Chapter XIII: Part 13

As he reached the bridge, a couple of fishermen whom he had known from boyhood were standing with their backs to the parapet, chatting and smoking, but as soon as they saw him approach they turned round, leaned over the side, and began to stare down at the river.

It was like a cold dark mist blown athwart him, but he strode on.

"Fools!" he muttered; and increasing his pace, he began to note more than ever now that his coming was the signal for people standing at their doors to go inside, and for the fishermen to turn their backs.

All this had occurred every time he had been out of late, but he had grown hardened to it, and laughed in his stubborn contempt; but this day, after the fit of elation he had passed through,--it all looked new, and he hurried on chilled to the heart; the bright, sunshiny day was clouded over again, and all was once more hopeless and blank.

So bitter was the feeling of despair which now sunk deep into his breast, that he shrank from Wimble, who was standing at his door in the act of saying good-day to a customer, both looking hard at him till he had entered the cottage.

Volume Three, Chapter XI.

UNDER THE CLOUD.

"Better go away," said Chris to himself.

But he stayed, and in contempt of the avoidance of those he met, he was constantly going to and fro during the next twenty-four hours.

Now he was down on the beach, close to the sea; now wandering high up on the moorland, and seeing, from each point of view, trifles which showed that the mistress of the Fort was coming home.

He called himself "idiot," and asked mentally where his pride had gone, and determined to shut himself up with his books, but the determination was too weak, and he could not rest. It was something, if only to see the home that would soon again contain the woman who held him fast.

"She will meet me again," he said, with his hopes rising once more toward the evening of the next day. "I'll go up boldly like a man. My darling! And all this misery will be at an end. Nine weary months has she been away, and it has seemed like years. Why didn't I write? Why didn't I crush down all this foolish pride and obstinacy? I ought to have gone to her, instead of letting myself be maddened by that miserable scoundrel, believing she could listen to him, even if it was her father's wish."

He had strolled down the pier and lit a cigar, to stand gazing out to the west, where the sun was setting behind a golden bank of cloud which began to darken with purple as the plainly-marked rays spread out towards the zenith, while the calm sea gently heaved, and began to glow with ruby, topaz and emerald hues.

Far out beyond the shelter of the headland and the long low isle which acted like a breakwater to the bay, the sea was ruffled by the gentle evening breeze; and as Chris loitered, with his breast once more growing calm, he could see lugger after lugger, that had been tugged out with the large oars, hoisting sail to catch the soft gale and then glide slowly away, the tawny sails catching the reflected light, till all around was beautiful as some golden dream.

Chris turned and looked back at the Fort, to see that its windows were aglow, and the cliffs that rose behind and on either side were more lovely than ever.

"What a welcome home for her!" he said softly. "My darling! Oh, if she could see her old home now! if she would only come, and I could be the first to welcome her and take her by the hand."

"Yes," he said, as he turned and gazed out to sea and shore, heedless of the fact that a group of sailors were slowly coming down the pier. "I will be there to meet her and take her by the hand. She could not have believed it; and, now that the time of sorrow is at an end, she will-- she shall listen to me. Heaven give me strength to master this bitter, cruel pride and foolish jealousy. I will hope."

"Bet yer a gallon it is," cried a voice behind him.

"Yah! Yer don't know what yer talking about. Such gashly stuff!"

"Oh, you're precious clever, you are. Think that there schooner lay here all those many months and I shouldn't know her again? Here, let's go up to the point, and get the coastie to lend us his glass."

"I don't want no glass," said another voice. "My eyes are good enough for that. Jemmy Gadly's right enough. I could swear to her."

The speaker made a binocular of his two hands, and gazed out to sea, at where the white sails of a yacht came well into view from beyond the island.

Chris heard every word, but he did not turn. He stood gazing at the yacht, which with every stitch of canvas set, was running fast for the harbour, beautiful in the evening light--a picture in that gleaming sea.

"Ay," said the man at last, as he dropped his hands and turned to Chris, who was gazing out to sea with a strange singing in his ears, and a sensation at his temples as if the blood was throbbing hard. "Ay, that's Mr Glyddyr's yacht, sure enough, and he's come back o' course to meet young Miss. Oh, it be you?"

This last as Chris turned round upon him with a ghastly face glaring at him wildly.

"Lor'! Look at that," cried the man addressed as Gadly, and with an ugly grin overspreading his face as the love of baiting came uppermost. "Come away, Joe; he means mischief. Look out or there'll be another murder done."

_Thud_!

It was as quick as lightning. Chris Lisle's left fist flashed out, caught the man full in the cheek, and he staggered back, tried to save himself, and then tripped over a rope and fell heavily upon the stones, while his assailant glared round seeking another victim as a low angry murmur rose.

"You coward!" he growled between his teeth.

"Ay, and sarve him gashly well right," said the sturdy fisherman, who had had his hands up to his eyes, and had addressed Chris. "He is a coward to say that there. Howd off, my lads, and let him bide. There's been quite enough o' this gashly jaw. I don't believe you did kill the old man, Mr Chris, sir, and there's my hand on it."

He thrust out his great brown hairy, horny paw, and it was like help held forth to a drowning man. Chris grasped the hand with both of his, and stood gazing full in the rough fellow's eyes, his face working, his breast heaving, and a great struggle going on as he tried to speak, while the little group around looked on at the strange scene.

