Chapter IV: Part 4

"Easily," replied Madelaine, as she gathered up the lad in her strong motherly arms. Ben wrapped the still form of his father in a blanket and followed her out of the room.

Some fishermen had by this time arrived at the cottage and were standing beside the garden fence. Gladly they relieved Mrs. Power and her companion of their burdens and bore them away from the dangerous spot.

They had not proceeded many yards, when a low rumble, growing louder as they listened, caused them to turn quickly round in the direction whence the sound came.

All at once a noise like thunder smote upon their ears, and to their horror they saw a long chasm yawn between them and the cottage wall. It widened as they gazed, until with a crash, a great slice of the cliff suddenly disappeared from before their eyes. Where the old house had so lately stood, the edge of the cliff now cut straight across the horizon--there was nothing to break the level line where earth joined sky.

"I'm glad father didn't see it go," said Ben. "It would have fairly broken his heart. Queer fancies he used to take about some things!"

"We need not mourn for him," replied Mrs. Power. "His faith has been rewarded, and he has now a more enduring dwelling-place above. He was quite right about his friends. The Tide has had its will in the end, but the Angel of Death came for him first. Old Timothy has been received into the eternal home, and has seen the glorious face of Him he called 'The Best Friend of all.' Truly we could not wish him back."

*CHAPTER XIII*

*Near Death's Door*

Leaving Ben and his comrades to continue their sad procession to the village, Mrs. Power and one of the men made their way straight to Farncourt, carrying little Julius with them. The boy was evidently very ill, and quite unconscious of what was passing around him.

It grieved Madelaine sorely when she had to give up her charge at the door of the large comfortless house, where no mother awaited the child to give him the gentle care he so much needed.

"Of course he will have the best doctors and attendance in the kingdom, and everything that money can provide," she said to herself as she walked down the drive, "but something more is wanted than that. I can't bear to think of that poor little fellow with no loving woman's face bending over him to draw him back into life again."

Certainly, as Madelaine had surmised, nothing was left untried which skill could suggest or riches procure. A famous London physician was summoned, regardless of cost, to the bedside of the child, and trained nurses watched unceasingly day and night, combating the fever that threatened to sap the strength from out the feeble frame.

The horrors of that awful race against the tide, combined with the drenching sustained both from sea and rain, proved almost more than the boy's body and mind could withstand. Again and again he screamed aloud in his terror, calling out that the waves had got hold of him, and starting up in his bed, he would try to escape from the clutches of the monsters he seemed always to have before his eyes, ready to seize him in their deadly grasp.

When at length the frenzy passed away and reason appeared to be returning once more to the overwrought brain, the efforts of his attendants were still baffled by a strange restlessness which took possession of the little invalid and which all their care could not dispel.

"He is always repeating the same words," said the nurse in charge, to Mr. Field, when he enquired anxiously for the boy. "I wonder whether you could give me a clue to what he means, so that we might know how to quiet him. Often in an illness of this sort the mind dwells on something that took place immediately before the fever came on."

"What are the words?" asked Mr. Field.

"He is continually saying 'I want to make him my friend,'" answered the nurse. "All last night he did nothing but moan out this one sentence. It was quite pitiful to hear him, poor child."

Mr. Field's heart smote him. "He was very disobedient the day of the catastrophe," he said. "Perhaps he is still thinking of it, and is afraid of my anger--I know I have sometimes been harsh with the boy. Do you suppose if I went to him and told him it was all right, that the fear would be allayed?"

"It may be that," replied the nurse, "at any rate it is worth trying. There, do you hear him?" she added, as they entered the darkened room and advanced towards the small tossing figure on the bed.

Vainly did the poor father stand at his son's side and assure him of his love and forgiveness. The unnaturally bright eyes which were fixed upon him softened with no answering light, and to his distress, the weak voice took up once again its monotonous refrain.

"Whom can he mean?" pondered Mr. Field. "I wonder if he wants the lad who was with him that dreadful afternoon. I remember Burns told me they had often played together. I forbade Julius ever to speak to him, but if anyone could do my boy good, I should welcome him, even if he were a chimney sweep."

A polite note was at once written to Mrs. Power, requesting that Robin might be allowed to come up to Farncourt, in the hope that his little companion's presence might satisfy the restless longings of the child.

A faint smile played over Julius' features as Robin entered the room, and for a moment a gleam of recognition leapt into his eyes, but it soon faded away, and the pathetic moan recommenced--the feverish limbs moving wearily to and fro upon the couch.

"If he could only get some sleep he would do well," remarked the nurse, "but I fear his strength will not hold out if this goes on much longer."

