old. "Morning, Mr Trevithick. You have heard the rumour?"

The Doctor bowed his head.

"I will not stoop to deny it, of course. The insensate fools! As if it were possible," he cried excitedly.

"Of course no one believes such an absurd rumour--I mean no one with brains--eh, Mr Trevithick?" said Asher.

The lawyer coughed, and the pair moved on.

Chris was left standing by himself as the Doctor and lawyer went on up to the house. He stood gazing after them for a time, and then turned to go all alone towards the beach. At that moment he became aware of the fact that Glyddyr was watching him, and the feeling of love and sympathy for Claude, and the desire to clear himself in her eyes, turned to bitterness and jealousy.

"Of course," he said savagely; "ready to believe ill of me! Ah, how I could enjoy half-an-hour with you, Parry Glyddyr, alone!"

He walked on, to become conscious directly of that which, in his excitement, he had not before observed.

There were not many people visible, but those who were hanging about in knots were evidently talking about and watching him; and as he passed on toward his home, he found that men who had known from boyhood suddenly turned away to enter their houses, or begin talking earnestly to their companions. Not one gave him look or word of recognition.

"Has it come to this?" he said, savagely. "A pariah--a leper to be avoided. Well, let them. Oh! you!" he muttered, as a great stout fisherman, whose boat he had used scores of times, passed him with his hands deep down in his pockets, staring straight out over his left shoulder to sea.

Chris's fists involuntarily clenched, and he strode away, not once looking back or he would have seen heads thrust out of doors, and knots gathering together to discuss his case, and the burden of all the converse was: "How soon will he be took and put in gaol?"

"Hah! my dear," ejaculated Mrs Sarson, as he reached his lodgings. "You've got safely back. Mr Wimble came by just now, and though I wouldn't listen to him, he said the police were going to take you over to Toxeter and lock you up for committing murder."

"They will if that man don't mind, Mrs Sarson," cried Chris, as he hurried into his room. "Curse him! I feel as if I could go at once, get hold of him, and wring his neck."

"Mr Christopher!" cried the poor woman, bursting into a fit of sobbing; "don't--don't do anything rash."

"Look here, old lady," he cried, catching her by the arm; "you are not going to join this wretched crew, are you, and to believe I could be such a wretch?"

"Oh, no, my dear! Oh, no."

"That's right. But think twice. If you have the least thought of the kind, I'll go at once."

"Indeed, no, my dear," she sobbed; "and even if you had done it, I couldn't be such a cruel wretch as to tell against you, for you must have been mad."

"Hang it, woman! if you talk like that, you'll make me mad."

"I've done, my dear. There, I won't say another word, only to defend you. But tell me, my dear, what are you going to do?"

"What an honest man should do, Mrs Sarson," said Chris, excitedly. "Mind I'm not wild with you, only with the wretched fools out yonder," he said more gently, as he took his landlady's hands. "There, my good old soul, it'll all come right some day, here or hereafter."

"But you'll go and tell the magistrate, won't you, that it's all false?"

"No," said Chris, sternly, and with his face growing hard and old. "I'm not going to deny anything. I'm an Englishman, Mrs Sarson, a strong-willed, stubborn Englishman, let them say what they like--do what they like, I'm here, and here I stay till they drag me away, and I do not care whether they do or do not now."

"But one thing, my dear, one word, and I won't ask you another question. Were you at the Fort that night, and did Reuben Brime find you?"

"Yes, Mrs Sarson."

"Oh!--But why were you there, my dear, like that?"

"You asked one question, but I'll answer the other. Because I am a weak young fool--in love with somebody who seemed to have cared little for me, and I wanted to get one word with her. Yes, I was a weak young fool. That seems years ago now," he continued, half-talking to himself, "and I seem to have grown much older. Old enough to be firm and strong."

"But you didn't tell me, my dear, what you mean to do."

"Mean to do?" cried Chris, with a bitter laugh. "I'm going to live it down."

Volume Three, Chapter X.

COMING BACK ON FRIDAY.

Chris found it a harder task than he had anticipated. "Give a dog a bad name, and then hang him," says the old saw; and in his case Chris used to say bitterly to himself that he might as well have been hung out of his misery.

For Wimble's shop had always been the fertile manure heap from which, fungus-like, scandals sprung, and their spores were carried away in all directions, to start into growth again and again in all directions. Often enough one scandal would grow, flourish, and then seem to die right away, but that was only the belief of the parties concerned. Just as they were hugging themselves upon the fact there had been a nine days' wonder, and it had come to an end, a little round toadstool-like head would spring up in quite a different direction, and grow, and seed and spread itself more strongly than ever.

Even minor scandals died hard, if they died at all, in Danmouth; but, for the most part, they proved evergreen, and lived on long after the authors had been gathered to their fathers and forgotten.