It was the first kindly word man seemed to have spoken to him all those weary months, and Chris, completely overcome, strove hard to utter his thanks, but for a time nothing would come. At last it was in a low, hoarse murmur that he said--

"God bless you for that, my man!" and hurried back to his room.

"And you call yourselves mates," growled the fisherman, who had prudently kept in a reclining position, and who now slowly rose; "and you call yourselves mates. Why, you ought to ha' chucked him off the wall."

"And I felt so happy!" groaned Chris; "and I felt so happy!"

"How did he know she was coming back?" he cried suddenly, as he sprang up and caught a telescope from where it lay upon a row of books, adjusted it, and stood looking out of the open window.

"Yes, its his boat; and there he stands using a glass watching her home."

He shrank away, with his eyes looking dull and sunken as he laid the glass upon the shelf.

"How did he know--how did he know?"

He sank down in a chair, and buried his face in his hands, as a flood of surmises rushed through his brain, every one full of agony, and all pointing to the idea that Claude must have been in communication with Glyddyr, or he never could have timed his return after all these months like that.

Half-an-hour had passed, and then he started from his chair, for there was a loud report.

He sank back in his seat again, with a mocking laugh.

"Beer!" he said bitterly. "Beer! What a world this is!"

And in imagination he saw the white smoke curling up from the mouth of the little cannon which stood by the flagstaff in front of the Harbour Inn, knowing, as he did, that the piece had been loaded in honour of Glyddyr's return, and fired with the taproom poker, made red for the purpose.

Then there arose a boisterous burst of cheering, taken up again and again, as Glyddyr's gig was rowed up to the steps, and he stepped out upon the pier.

"Yes, cheer away, you idiots," cried Chris, rising from his seat in his jealous agony; "cheer and shout, and go down on the stones and grovel before him."

_Bang_!

"That's right! Again. Again. Down with you, and let him walk in triumph over your necks. The new man--the new master of the Fort."

"They know it," he groaned, as he dashed to the window, and then backed away, after seeing that he was right, and that Glyddyr was coming along the pier, scattering coins among the little crowd that had gathered round, while the sound of hurrying feet could be heard as men and boys, attracted by the gunfire, were running down to the harbour.

"Yes, they know it. The new lord of the Fort, and I stand here instead of joining them, and cheering too for the new king of the castle. My God, what a world it is!"

He stopped short, pale and ghastly, as the cheering came nearer, and just then, looking proud and elate, Parry Glyddyr passed the window on his way to the hotel.

"And leave him to triumph over my death!" muttered Chris, in a low fierce voice. "No," he added, after a pause; "I've been too great a cur as it is. Not yet: it has not come quite to the worst."

Chris was right. There had been communication between Claude and Glyddyr, and quiet pertinacity, mingled with the greatest show of gentle respect and consideration, had not been without result.

It was only a short run across to Ettreville, and one morning, during a walk with Mary, Glyddyr came up to salute Claude with grave, respectful courtesy.

They had just put in for a few hours, he said, and they sailed again that afternoon. He was so glad to see Miss Gartram again, and he was sure she was better for the change.

Only a few minutes' conversation, and he was gone.

A fortnight later he was there again, and the stay was a little longer; but there was always the same shrinking show of respect for her, and even Mary could say nothing.

And so time wore on, till the coming of the yacht and a stay for at least a few days was no uncommon thing.

"No, I wouldn't say a word," said Gellow, in conference with his man. "Keep quiet, dear boy, till she gets back, even if it's months yet, and then strike home."

"But I'm getting sick of it."

"Never mind, dear boy. It's a very big stake, and I can't understand, seeing what a darling she is, how you shy at her so. No other reason, have you?"

"No, no," said Glyddyr hurriedly.

"But it looks as if you had, even when you say no. But there, it's all right. Give her plenty of time. You have hooked her. If you are hasty now, she'll break away, and never take the fly again. Wait till she goes back into her own quiet little groove. Then be quite ready; job the landing-net under her with a sure and steady hand, and though she'll kick and struggle a bit, and try to leap back into deep water, the pretty little goldfish will be yours. And well earned, too."

So Glyddyr waited his time, knew exactly when Claude would return home, and was ready to incite the fishermen and the workers at the quarry to get up a reception in her honour.

This was done, and as Chris Lisle stayed at home, gnawing his lips with agony, he knew that flags and banners were being strung across from house to house, that yachts' guns were to be fired, and that the band from Toxeter was to be there.

It was short time for preparation, but enthusiasm was at high pressure, and the first dawning Chris had of the hour at which Claude would return was given by the band.

For a moment he hesitated. Jealousy said stay, but the old boyish love carried all before it, and, reckless of the lowering looks which greeted him, he hurried along the beach, and made for the Fort, so as to be one of the first to welcome its mistress back.

The bells in the little church began to ring musically, for Glyddyr had well done his work, and then the guns were fired, and as this was supplemented by the distant music, a fierce pang shot through Chris Lisle's heart.

"Why did I not think to do all this?"

He went on, and joined the little crowd by the gateway of the Fort, where the school children were in front, ready with handkerchiefs and coloured ribbons, for there were no flowers to be had.

As he approached to take his stand by the gate, the children began to cheer, and he bit his lip angrily as he heard them rebuked and hushed into silence.