"We had hoped the sight of your little boy would have soothed Julius, but it seems to have done no good," said Mr. Field, as he led Robin back to the drawing-room, where Mrs. Power awaited his return. "We thought he missed his playfellow, for he never ceases speaking of someone he wants as his friend. If only we could find out what he desires, we might manage to bring peace to his mind."

"I know what he means," replied Madelaine with a sudden inspiration. "If you will let me go up to him, I believe I shall be able to help."

Gladly did the stricken father retrace his steps to the sick chamber, and as Mrs. Power followed, her heart was lifted up in prayer to God that she might be given the right words to say. Unhesitatingly she went up to the bed and knelt beside the child. Taking his burning hands in hers, she held them firmly as she looked into his face.

"I want to make him my friend," reiterated the boy.

"It is God Whom you want to make your Friend, is it not, little Julius?" asked Madelaine.

A relieved expression flashed across the sufferer's countenance as the question seemed to reach him through the darkness of his delirium, and a look of intelligence dawned in the poor anxious eyes.

"Yes," he answered, "I want Him very much."

"He is your Friend already, Julius," continued Mrs. Power. "He loved us so much that He sent His Son to die for us. He has been your Friend all along, Julius. It is you who have been running away from Him."

"Do you mean God really wanted to be my Friend all along?" questioned the boy earnestly.

"Yes," replied Mrs. Power, "that is the comfort of it. Just say to yourself, 'God loves me,' and ask Him to wash away your sins, and to keep you for Jesus Christ's sake. Only a Friend can love, Julius, so you need not be afraid of Him."

"God loves me," repeated the child. "God loves me. He was my Friend all along, only I didn't know."

He closed his eyes contentedly, and nestled his head into the pillow. Mrs. Power held his hands in hers for a few minutes longer, and then gently laid them down upon the bed. "I think he is sleeping," she whispered, as she rose to her feet.

The nurse nodded silently with a pleased smile, and Madelaine noiselessly left the room.

Many an anxious hour was still to come as Julius slowly struggled back to health and strength, but as the doctor said, it was to that sleep the child owed his life. There were no more objections made by Mr. Field to the intercourse between Farncourt and the dwellers in Sea View Cottage. Every morning did Robin and his mother walk up to enquire for the invalid, and as often as not, one or both of them stayed with him for the rest of the day. Mr. Field indeed was not often present when Mrs. Power sat with his son, but he would constantly join the two boys as they played together, watching them as they made endless scrapbooks out of old illustrated papers, or constructed wonderful models with bits of wood and an unlimited supply of glue.

The great London physician came no longer to look wisely over his gold-rimmed spectacles at the now convalescent lad, but the village doctor still made friendly visits, to the benefit of his patient as well as of his own pocket.

"We'll soon have you flying about as lively as ever," he said cheerily to Julius during one of these calls. "You've got on quicker than the other patient I was summoned to attend the same day that you got bowled over."

"Who was that?" asked Mrs. Power, who was standing near. "I had not heard that any of the villagers were ill just now."

"I know how good you are in going to see the sick ones," responded the doctor, "and I longed to ask you to minister to this poor fellow, but he's a queer self-contained mortal, and apparently prefers to be left to himself. He is a stranger here--arrived the night of the storm--and appeared, sopping wet and utterly tired out at Mrs. Potter's door, with no luggage but a knapsack, being apparently upon some sort of walking tour. She let him in out of pity, and he's been laid up at her house ever since. It's the Mrs. Potter who lives on the high road just beyond the wood. She's a good soul, and has done all she could for him, but it's been a close shave, his getting through at all."

The boys exchanged glances.

"I expect it's the tramp," whispered Julius. "I'm glad he's got a real bed to sleep in, and that he didn't have to stay in the hut while he was ill."

"Our nice house is all broken down now," replied Robin. "The rain of that night beat it to pieces. The roof fell in, and the wall gave way, and the moss floor got into a nasty sloppy mess. I looked for my text, but I couldn't find it anywhere. I think it must have been completely washed away."

"I shouldn't be afraid of that text now," remarked Julius. "I have told father all about my going to make Peter's hutch, and our house in the wood, and our games and everything. He wasn't a bit angry, only sorry I had deceived him so often. I'm not going to do sneaky things again, but I'm jolly glad he doesn't mind me playing with you now, Robin."

During the anguish of the first days of Julius' illness, Mr. Field's thoughts were concentrated wholly upon his suffering boy, but as the tension became relaxed and the child regained his vigour, the terrible time which he had spent in the wood came back with full force and vividness to his mind.

"Could I have been mad for the moment?" he would ask himself again and again. "First the words--and then the face! It was too awful. People used to have visions in the old days--is it possible that they sometimes come to men still?"