This being the case with the lesser, it was not likely that one of the greatest ever known should drop away; and though weeks and months glided on, the story of the bottle found under the library window of the Fort was as fresh as ever, and people, after an easy shave, would ask quietly to see it, to have it taken with great show of secrecy from the drawer where it reposed, shaken so as to form globules of solution of chloral, and, if favoured customers, the cork might be removed and the contents smelt.

Wimble was quite right. That bottle proved to be the finest curiosity he possessed, and bade fair to become worth quite a hundred pounds to him, if not more.

As time went on, the ingenious idea occurred to him that it would be advisable to add to its attractions by giving the contents a perceptible odour, and this he did by introducing one single drop of patchouli, a scent not familiar to the lower orders of the little fishing port, and whose inhalation was thoroughly enjoyed by many a gaping idiot, who shook his Solon-like head, and said "Hah!" softly and mysteriously, before handing back the bottle and whispering, "'nuff to kill any man."

The treasure might have had additional piquancy if Chris Lisle had been tried for murder and hanged; but as he was not, Wimble said he must make the best of things, and went on profiting by his possession; but as he felt that his declaration to the widow that night had not advanced his suit, he spent his spare time watching her house, and wondering how long it would be ere Chris Lisle realised the fact that, as public opinion let him exist, it was his duty to live somewhere else.

But Chris was as stubborn as public opinion, and, regardless of side-long glances, and the fact that he was regularly avoided, he went on just as of old, apparently living his old life, and waging war upon the salmon, trout, and fish that visited the mouth of the river; but they had an easy time.

Claude had left Danmouth, but she made no sign before she went away, and Chris was too stubbornly proud to make any advance.

"If she believes so ill of me, she may," he used to say to himself. "A woman who can love like that is not worth a second thought from any man."

He used to say that often, and tell himself that he could never tire. He could live it all down, and that some day he would enjoy a keen revenge on those who had doubted him. He was happy enough, he said, and the fools might think what they liked so long as they did not molest him.

The little mob of Danmouth had gone near this though once, when, soon after the news was spread, they found that no steps were taken to bring the crime home to the murderer. For Trevithick, though terribly exercised in spirit about that missing sum of money, felt himself bound to agree with the Doctor that no steps could be taken, and consequently Gartram was left in peace beneath the handsome granite obelisk cut from his own quarry.

So the wrath of those who would have liked to take the law in their own hands cooled down, and their enmity found its vent in scowls and avoidance, at which Chris laughed scornfully, or resented with looks as fierce in public; but there was a hard set of lines growing more marked about the corners of his mouth and his eyes, and there were times when he broke down in secret far up the glen, and told himself that life was not worth living. He would be better dead.

Claude went to recover her strength in the south of France, and Sarah Woodham was left in charge of the house, about which Reuben Brime sighed as he mowed the grass, and groaned as he drove in his spade; but Sarah did not heed, and he too used to think to himself that he might as well put out his pipe some night by taking a plunge off the end of the pier.

Glyddyr stayed on in the harbour till the day after Claude and Mary left, when the yacht glided slowly out, and Chris watched it till it disappeared beyond one of the headlands far away; and then the time seemed like years as he went on setting public opinion at defiance, wrestling with it still.

There were those in the place who would have met him on friendly terms, notably Asher; but Chris met all advances curtly, and went his way.

"They shall not tolerate me," he said bitterly. "I will live in the full sunshine. Till I do, I can be content with the shade."

There was one, though, whom he encountered from time to time when wandering listlessly whipping the streams, not very often, but on the rare occasions when she sought some solitary spot far away out on the rocky moorland to dream over the past.

The first time they met, Chris's heart hounded, and his eyes flashed as he was about to speak.

"No," he said, checking himself; "I shall not stoop. The advance shall come from her."

A month passed, and again on a cold, windy day of winter he was aware of a dark-looking, thickly-wrapped figure going along the track, and his heart whispered to him, "You have only to go back a few dozen yards to speak to her, and hear the news for which, in spite of all you say, you are hungering."

Chris nearly yielded, but the will was too stubborn yet, and he stood firm.

Then came a day in spring when the promise of the coming time of beauty was being given by swelling bud, green arum, and the tender blades of grass which peeped from among last year's drab dry strands. It had been a cruel, stormy time for weeks, cruelly stormy, too, in Chris's heart, for the load was more heavy than ever, and the young man's heart was very sore.

He was going up the glen near where he had first told Claude of his love, and the time of year seemed to bring with it hope and a longing for human intercourse and sympathy; and though he would not own it, he would have given anything for news of the one who filled his thoughts.

She came upon him suddenly this time, and they were within half-a-dozen yards of each other before either was aware of the other's presence.