But he forgot all this directly, for fresh firing and the nearing of the band told that Claude must be close at hand--she for whom his heart yearned--she whom his eyes longed to see, and they grew dim in the excitement, as, forgetful of all past trouble, he strained them to catch her first glance.

Would she smile at him? Would she stop and stretch out her hands, and in spite of all those gathered around her, should he clasp her in his arms?

All excited thoughts, as there was the crashing sound of wheels, the loud cheering caught up now by the children as the carriage which had been to meet her rolled slowly up toward the gateway.

At last. Bending forward with her pale face flushed, her eyes humid, and her black gloved hand waving her white kerchief in answer to the bursts of cheers.

Chris strained forward, and was about to press up to the carriage-door as it came slowly into the gateway to avoid crushing those who flocked round.

"Three cheers for the Queen of the Castle!" cried a loud voice; and then to Chris Lisle it was as if heaven and earth had come together.

For the voice was the voice of Glyddyr, who had risen from his seat beside Claude, unseen till then; and as the answering chorus rang out, sick almost unto death, his brain swimming and a dull throbbing at his breast, Chris shrank away without encountering Claude Gartram's eyes, veiled almost to blindness by her tears.

Volume Three, Chapter XII.

CONSCIENCE PRICKING.

"It does seem so hard to think that we have been away all these months, Claudie," said Mary the next morning. "Aren't you glad to be back once more in the dear old home?"

"Yes, dear; and no," said Claude sadly.

"Now, who is to understand what that means? But, Claude, dear, I did not speak last night--"

"What about," said Claude quickly.

"I don't like to say. The subject is tabooed."

Claude turned toward the window, so that her cousin should not see her face.

"The last time I mentioned his name you scolded me."

Claude remained silent.

"Did you see him yesterday when we came up to the gate?"

"No."

"He was there, and coming up to the carriage when he saw Mr Glyddyr get up to call for three cheers, and then he shrank away."

Claude shivered, as if from a sudden chill, but she remained silent.

"May I say what I think?" asked Mary.

Claude turned upon her an agonised look.

"If you wish to give me pain," she said, almost in a whisper; and at that moment Sarah Woodham entered the room.

"Mr Glyddyr, ma'am. He asks you to excuse his calling so early, but if you would see him for a few minutes he would be grateful."

The shiver ran through Claude again, but she smothered her emotion.

"Show Mr Glyddyr in," she said calmly, and Sarah Woodham's face grew harder as she left the room.

"What are you going to say, Claude?" said Mary quickly.

"Say?"

"Yes. Why do you put on that air of ignorance? You know why he has come."

"Mary!"

"Yes, I will speak. All these quiet calls have meant that, I am sure. He has only been waiting till you came home to ask you to be his wife."

"Hush!"

The door opened, and Glyddyr entered, looking sallow and nervous; but he began to brighten a little, as if the presence of Mary were a reprieve from the task he had set himself to do.

It was only a short one, though, for, after the first greetings, Mary rose to go.

Claude looked at her wistfully.

"Don't let me drive you away, Miss Dillon," said Glyddyr quickly.

Claude uttered no word to stay her, but sat gazing straight before her at a large photograph of her father, her eyes wild and fixed with the emotion from which she suffered, and for a few moments after the door was closed neither spoke.

"Miss Gartram--Claude," said Glyddyr, at last, in a husky voice, and at his words she started, as if from a dream.

Her look seemed to freeze him, but he had taken the step now, and he rose and crossed to her side, taking the hand she surrendered to him unresistingly.

"Claude, you know how all these weary months I have been silent," he whispered; "how I have feared to intrude upon you in your grief, though all the while I have suffered painfully too."

"Yes," she said gently, "you have been very patient with me, I know."

"Because I dared to hope that the time might come when I could speak to you as I do now. You know how I love you, and--forgive me for saying what I do--you know how my happiness is in your hands. Tell me to be patient even now, and I will wait."

Her wild fixed look intensified as she listened to his impassioned prayer, for she saw only the face of her father as she had seen him last in life.

"I hardly dare to say the words," he went on; "it seems like putting pressure on one whom I want to love me of herself, to make me happy by her own gentle confession; but I must speak now, even if it gives you pain. Claude, dearest, it was his wish. Tell me you will be my wife."

He uttered his last sentence or two in a hesitating whisper.

"You heard what I said, dearest?" he whispered.

"Yes--yes," said Claude dreamily.

"You will not hold me off longer. Claude, dearest, what can I say to move you? Is it to be always thus?"

She looked at him wildly for a few moments, and he was about to speak again, but her lips moved, and she said slowly--

"You say it would make you happy?"

"Happy?" he exclaimed passionately, "oh, if I had but words to tell you all."

"Hush!" she said, slowly withdrawing her hand. "Six months ago I thought I saw my course marked out for me; but now all appears changed. You know how, long before we ever met--"

"Yes," he cried eagerly, "I know everything you would say, but, Claude, dearest, it is impossible. If that was to make you happy, I would have gone away, and patiently borne all, but it is impossible."

"Yes," she said, shuddering slightly, "it is impossible."

"Then you will let me hope?" he cried quickly.

"It was my dear father's wish," she said dreamily; "I have thought of this, and what was my duty, left as I am, his child and the steward of his great wealth."

"Yes--yes!" he cried excitedly.

"It was all darkness--black, black darkness for a time, but by slow degrees the light has come."

"Claude, my love!"