He had never believed in ghosts, but he felt curiously nervous now as the dusk gathered round, and to Burn's astonishment, gave orders that the electric light was to be left on all night in the passages and hall. It had never been his custom to wander much alone even within the borders of his own property, but since that memorable evening he had taken exercise only upon the terrace in front of the house, and when obliged to go to Westmarket upon business, had motored in with the hood up and the blinds drawn.

"I have got bad neuralgia," he explained by way of excuse, "and the glare hurts my eyes."

"I wonder why he wants such an illumination at night then?" remarked the butler. "I can't tell what's come to him lately. It seems almost as if he were going crazy."

Do what he could, Mr. Field was unable to banish the unpleasant adventure from his thoughts. Night and day his mind was filled with strange and terrifying questionings, which he sought to meet by commonplace answers and logical explanations, but all in vain.

"It must just have been some fellow seeking shelter from the rain, as I was doing myself," he would argue. "There is no doubt there was an extraordinary likeness, but it cannot be anything more. Probably if I had seen the same face in broad daylight it would have had no effect upon me, but that night my nerves were completely unhinged by the storm. I wish I could get the dreadful death-look of those eyes out of my mind. There is only one other face that would be worse to see again, and I think I should go off my head altogether if that appeared to me in the same manner as this one did. It is bad enough to be obliged to meet it in my dreams."

Once the thought crossed Mr. Field's brain that the apparition was some prank of Ben's, another practical joke, based upon some shrewd supposition, and perpetrated in order to extort more money out of the apparently bottomless coffers of his prey. Some judicious questioning, however, set his fears at rest in that quarter.

"If Ben did know all, it would be far too good a lever not to make use of against me, and he is not the man to hesitate to try it," Mr. Field decided. "If he hasn't played his trump-card by this time, I don't think he's got one in his hand at all. It's my belief that there is more bluff than anything else in what he says, and if so, why should I knuckle under to him every time he comes sponging on me as he does. I have been far too weak with him in the past. I shall see what effect a little firmness will have upon my gentleman. I don't so much mind having to pay for what he knows, but I do draw the line at giving anything for threats in the dark."

*CHAPTER XIV*

*Pin-pricks and Pellets*

This change of front did not at all suit Benjamin Green, when he at last realized that the worm had turned, and that his visits to Farncourt did not produce the same golden results which they had been wont to do in the past. Afraid to press the blackmailing process too far in case he should find he was involved in unsuspected difficulties himself, his thoughts reverted to what remained of his father's property, and his ingenious mind set about devising means by which Mr. Field's ambition could be turned to account.

"There's a good piece of the land still left," he said, as he contemplated the scene, "and it will be many a long day till the waves claim it as they did the old house. I'll see what can be done in the meanwhile to squeeze out of the squire that same hundred pounds which he promised my father before he died."

For a week or two after Timothy's cottage had disappeared it had been unmitigated satisfaction to Mr. Field to gaze upon the view from his dining-room windows. True, a portion of the coveted ground could still be discerned through the gap in the little wood which intervened between Farncourt and the shore--a gap which no amount of planting would fill up for many years to come--but at least the human habitation was away which had been such a vexation to the purse-proud man.

There was nothing now to rouse his ire as he looked out upon the prospect before him. The sky and sea were certainly beyond his reach, but on earth, only the possessions of the master of Farncourt could be seen.

His feelings of irritation and disgust therefore can be imagined when, one fine morning, on going as usual to the casement to enjoy the view, he became aware of a tall flagstaff planted on the edge of the cliff, just in the centre of the vista which he desired so much to ignore.

It literally glittered in the glory of the whitest of white paint, and to add to its conspicuousness a brilliant scarlet flag fluttered tauntingly from it in the breeze.

"I suppose it's some maliciousness on the part of that wretched Ben Green," he exclaimed. "He threatened that he would get even with me somehow, when I refused to give him what he asked for last time he was here. This is even worse than the cottage! That flaring red thing catches your eye wherever you look. He's hoisted it half-mast high too! I wonder what he means by that? Sign of some misfortune of course, but I don't see how he expects to bring it about. I'd like to go to law, and take the fellow down a peg, but I daren't threaten him too much, or he might retaliate by stirring up things I would rather let alone."

The evening post brought him a few lines from Ben, coolly placing the alternative before him of purchasing the land which he desired, but at double the price originally offered to old Timothy.

"The value of the property has risen since my father's death," wrote Ben, "as I am in treaty with someone for whom I intend to erect business premises thereon. This is absolutely the last chance for you to secure it at this figure, for from to-day the sum I shall ask must necessarily be considerably higher."

"Ridiculous!" fumed Mr. Field. "I'm not going to be coerced into doing things against my will. Double the price, indeed! He may whistle for the two hundred pounds, but he'll not get them! As for the building scheme, of course it's only a ruse to force me into giving him the money. He can't bluff me into believing for a minute that anyone really means to build on that crumbling cliff."