"Ah, Sarah Woodham!" he said; and she stopped short to stand looking at him, with her fierce dark eyes softening, and the vestige of a smile about her thin parched lips. "Well," he continued carelessly, though his heart beat fast, "hadn't you better go on? You'll lose caste if any one sees you talking to me."

"Mr Lisle," she said reproachfully.

"Well, am I not a murderer?"

"Oh!"

The woman shuddered, and looked at him wildly.

"Mr Lisle! Don't talk like that!"

"Why not?"

"No one worth notice could think such a thing of you."

"Not even your mistress!" he said, with boyish irritability; but only to feel as if he would have given all he possessed to recall it.

"Don't say cruel things about her, sir. She has suffered deeply."

"Yes, but--"

He checked himself, and though Sarah Woodham remained silent and waiting, he did not speak.

"What changes and troubles we have seen, sir, since the happy old days when, quite a boy then, you used to come to the quarry with Miss Claude."

"Bah! You never seemed to be very happy, Sarah. You were much brighter and happier before you were married."

The woman glanced at him sharply, and then her eyes grew dreamy and thoughtful again.

"Woodham was a good, kind husband to me, sir," she said gently.

"Yes; but see what a cold, stern, hard life you lived. He--"

"Hush, sir, please," said the woman gently; "he was a good, true man to me, and we all misjudge at times."

"Is that meant for a cut at me, Sarah?" said Chris cynically.

"Yes, sir," said the woman naively. "I don't think you ought to be one to cast a stone--at the dead."

He turned upon her angrily, but she met his sharp look with one so grave and calm that it disarmed him, and, led on by the fact that he had hardly spoken to a soul for weeks, he said--

"Few people have such cause to be bitter as I have."

"We all think our fate the hardest, sir."

"Going to preach at me, Sarah?"

"No, sir," she said, with her eyes lighting up, and a pleasant look softening her face; "I only feel grieved and pained to see the bonnie, handsome boy, who I always thought would naturally be my dear Miss Claude's husband, drifting away to wreck like one of the ships we often see."

"Silence, woman!" cried Chris. "For God's sake don't talk like that!"

"I will not, sir, if you tell me not," said Sarah quietly; "but I think you deal hard with poor Miss Claude for what she cannot help."

"What?"

"She has tried to do her duty--that I know."

"Yes," he said bitterly; "every one seems to have tried to do his or her duty by me."

There was a dead silence, during which the woman stood gazing at him wistfully, and more than once her lips moved, and her hand played restlessly about her shawl, as if she wanted to lay it upon his arm, and say something comforting to one who appeared so lonely and cast out.

"Miss Claude is coming home on Friday, sir," she said at last; and she saw the fervour of hope and joy which beamed from the young man's eyes-- only to be clouded over directly, as he said bitterly--

"Well, she has a right to. What is it to me?"

"Mr Chris!"

"Oh, don't talk to me!" he cried passionately. "The world has all gone wrong with me, and I am a cursed and bitter man. God knows that I am, or I could not speak as I do. They'll find out some day that I am not a murderer and a thief.--I'm losing time, for the fish are rising fast."

She stood looking after him wistfully as he strode along by the river side, and then walked away with the old dull, agonised look coming back into her face.

"Poor boy!" she said softly. "Poor boy!"

"Coming back on Friday--coming back on Friday!"

Sarah Woodham's words kept repeating themselves in Chris Lisle's ears as he walked on up the glen, waving his fishing-rod so that the line hissed and whistled through the air, and at every repetition of the words his heart bounded, and the young blood ran dancing through his veins.

"Coming back on Friday!"

It was as if new life were rushing through him; his step grew more elastic, his eyes brightened, and he leaped from rock to rock, where the brown water came flashing and foaming down.

"Coming back," he muttered; "coming back."

The past was going to be dead; the clouds were about to rise from about him, and there was once more going to be something worth living for.

"Bah!" he ejaculated, "I've been a morose, bitter, disappointed fool, too ready to give up; but that's all past now. She is coming back, and all this time of misery and despair is at an end."

It seemed to be another man who was hurrying along the margin of the river, in and out over the mighty water-worn stones, with the water rushing between, till he was brought up short by the whizzing sound made by his winch, for the hook had caught in a bush, and his rod was bent half double.

"I can't fish to-day," he said, turning back, and winding in till he could give the hook a sharp jerk and snap the gut bottom. "I must go home and think."

He hurried back, with the feeling growing upon him that all the past trouble was at an end. For the moment he felt intoxicated with the new sense of elation which thrilled him, and it was as if all the young hope and joy which were natural to his age, and had been clouded now, had suddenly burst forth like so much sunshine. But this was short lived.