"Oh, hush: pray hush!" she said with a slight shiver as she gazed straight past her wooer at the photograph upon the table. "It was his wish; and if you desire this, Parry Glyddyr, I will try to be your true and faithful wife."

"My own!" he whispered, and he tried to pass his arm around her, but she shrank back with so pained a look that he forbore. "There," he said, "I will be patient. I have waited all these long months, and I know now how your love for me will come. I can wait. But, Claude, let me go away quite happy. How soon?"

"It was his wish."

"In a month from now?" he whispered tenderly.

"Yes," she said, still gazing past him at the photograph.

"My own!" he cried, "I had not dared to hope for this. But, Claude, dearest, why do you look so strange?"

He felt as if a hand of ice had touched him, and his own closed upon hers with a spasmodic grip, as he looked sharply round and saw the photograph, the counterfeit presentment gazing sternly in his eyes.

But Claude was too intent upon her own thoughts to notice his ghastly pallor, and, uttering a low sigh, she at last withdrew her hand.

"Do not say more to me now, Mr Glyddyr," she sighed faintly. "I am weak. The shock of coming back here has been almost more than I can bear. You will go now. Do not think me unkind and cold, but you will leave me till to-morrow."

"Yes, yes," he cried huskily, as he forced himself to take her hand which felt like ice, and, bending over it, he pressed his lips upon the clear transparent skin. "Yes, till to-morrow," he said; and, carefully keeping his eyes averted from the photograph, he walked quickly from the room.

"Claude! Claude!" cried Mary entering, but there was no reply. "Claude!" and she laid her hand upon the girl's shoulder, to start back in alarm at the waxen face that was slowly turned towards her. "Claude, darling, don't look like that. Tell me. He did ask you?"

Claude nodded.

"And you refused him?"

She shook her head sadly.

"Oh, Claude!" cried Mary reproachfully. "And poor Chris!"

"Silence!" said Claude excitedly. "Never mention his name again."

"But you can't--you don't think that horrible charge was true?"

"I think it was, my dear--my dead father's wish that I should wed Mr Glyddyr. I have prayed for strength to carry out his will."

"And you have accepted him!"

"Mary, a woman cannot live for herself. It was my duty. In a month I shall be Parry Glyddyr's wife."

Volume Three, Chapter XIII.

A STRANGE WOOING.

Chris Lisle heard the news without showing the slightest emotion, and as soon as he was alone he sat down and wrote as follows:--

"_I pray God that you may be happy_.

"Chris Lisle."

That was all, and he dropped it into the post-box himself, turned back to meet Trevithick on his way to the Fort, nodded to him and went straight to his room, where he stood for a few moments in silence.

"Yes," he said slowly and solemnly, "I pray God that you may be happy."

Then, after a pause:

"But," he cried, with terrible earnestness, "if--"

There was another pause in which he silently continued that which he might have said. Then, with a fierce light flashing from his eyes, he clenched his hands and said in a whisper more startling than the loudest words--

"I'll kill him as I would some venomous beast."

He threw himself into a chair and sat looking white and changed for quite an hour before he rose up and drew a long deep breath.

"Dead!" he said softly; "dead! Now, then, to bear it--like a man--and show no sign."

There was a gentle tap at the door.

"May I come in, sir, please?"

"Eh? Oh yes, Mrs Sarson. What is it?"

"I was going to--Oh my dear, dear boy!"

The poor woman caught his hand in hers, and kissed it, as her tears fell fast.

"Why, Mrs Sarson," he said, smiling, "what's the matter?"

"Oh, my dear," she said; "you haven't lived here with me all these years from quite a boy as you were, without me feeling just like a mother to you. And you so alone in the world. I know what trouble you're in, and what you must feel; and it hurts me too."

"There, there. You're a good soul," he said. "But that's all over. Why, I've had the aching tooth taken out, and I'm quite a new man now."

"Oh, my dear--my dear!"

"I'm off for a few hours' fishing, and I shall want a good meat tea about six. I sha'n't be later."

He nodded cheerfully, and took his creel and rod from the passage, Mrs Sarson hurrying to the window, and watching till he was out of sight, "Ah!" she said, shaking her head; "but it don't deceive me. I've read of them as held their hands in the fire till they were burned away; and he's a martyr, too, as would do it, without making a sign. But he can't deceive me."

Meanwhile Trevithick had gone up to the Fort to see Claude about certain business matters connected with the quarry, and with the full intent to ask her a few questions about the missing money in spite of her former words; but on his way that morning he had heard startling news, which made his face look peculiarly serious, and he said to himself--

"Well, it was her father's wish, but if I don't make the tightest marriage settlements ever drawn up I'm not an honest man."

He was admitted by Sarah Woodham, and shown into the library, where, quite at home, he took his seat, unlocked his black bag, and began to arrange a number of endorsed papers, tied up with red tape.

"Mrs Woodham does not seem to approve of the wedding," he said to himself. "Not a cheerful woman."

Then he looked round the room, and in imagination searched Gartram's safe and cash receptacles for the hundredth time.

"No," he said, giving one ear a vicious rub, "I can't get it that way. It was someone who knew him and his ways pretty well stole that money, or there would have been some record left. All those thousands short. He never omitted keeping account of even trifling sums."

"And Miss Dillon does not approve of the wedding," he said to himself as Mary entered, her eyes plainly showing that she had been weeping.