It was a distinct shock to the millionaire when, a day or two later, he noticed bricks of a particularly virulent hue being piled up beside the flagstaff in full sight of his window. Apparently Ben was in earnest this time, for almost before Mr. Field could realize the full extent of the calamity, foundations had been laid, and the walls of a house rose as if by magic upon the edge of the cliff.

Such an erection too, as it was! Every morning he woke to find it even more appalling than he had dreamed of in the night. When it was finished, an ugly square dwelling stared him in the face. The bottom half was built of red bricks, dotted here and there with yellow ones. The top half consisted of yellow bricks, variegated with red. A couple of long, unsightly chimneys stood like rabbit's ears at each end of the roof, while two curtainless windows seemed to glare at him like bold, unblinking eyes from either side of the gaudy emerald-green door.

"Could anything be worse?" he groaned, as he went to bed one evening after a long and dismal survey of the eyesore from the top of the tower.

But worse was still to come.

On the morrow when he rose as usual, and, drawn by a strange fascination, went at once to gaze upon the torturing sight, he almost choked with the mortification and fury which filled his breast.

On the long, sloping roof of shiny slates were painted in huge white letters the words--

LAUNDRY
WASHING DONE CHEAP

It was in vain for him to grind his teeth with rage; before the day was out, lines of fluttering garments stretched from side to side across the field, waving mocking hands, so it appeared to him as he gazed.

As if this were not enough, a row of small wooden sheds presently sprang up next the fence which bounded Ben's property upon the side nearest to Farncourt.

"Is he going to set up a zoological garden?" enquired Mr. Field indignantly, as he watched while a pen of wire-netting was carefully erected in front of each little hut.

"No, sir, it's pigs," answered the butler solemnly. "A number of them are on their way from Westmarket, I believe, and will arrive to-day."

There was no doubt when the occupants of the styes took possession of their new quarters. For two mortal hours did Mr. Field sit in misery, listening to the squeals of the rebellious porkers as they were driven into the meadow and hustled unceremoniously into their several dwellings. Each squeak seemed to go through him like a knife, and he shut himself up in his study, dreading to detect a smile upon the faces of the servants to whom he knew his humiliation must be matter of amusement, instead of the anguish which it certainly was to him.

"Anything come besides pigs?" he asked Burns, when the butler entered the room to enquire if there were letters for the post.

"They do say as Benjamin Green has bought the grocer's donkey, which he was parting with, owing to it's being such a nuisance to his neighbours, sir," replied Burns. "Never ceases braying all night, so I was told. I don't know if it's correct, but we'll soon find out for ourselves if there's any truth in the story."

It was not long before the authenticity of the report was confirmed. That very evening the hours of darkness were made hideous by the melancholy voice of the disconsolate ass, as he poured forth his woes with discordant emphasis in the ears of the sympathetic pigs.

"I suppose Ben thinks he'll pile it on until he makes me give in," said Mr. Field to himself, as he paced up and down the terrace next morning. "Rather than do that I'll sell Farncourt and take another place. A good idea too! I wonder I never thought of it before. There is no doubt people about here have given me the cold shoulder--those I should care to meet, I mean--and I'm pretty well sick of it by this time. I shan't be sorry to be rid of that ramrod of an earl and his stuck-up friends. I saw there was a nice estate in Gloucestershire advertised for sale the other day. I'll take a run over and see what it's like. Julius is getting on well now, and I suppose I shall soon have to be thinking of sending him to some good public school. It seems the right thing to do, if he is to take his proper place in the world. I should be glad of a pleasant neighbour or two, when he is gone, who would join me in a shoot now and then, or come in sometimes to have a chat. It's rather monotonous always going about by myself, and things are apt to get on one's mind a bit."

Mr. Field took a few more turns and then threw away his cigar. "I think I'll go and have a pot at the pheasants before lunch," he said. "At any rate, I'll get a little relief from the noise of that abominable donkey. He seems to have a throat of iron, the way he goes on making that everlasting row!"

He went into the house and fetched his gun. He was rather proud of his pheasants, having introduced a rare and much-talked-of breed into his coverts. The worst was, that at present the birds were so tame they afforded little more sport than would be enjoyed by shooting hens in a farmyard. Accustomed as they were to the careful feeding and supervision of the keepers, they knew little as yet of the murderous power of the gun.

On his way to the plantations, Mr. Field encountered his head man, whose countenance wore an unwonted expression of gloom.

"Hullo! What's the matter, Jones?" he enquired. "You look as if you'd just swallowed a dose of poison."