"Good-morning," she said, taking the chair placed for her with heavy courtesy. "My cousin is unwell, Mr Trevithick, and cannot see you. Will you either come over again or state your business to me?"

"I shall be only too glad," he said, smiling.

"I thought you would," replied Mary. "Of course you will make a charge for this journey."

Trevithick looked at her aghast; and then flushed and perspired.

"I said I should be only too glad to discuss the business with you, Miss Dillon," he said stiffly.

"No, you did not, Mr Trevithick."

"I beg pardon. That is what I meant."

"Oh! then please go on."

"Why will she always be so sharp with me?" thought the lawyer, as he looked across the table wistfully.

"Yes, Mr Trevithick? I am all attention."

"Yes; of course," he said, suddenly becoming very business-like, for he could deal with her then. "The little matters of business can wait, or perhaps you could take the papers up for Miss Gartram's signature."

"Yes; of course," said Mary, sharply. "Where are they?"

"Here," he said, quietly; "but there is one, I might say two things, I should like Miss Gartram's opinion upon. Will you tell her, please?"

"Do speak a little faster, Mr Trevithick, I have a great deal to do this morning."

"I beg your pardon. Will you please tell Miss Gartram that I am, in spite of her commands, much exercised in mind about that missing money. Tell her, please, that I have studied it from every point of view, and I am compelled to say that it is her duty to Mr Gartram deceased--that most exact of business men--to instruct me to make further inquiries into the matter."

"It would be of no use, Mr Trevithick. I am sure your cousin would not allow it. Is that all?"

"Will you not appeal to her from me?"

"No. I am sure she would not listen to any such suggestion. Now, is that all?"

Mary spoke in a quick, excited way, as if she wanted to get out of the room, and yet wished to stay.

"Well--no," he answered softly, as he kept on taking up and laying down his papers in different order.

"Mr Trevithick!"

"Pray, give me time, Miss Dillon," he protested. "The fact is I have heard very important news this morning."

"Of course you have. You mean about my cousin's approaching marriage."

"Then it is true?"

"Of course it is."

Trevithick sighed.

"Well, Mr Trevithick, is that all?"

"No, madam, I may say that I am very sorry."

"Well, is that all?" cried Mary, impatiently.

"No. As the late Mr Gartram's trusted, confidential adviser, I was aware that this was his wish, but, all the same, I am deeply grieved."

"Of course, and so is everybody else," said Mary passionately. "I mean," she said, checking herself, "it seems sad for it to be so soon. That is all, I suppose."

"No, Miss Dillon; this being so I should have liked to discuss with Miss Gartram the question of the settlements. I presume, as she has continued to trust me as her father trusted me, that she would wish me to see to all the legal matters connected with her fortune."

"What a stupid question. Why, of course."

"Well, forgive me; hardly a stupid question. Perhaps too retiring--for a lawyer."

"Mr Trevithick, you are not half decided and prompt enough. Well, then; my cousin anticipated all this, and said, `tell Mr Trevithick to do what is right and just, and that I leave myself entirely in his hands. Tell him to do what he would have done had my father been alive.'"

"Ah!" said the lawyer slowly. "Yes; then I will proceed at once. It is a great responsibility, as Miss Gartram has neither relative nor executor to whom she could appeal. A very great responsibility, but I will do what is just and right in her interest, tying down her property as under the circumstances should be done."

"Do--do Mr Trevithick--dear Mr Trevithick, pray do," cried Mary, starting from her seat, and advancing to the table--her old, sharp manner gone, and an intense desire to hasten the lawyer's proposals flashing from her eyes.

"I will," he said firmly; and he held out his hand. "You will trust me, Mary Dillon, as your cousin trusts me?"

"Indeed, I will," she said eagerly, and she placed her thin little white hand in his.

"Hah!" he ejaculated with a long expiration of the breath; and his great hand closed and prisoned the little one laid therein. "You told me just now that I was not decided and prompt enough."

"Yes, I did. But you are holding my hand very tightly, Mr Trevithick."

"Yes," he said quietly, "I am. That is because you are wrong. I am very decided and prompt sometimes, and I am going to be now. Mary Dillon, will you be my wife?"

"What!" she cried, flushing scarlet, and struggling to release her hand, as her eyes flashed and seemed to be reading him through and through. "Absurd!"

"No--no," he said gravely; "don't say that, even if my way and manner are absurd."

"I did not mean that," she cried quickly. "I meant to--Oh, it is absurd!" she said again, though her heart was throbbing violently, and she struggled vainly to withdraw her hand. "Look at me--weak, misshapen, pitiful. Mr Trevithick, you are mad."

"Don't try to take your hand away," he said slowly; it makes me afraid of hurting you; and don't speak again like that--you hurt me very--very much.

"But, Mr Trevithick! It is too dreadful. I cannot--I must not listen to you."

"Why? You are quite free; and you are not an heiress."

"I!" she cried bitterly. "No; I have nothing but a pitiful few hundred pounds. Now you know the truth. Do you hear me? I am a pauper, dependent on my cousin's charity."

"I am very glad," he said, gazing at her thoughtfully, and still speaking in his slow and deliberate way. "I was afraid that perhaps you had money of which I did not know. But you will say `yes'?"

"No; impossible. Are you blind? Look at me."

"I might say, `Look at me,'" he retorted, with a frank, honest laugh, which lit up his countenance pleasantly. "I wish you could look at me as I do at you, and see there something that you could love. Yes," he said, his genuine passion making him speak fluently and well; "for all these long, long months, Mary, I have always had your sweet, earnest eyes before me, and your clever, bright face. I have seemed to listen to your voice, and sometimes I have been sad as I have asked myself what a woman could find in me to love."

"Ah!" ejaculated the trembling girl.

"And I've felt that, when you have said all those many sharp, hard things to me, that they were not quite real, and when your words have been most cruel, I've dared to fancy that your eyes seemed to be sorry that your tongue could be so bitter."

"Mr Trevithick, pray!"

"And then I've hoped and waited, and thought of what you were."

"Yes," said Mary bitterly, as she made a gesture with one hand.

"Bah!" he cried, "what of that? An accident when you were a child. I would not have you different for worlds. I want those two dear eyes to look into mine, true and trustful and clever. You, to whom I can come home from my work for help and counsel, to be everything to me--my wife. Mary dear, in my slow and clumsy way I love you very dearly, and your cousin's wedding has brought it all out. I didn't think I could make love like that."

He took her other hand, and gazed at her very fondly as she stood by his side, with the tears streaming down her cheeks.

"You are not angry with me, dear?"

"No," she said gently; "I am sorry."

"Why?"

"For you. See how the world will sneer."

"What!" he cried eagerly. "Then you will?"

She looked at him searchingly, as if a lingering doubt were there, and a shadow of suspicion were making her try to see if he was truly in earnest.

"No, no," she said, as a sob burst from her lips; "it is impossible." And she struggled hard to get away.

"Impossible!" he said, as he tightened his grasp. "Tell me one thing, Mary. You knew I loved you?"

She nodded quickly.

"And--you don't think me ridiculous?"

"I think you the truest, most honest gentleman I ever saw," she sobbed; "but--"

"Ah!" he said, with a pleasant little satisfied laugh, "that settles it, then. The impossibility has gone like smoke. Mary dear, I never hoped to be so happy as you have made me now."

His great arms enfolded her for a moment, during which she lay panting on his breast, then, struggling to free herself, she caught and kissed one of his hands.

"Hah!" he ejaculated, "now we must think of some one else."

He led her gently back to her chair, and bent down to kiss her forehead. Then, returning to his seat as calmly as if nothing had happened--

"I can talk freely to you now, Mary," he said. "Is not this a great mistake?"

"Yes," she said, with an arch look, full of her newly-found joy.

"No, no; you know what I mean. We must be very serious now. I don't like this Mr Glyddyr."

"I hate him," cried Mary.

"Well, that's honest," he said, smiling. "But it was her father's wish, and I suppose it is to be."

"Yes; it is to be. Nothing would turn her now."

John Trevithick did not say, "And is this to be soon?" but he thought it, and set the idea aside.

"No," he said to himself; "we must wait." And soon after, calm, quiet and business-like, he went away to draw up the marriage settlements tightly on Claude's behalf, and wandered whether he could ever manage to trace that missing cash.

He took out a pocket-book, and turned to a certain page covered with figures, and ran it down.

"Only a few of these notes have reached the bank. Well, some day I may come upon a clue in a way I least expect.

"Impossible, eh?" he said, with a smile of content. "Bless her sweet eyes! I won't believe in the impossible now."

Volume Three, Chapter XIV.

"AND THIS IS BEING MARRIED."

"You are sure you don't mind me talking about it, sir?"

"Mind! Oh, no, Mrs Sarson, say what you like."

"Well, you see, sir, even if one is a widow and growing old, one can't help feeling interested in weddings. I suppose it's being a woman. Everybody's dreadfully disappointed."

"Indeed," said Chris coldly.

"And, yes, indeed, sir. No big party; no wedding breakfast and cake; no going away in chaises and fours. If poor Mr Gartram had been alive, it wouldn't have been like this. Why, do you know, sir, the quarry folk were getting ready powder and going to fire guns, and make a big bonfire on the cliffs; but Mr Trevithick, the lawyer, went to them with a message from Miss Claude, sir, asking for them to do nothing; and they're just going to the church and back to the big house, and not even going away."

"Indeed!"

"Oh, yes, sir, and I did hear that Miss Claude actually wanted to be married in black, but Miss Mary Dillon persuaded her not. I heard it on the best of authority, sir."

Chris made no reply, and, finding no encouragement, Mrs Sarson cleared her lodger's breakfast things away, and left the room.

The moment he was alone, Chris started from his chair to stand with his back to the light; his teeth set hard and fists clenched as a spasm of mental agony for the moment mastered him.

"No," he said, after a few moments, with a bitter laugh, "this won't do. What is it to me? I can bear it now like a man. She shall see how indifferent I am."

For it was the morning of the ill-starred wedding--a morning in which Nature seemed to be in the mood to make everything depressing, for the wind blew hard, bringing from the Atlantic a drenching shower, through which, with Gellow for his best man, Glyddyr would have to drive to the little church. Meanwhile, he was having so severe a shivering fit at the hotel where he had been staying, that his companion had become alarmed, and suggested calling in the doctor.

"Bah! nonsense! Ring for some brandy."

"And I'll take a flask to the church," said Gellow to himself, "or the brute will breakdown. We're going to have a jolly wedding seemingly. Only wants that confounded Frenchwoman to get scent of it, and come down, and then we should be perfect."