"It's not poison as is troubling me, sir," replied the gamekeeper lugubriously. "It is nets as is doing the deadly work, and seeing they make no noise, and usually leave no traces, it's a difficult job to lay hands on him who spreads 'em."

"What do you mean?" enquired his master. "Is anything wrong with the new pheasants?"

"That's just what it is, sir," was the reply. "I was on my way to tell you about it now. I've been noticing for some time past that they were disappearing, mysterious like, only I put it down to some of 'em having been enticed over to the earl's preserves in yonder copse, seeing his keeper is feeding his birds there too. But I found a bit of a net yesterday, hanging on a bush, and footsteps near by, what made me suspect there might be poachers about, doing business on their own account, when I'm out of the way."

"You have seen no one hanging about, have you, Jones?" asked Mr. Field.

"No, sir," replied the man, "but they'd take good care to keep out of my sight. I expect they scatter food in likely places in the woods, and when the pheasants get to know where to come for it, they catch 'em in nets, the silly things being as tame as bantams. A good price they'll get for them too, seeing they're all the more valuable living than dead."

"Well, Jones, it's your duty to look after the game, and if poachers can carry on their work under your very nose like that, it shows you're not worth your salt. Get more men if you need them, to watch the place, but don't let me hear of losses in this way again. I won't have my property calmly stolen from me like this, so put your best foot foremost and stop it at once."

"Do you want me to come with you now, sir?" asked the crestfallen man. "I see you've got your gun."

"No," replied Mr. Field, "if I shoot anything I'll leave it behind the wall near the gate, and you can send for it later. I'll probably only take a look round this morning and see how things are for myself."

"Everyone seems to be conspiring against me," he said to himself as he continued his walk. "What's the use of so much money if I can't even enjoy my own house and recreations without being imposed upon and insulted by any impudent fellow who happens to come along."

Meditating on his wrongs, Mr. Field entered the little copse, and wandered aimlessly about for a few minutes, hoping to find some clue to the mysterious thefts. Suddenly a great grey cat rushed across his path and disappeared in a thick tangle of undergrowth, only three or four yards away.

"There's the poacher, if I'm not much mistaken!" he exclaimed, as he raised his gun to his shoulder and hastily fired straight into the bushes. "Missed him!" he added, as he caught sight of the grey form fleeing madly away in the direction of the road. "Hope he got a little peppering though, that will teach him not to come here again in a hurry."

Before long Mr. Field also left the shelter of the wood, and proceeded homewards, his mind full of the Gloucestershire estate, to which he inclined more and more as he pondered over its advantages.

*CHAPTER XV*

*Alive from the Dead*

That evening Mrs. Power was walking along the road which bordered the Farncourt preserves, when her attention was arrested by the sound of groaning on the other side of the wall. For a moment her heart stood still with fear, but she was not naturally timid, and the thought that someone was in trouble urged her to make closer research.

She turned in the direction whence the moans came, and peeped over into the plantation. To her horror she saw a man lying on the ground, only a few steps away from her, his face pale as death and streaked with blood.

"I must go to him," she said to herself, "he looks as if he were dying there, all alone in the wood."

Climbing over the low wall, she soon reached his side.

"Why, it's Ben Green!" she exclaimed in surprise. "How ever has he got into this plight? I'm afraid he is badly hurt, poor fellow. He seems quite unconscious, and I think his arm must be broken, it hangs so limply from the shoulder."

She wetted her handkerchief in the rivulet which ran through the coppice, and wiped the stains from his face, then, binding the cool bandage round his forehead, she rose to her feet and started off towards the village.

"The sooner I get help, the better," she decided. "I can't do him any good by staying with him here."

It was not long before the wounded man was carefully borne on a stretcher to his room at "The Bull," and his injuries ascertained by the doctor.

"He has been badly shot," was the report. "It is a marvel he was not killed on the spot. If one of the pellets had gone a quarter of an inch more to one side, it would have penetrated the brain. As it is, he is suffering from shock and loss of blood, besides the injury to the arm, which was evidently caused by a fall."

Tongues were let loose that evening in the little hamlet, as conjectures and suggestions were freely bandied to and fro.

"I must say it looks queer," remarked Jones, the keeper, as he discussed the situation with a knot of men at the public-house door. "The squire goes to that there wood in the morning with his gun, and refuses to let me come with him, as would only have been natural, for to pick up the birds. Mrs. Power she finds a man shot in that very wood a few hours later, and as all here know, there was no one whom Mr. Field would sooner see put out of the way than this same identical victim. He was in a fine temper when I met him, and it's my belief he has had more to do with this affair than he would care to tell."

It was in vain that Mr. Field disclaimed any knowledge of the matter when the constable went up to interview him next morning. The story of the grey cat was scoffed at by the village in general as being an entirely inadequate explanation of the accident, and public feeling waxed more and more indignant against him.