"That's better," said Gellow, after the brandy had been brought. "But what a day! What a cheerful lookout! I say, Glyddyr, am I dreaming? Is it a wedding this morning or a funeral?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it looks more like the latter. I say: Young Lisle won't come and have a pop at you in the church?"

Glyddyr turned ghastly.

"You--you don't think--"

"Bah! My chaff. You are out of sorts; on your wedding-day, too. Hold hard with that brandy, or it will pop you off, and not Lisle. Steady, man, steady."

"Gellow, it's all over," gasped the miserable man. "I shall never be able to go through with it."

"Oh, if I can only get this morning over," said Gellow to himself; and then aloud--

"Nonsense, my dear boy, you're a bit nervous, that's all. I suppose a man is when he's going to be married. You're all right. Come, have a devilled kidney or a snack of something. You don't eat enough."

"Eat?" said Glyddyr, with a shudder. "No; I seem to have no appetite now."

"Come on, and let's get it over. Here's the carriage waiting. Steady, man, steady. No; not a drop more."

"The carriage is at the door, sir," said the waiter; and striving hard to be firm, and to master a tremulous sensation about his knees, Glyddyr walked out into the hall, where a buzzing sound that was heard suddenly ceased till the pair were in the carriage, from whose roof the rain was streaming. Then, after banging too the door, the waiter dashed back under shelter, the dripping horses started off, and the carriage disappeared in the misty rain.

"Looks as if he was going to execution," said the man, with a laugh, as he dabbed the top of his head with his napkin. "Well, it do rain to-day."

At the Fort everything had gone on that morning in a calm, subdued way that seemed to betoken no change. Claude came down to breakfast as usual, and sat looking dreamily before her, while Mary, red-eyed and sorrowful, had not the heart to speak.

Trevithick had slept there the previous night, and was the only guest, for Doctor Asher had declined to be present, on the score of professional calls.

"I'm afraid there is very little chance of its holding up," said Trevithick, when they rose from the scarcely-touched breakfast.

"No, Mr Trevithick," said Claude quietly. "I think we shall have a very wet day. Mary, dear, we must take our waterproofs. It is fifty yards from the lych-gate to the church door. Isn't it time we went up to dress?"

She moved towards the door, but came back, and held out her hand to the lawyer.

"Forgive me for being so absent and strange with you," she said, with a faint smile. "You have been very good and kind to me, but I dare say you think all this odd and unnatural."

"Oh, no; not at all," said Trevithick, colouring like a girl.

"It was the only thing in which I asked to have my way--to let the wedding be perfectly quiet. Don't be long, Mary."

Trevithick looked at his little betrothed as the door closed, and she looked up at him.

"I say, Mary, dear," he said, "is she quite--you know what I mean. I feel almost as if I ought to interfere."

"Oh, John, John," cried the little thing, bursting into a passionate fit of weeping; "if we could only stop it even now!"

She sobbed on his breast for a few seconds, and then hastily wiped her eyes.

"There, I'm better now," she said. "I've talked to her till I'm tired, but it's of no use. `It's my _duty_' is all she will say. Oh! why did people ever invent the horrid word. Don't say anything, John, dear. Let's get it over, and hope for the best; but if there's any chance of our wedding being like this, let's shake hands like Christians, forgive one another, and say good-bye."

She ran out of the room, and Trevithick sat watching the rain trickle down the window-panes, and tried to follow the course of a big ship struggling up Channel, its storm topsails dimly seen through the mist of rain.

"I wouldn't be on that ship for all I've saved," he said, shaking his head. "Looks as if there was going to be a wreck.

"So there is," he said, after a pause, "a social wreck, and I'm going to assist. No, I'm not. I'm looking after the salvage. Poor girl! Gartram must have been mad."

His meditations were broken in upon by the sound of wheels. Half-an-hour later the door was thrown open.

"Now, Mr Trevithick, please," said Mary; and he hurried into the hall to find Claude ready and looking very calm and composed.

"Good-bye," she was saying to first one and then another of the maids, who, catching the contagion, burst into tears.

"As if it wasn't wet enough already," said Reuben Brime, who stood with the footman by the carriage-door.

"Good-bye, Woodham, dear," said Claude, holding out her hand, but snatching it back directly as she yielded to a sudden impulse, and threw her arms around the stern-looking woman's neck. "Thank you for all that you have done."

"Good-bye! Why did she say good-bye?" thought Woodham, as Trevithick handed the bride into the carriage, the drops from the edge of the portico falling like great tears upon her hair. "Yes: good-bye to youth and happiness and your sweet young life."

The carriage-door was banged, and banged again, for the wet had made it hard to shut. Then, as the footman mounted to his place on the box, the gardener hurried round in front of the horses, and ran for the short cut over the cliffs to the church.

"Shouldn't you go, Mrs Woodham?" said one of the maids.

Sarah Woodham shook her head.

"They will soon be back," she said. "I'm going to stay to meet the new master."

"Why does not something happen to stop this hateful match?" she muttered to herself. "My poor girl. My poor, dear girl."

The carriage sped on through the driving rain, and the little party descended at the church gate, where a few fishermen were gathered in their yellow and black oilskins to follow them, dripping, into the little church, while it seemed to Claude that it was only the other day that her father was borne to his resting-place. And there they were, standing face to face before God's altar, she pale, sad and composed, having to give her whole love and life to the pale trembling man who faced her, and who, though she knew it not, exhaled a strong odour of the spirits he had taken to enable him to go through the task.