The condition of the patient had improved during the night, and a gradual return to consciousness was apparent as the hours went by. Mrs. Power had constituted herself his nurse for the present, there being no one else available who was competent to undertake such a task.

Meanwhile Mr. Field's sensations were not enviable as he waited in feverish anxiety for tidings from the sick man's room.

"If he dies, I'm done for," he said, "for there are no witnesses, and I can't deny that appearances are dead against me, however I may seek to disclaim the deed. Even if he lives, how do I know that he will speak the truth about it? He's got an opportunity now of ruining me altogether, if he chooses only to say the word."

It was not till late afternoon that Mrs. Power, on glancing up from her chair, noticed that the invalid had opened his eyes, and was gazing at her with a puzzled look. She went to him and administered a few spoonfuls of the beef-tea which she had ready on the hob.

"Just lie still and try to go to sleep," she said. "You'll get on all right now."

For an hour or more he lay silent, and the watcher thought that he dozed, but she was suddenly startled by a voice from the bed.

"I've been down to the very gates of death, haven't I?" was the unexpected question.

"Yes," she replied, "but they are not going to open to you this time, I think. You have turned the corner now, and we expect to have you well again in no time."

"I shouldn't have been ready to go through if they had opened," said Ben, ignoring her remark. "They would have been black gates to me, not the golden ones my poor old father saw."

Afraid of exciting her patient, Mrs. Power did not answer, hoping that sleep would come to quiet the troubled brain, but after a few moments' pause Ben began again--

"When the doctor came this afternoon I know you all thought I was unconscious, but I heard him say, 'Field's got a bad case against him,' as he left the room. I was jolly glad at first, for I'd been wanting to have a handle against him for a long time past. However, when a man's on the brink of the grave, he's bound to think a bit, so I feel I ought to speak up. It certainly was Field who shot me, but he didn't know I was there. I was putting down food for the pheasants, the plantation being a grand place for poaching, and I hid in the bushes as he came by. He fired at a cat, but he got me instead. I was stunned for a while, and then only managed to stagger to the wall, hoping someone would find me as they passed along the road. I thought I was done for when I fell again in the wood."

"Do you want to make this known?" asked Mrs. Power. "Suspicions have been very rife in Mr. Field's direction, everyone knowing that he had a grudge against you."

"Yes," answered Ben slowly, "I want to make it known. I've had a hard fight inside me this last hour, when you believed I was asleep. I felt I had him at my mercy, and at first I determined that I wouldn't lift up my little finger to help him, knowing that if I died he would probably have to swing for me. It's a solemn thing, though, to know for certain that God is just on the other side of those gates, and that if they open for you, you will have to face Him right there by yourself, and that His holy eyes will search you through and through. Well, somehow things look different when it comes to that, and if I should die I dare not meet Him with a black thought like that in my heart. So I shall be glad if you will tell them all that it was entirely my fault and not Mr. Field's. I had no business to be there at all."

In the presence of the landlord, Mrs. Power took down the statement, which, with much difficulty, Ben managed to sign, after which he sank back upon the pillow, wearied with the exertion, and soon fell into a calm and restful sleep.

During the days which followed, many a long talk had Ben with his kind and patient nurse. The man's heart was softened by the danger which he had so lately passed through, and his ears were attentive as she sought to lead him to the One his father had known and trusted so well.

"I should like to make my peace with God," was his cry, "but I've sinned against Him all my life and I'm ashamed to come to Him now."

"Nevertheless you may be quite sure of a welcome," replied Mrs. Power. "The wonder is that it is _He_ Who invites us to make peace with Him--not we who have to wring forgiveness from an unwilling God. He actually pleads with us to come to Him. Listen to what St. Paul says, Ben, 'Now then we are ambassadors for Christ, as though God did beseech you by us: we pray you in Christ's stead, be ye reconciled to God.'"

"To think of God beseeching us to come to Him," said Ben, "when we have neglected Him so long! It seems too good to be true!"

"It is only through our Lord Jesus Christ that we can come to Him," answered Mrs. Power. "It is He Who has made it possible for God to forgive. 'He hath made Him to be sin for us, Who knew no sin, that we might be made the righteousness of God in Him.' You remember the old hymn--

"I lay my sins on Jesus,
The spotless Lamb of God;
He bears them all, and frees us
From the accursed load."

"But the choice must be made," added Mrs. Power solemnly. "If we keep our sins we lose our souls."

"I would choose Christ," said Ben. "Isn't there a verse that says, 'What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?' I see it all clear now, and I thank Him for having opened up the way for me to come to God. I should like to serve Him, with His help, during what remains to me of my life, if He'll spare me for a little while yet."