But Claude saw nothing, realised nothing but the words of the clergyman, repeating every response in a low, earnest tone right on to the end, when, as the last words of the service was uttered, there was the sound of some one drawing a long, deep breath.

It was only Gellow's way of congratulating himself on the fact that his money and much more were safe at last.

"Now!" he muttered, as he hugged himself. "Now you may have _DT_, or anything you like."

The book was signed, and the few fishermen and women who had braved the storm began to go clattering out of the church as Glyddyr, making an effort to look happy and content, held his arm to his newly-made bride to lead her down the little nave.

"Father, dear, it was your wish," said Claude softly, and, with a sigh, she raised her eyes towards the faint light which came through the west window.

Then she stopped short, gazing wildly at where Chris Lisle stood like a black silhouette against the dim lattice panes, as he had stood with folded arms right through the service.

He made no sign; he uttered no sound, his features hardly visible from the position against the light; but the sight of that figure was enough to bring like a flood the recollections of the past, and of what might have been, but for her irrevocable step; and, snatching her hand from her husband's arm, Claude clasped her forehead as she uttered a low, faint cry, and fell heavily upon the floor.

"Keep back, all of you!" cried Glyddyr excitedly. "Do you hear, keep back. The carriage, there. Do you hear me? Keep back!"

He lifted Claude from where she lay, and bore her out, holding her tightly in his arms, as if he feared that she might be snatched away by him who had caused this shock.

"Curse him!" he muttered, as the carriage was driven back to the Fort at a canter; "but he's too late. The dark horse has won, Chris Lisle, and the stakes are mine."

Claude was still insensible when the carriage stopped, and Glyddyr resigned her to Sarah Woodham's arms.

"A bit faint, that's all," he said, with a half laugh. "She'll be better soon."

"You--you are married, sir?" faltered the woman, looking at him wildly.

"You bet!" he snarled, as he turned away, and strode into the library, but came back looking ghastly and slamming the door. "Here, some one bring the spirits into the dining-room; not in there. Quick! don't you see your mistress is taken ill?"

"Open the door," whispered Woodham; "we'll take her in there."

"No; in the dining-room--anywhere," cried Glyddyr. "Don't take her there.

"And this is being married!" he muttered, as soon as he was alone. "The cad! The coward! But I've bested him, and I'm a free man once again, and master here."

They had carried Claude into the dining-room; and, hardly caring where he went, Glyddyr had entered the drawing-room, thrown to the door, and was walking hurriedly up and down, till, as he uttered the last words, his eyes fell upon the large photograph of Gartram.

He stopped short, with his eyes showing a ring of white about the iris, and the cold sweat glistening upon his forehead till the spasm of dread passed away. Then dashing forward, he was about to tear the likeness from its easel and frame, but the door was suddenly opened, and he recovered himself, and turned to face Trevithick and his best man, for he had not heard the wheels as the second carriage stopped.

Volume Three, Chapter XV.

"ONLY WAIT."

The occupants of the Fort were broken up into little parties on that eventful day. Claude seemed to go from one fit into another, and her cousin and Sarah Woodham did not leave her side.

Brime had been despatched for Doctor Asher, but had come back with a message that the doctor had been taken ill, and could not leave his home, but they were not to be alarmed. It was only hysteria, he wrote, and all needed was quiet and rest.

Trevithick had betaken himself to the library, where he sat alone, waiting for tidings, and had at last taken his note-book from his pocket, as if inspired by the place, and began to run over the numbers of the missing notes.

"I can't go away till afternoon," he had said to himself; "and till I have had a quiet few minutes with Mary."

In the dining-room Glyddyr was now alone with Gellow, and there had been a scene.

"Look here," said the latter, after partaking heartily of the breakfast, "I'm not a man who boasts, and I suppose my principles, as people call 'em, are not of the best, but, 'pon my soul, Glyddyr, if I couldn't show up better after marrying a girl like that, I'd go and hang myself."

"Bah!"

"No, you don't; not a drop more," continued Gellow, laying his hand upon a bottle of champagne that Glyddyr was about to take. "You've had too much now. When I'm gone, you can do as you like. You're master here, but I won't sit and see you go on like this."

"It don't hurt me. I'm as sober as you are."

"P'r'aps so, now; but what will you be by-and-by? Hang it all, Glyd, you've got the girl, and the money, and you can pay me off. She's a little darling, that's what she is, and I'd turn over a fresh leaf-- clean the slate and begin square now, I would, 'pon my soul. Do you hear?"

"Yes, I hear."

"And now I think I'll go back to the hotel; you don't want me."

"Eh! What? No, no; don't go," said Glyddyr excitedly.

"Not go?"

"No, man, no; don't go and leave me here alone."

"Well, upon my soul, Glyddyr, you are a one."

"That fellow, Lisle. You saw him in the corner. He means mischief. I'm sure he does."

"Let him. You're King of the Castle now. Keep him out. Don't be such a cur."

"He's half mad. I know he is. I don't want a scene. I should kill him if he came."

"Yes, you look as if you would."

"And I haven't done much for you yet. We shall want to talk business."

"What, on your wedding-day! Nonsense. I'll go back to the hotel."