"'Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered,'" was Mrs. Power's rejoinder. "There are no regrets for those who enter the service of God."

It was after this conversation, as Madelaine was walking back to Sea View Cottage in the evening light, that she began to turn her thoughts to the prospects which lay before her and her boy. She had not intended staying so long at Sunbury, having purposed only to remain for the autumn months. Julius' illness, however, had delayed her for a few weeks, and Ben's accident had caused her to postpone her departure still further. Both invalids being now well on the road to recovery, she felt the time had come to bring the quiet country visit to a close.

"If I could only get a few pupils and set up a small school, I might be able to put aside something towards Robin's future," she said. "He ought to go eventually to some sort of college, whatever profession he takes up, and where the fees are to come from, I don't know."

As she walked up the garden path, she saw that the lamp had been lit in the parlour, and that Robin was already busily engaged at tea. The blind had not been drawn down, so that she could distinguish everything plainly.

"Why, he's got a visitor, the monkey!" she exclaimed. "I wonder who it is that he has invited to keep him company during my absence. 'When the cat's away, the mice do play,' I suppose."

A man was sitting with his back to the window, so that it was impossible for Mrs. Power to recognize him from where she stood, but whoever it was, she noticed that Robin was carrying on a most animated conversation with his guest. It appeared also of an amusing character, for presently the stranger threw himself back in his chair, and a merry laugh rang through the room.

Madelaine started and the posts of the porch seemed to sway backwards and forwards in front of her, as a film came suddenly before her eyes. She pulled herself together and put up her hand as if to thrust the dizzy feeling from her, then with knees trembling and palpitating heart, she walked into the little passage and threw open the parlour door.

The visitor rose with an embarrassed air, and stood grasping the back of a chair as he turned to meet her.

"It's only a tramp I've made friends with, mother," said Robin. "He has come to say good-bye, and I knew you wouldn't mind me asking him to stay to tea as you were out."

"Madelaine!--my own Madelaine!" ejaculated the stranger with a dazed look upon his pale face. "Is it possible--or am I dreaming?"

"Gerald!--my husband!" was the answering cry, as Madelaine threw herself into his outstretched arms. "Oh, thank God that I have got you again!"

In mute astonishment Robin watched the reunited pair, till the first ecstasy of the unexpected meeting was past, and they could turn to him with explanations of the strange scene.

"Come and welcome your father, Robin," was Madelaine's joyful exclamation, as she put out her hand to the boy. "This is indeed a wonderful day for us. Our lost one has been given back to us as from the dead. How, I do not know. It is enough to feel that he is here."

She raised her eyes, brimming with love and tenderness, to feast her gaze once more upon her husband's countenance, clinging closely to him the while, as if she feared some unseen power would spirit him away.

She was startled to see the spasm of pain which passed over his features at her words, while a deep groan escaped his lips.

"Gerald!" she exclaimed, "what is wrong? You look so ill, and as if something dreadful had happened. What can anything matter so long as we are together again?"

"My darling," said Gerald, with lips that trembled in spite of the effort he made to obtain command over himself, "how can I spoil the joy of this blessed reunion by bringing fresh pain to your dear true heart? And yet I must speak, and tell you all. Madelaine, it had been better for us if we had never met again. Far happier for you would it be if I were really dead, for we must part again, beloved, and that at once. I must still remain to you as one whose name is blotted out of the book of life. To recall me to the world would only mean anguish untold both to you and the boy."

"If you think I am going to let you go, Gerald, now that I have got you again, you are very much mistaken," said Madelaine resolutely. "'Where thou goest I will go,' and no arguments will ever shake my determination. Surely my right place is at my husband's side?"

"You were always braver than I, Madelaine," replied Gerald, "but when you hear all, you may not feel the same towards me as you once did. Let the boy go while I make a clean breast of the past, and then you will be more able to judge of how you will behave in regard to me in the future."

*CHAPTER XVI*

*For Conscience' Sake*

As Robin left the room, Gerald disengaged himself from his wife's embrace, and stood upon the hearthrug, his two hands extended towards her.

"Madelaine," he said, and his voice sounded harsh with pain as he spoke, "I shall not keep you in suspense, but tell you the whole terrible truth at once. Look at your husband's hands, and then turn away if you will. They are not fit to touch a hair of your head. The curse of Cain is upon them, for they are guilty--stained with the life-blood of a fellow-man."

Madelaine gave a little gasp of horror.

"It simply can't be true!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Gerald, I can't believe it. You never could have done such a thing. You, so good and gentle! It must all be some ghastly mistake!"

"It is true, Madelaine, sadly and woefully true," replied Gerald. "I saw him lying there with his poor eyes all glazed and dim. He was an old man too, and had done me no harm. I had no grudge against him, indeed I was his guest at the time when I gave the fatal blow. The awful fact remains that in a fit of drunken rage,--for which God forgive me,--I killed old Wattie, the miner, in his little shanty on the banks of a Californian stream."

Madelaine covered her face with her hands as if to shut out some dreadful sight, and sank down on her knees beside the table.

"O God, forgive him, for he knew not what he did," she moaned. "Oh, lay not this sin to his charge."

"You are right in saying that I did not know how the dastardly deed was done," replied her husband. "It was not till I came to my senses again that I was told what the consequences of my act had been. You remember, Madelaine, that drink had never been my temptation, and it was rarely that I joined with others even in a friendly glass. I think the liquor I took in old Wattie's hut must have been singularly fiery, for I have never been overcome in the same way, either before or since. Indeed from that day to this, no drop of strong drink has passed my lips. I don't say this to excuse myself, for I am fully aware that there is no sort of palliation for my sin. I would only have you know, Madelaine, that it was unwittingly done, and gladly would I have given my life to see vitality come back to those powerless limbs again. I helped to carry him into the little room behind, and laid him on his bed. He looked so white and still, as we left him there alone."

"Oh, my husband, why did you not tell me this before," asked Madelaine. "Surely you might have trusted me to understand? Why did you leave me without a word, making me think that you were dead?"

"Because I was a coward," answered Gerald. "I dared not face the consequences of my rash act. I could not have met you without telling you all, and I thought it was the better way both for you and me if I simply disappeared from your sight, making no explanation or excuse. It seemed to me that it would be easier for you to hear the news of my death, than to carry the burden of my crime. I pictured your grief, and thought of the innocent babe who might be branded all his days as the son of a common felon. I tried to end my life that same dark night in the river that flowed so swiftly only a few paces from the door. God in His mercy had other plans for me, unprepared as I was then for coming into His presence, and frustrated the deed which would only have added to the weight of guilt which I already bore. I was cast up on the bank some way down the stream, only to submerge myself in the scarcely less terrible depths of a friendless world, for I had not strength of mind to repeat the attempt to take away my life."

Madelaine's face was still buried in her hands as she knelt on silently, but Gerald could see that her frame was shaken by an agony of weeping, while she listened to the sad and shameful tale. It was only with a mighty effort that he was able to continue.

"There was another reason why I did not tell you all this before. I feared to lose your love, Madelaine, if you ever came to a knowledge of the truth. I felt that I could bear anything rather than your scorn and shrinking, and I knew only too well how richly I deserved such treatment at your hands. A friend who was witness when old Wattie fell, promised to write and tell you how I met my end. He was to say nothing of what had gone before, only to give you to understand that I had been drowned in some far-off river in the west."

"Yes," sobbed Madelaine, "that is what I heard. How could anyone be so cruel as to send such false tidings to me, when you were still alive?"

"He only told you what he believed to be true," answered Gerald. "He saw me swept away by the rushing current, and in a few moments I was out of his sight, lost in the grey gloom of the early dawn. He never imagined that I escaped, and I took good care not to tell him, desiring that all trace of me should be lost. I feared that he might give information against me if I turned up again, knowing as he well did that death in some form was only my due. I am glad however that he fulfilled his promise, so that at least you were not kept in suspense as to what had become of me."

"Oh, Gerald, why did you not send for me to join you, when you knew that you would have after all to face life with this dreadful weight upon you?" said Madelaine with a pained look in her honest eyes, as she rose at last from her knees and stood beside her husband. "Why did you not at least give me the option of bearing it with you?"

"I could not ask you to share such a dark future, dear one," replied Gerald. "My life for the last ten years has been a hideous nightmare, a constant dread of discovery and of the punishment which would inevitably follow. You were far better without me in your innocent ignorance of what had come to pass. Now, Madelaine, there is my confession. I have kept nothing back. The best thing you can do is to let me pass out of your life again, so that you and Robin may continue your quiet way in peace and honour. Even though it tear my heart out to leave you, it is the least atonement I can make for what I have done."

Madelaine stood for a moment looking up into her husband's face, then putting both her hands into his, she said softly--

"'For better, for worse,' Gerald. I am your wife, and nothing shall ever part us again. Robin and I will go with you to begin over again in some quiet corner, where we may yet be happy together through the blessing of God."

"The blessing of God?" questioned Gerald with a sharp note of anguish in his tone, as he put his arms round his wife, and fondly kissed her cheek. "Before I can look for that, I have yet to speak to you of the future, and I must put your love to a still harder test. You are indeed a faithful comrade and a brave, true soul, and you must help me to be strong, for sorely do I need courage. What I have now before me was bad enough to contemplate yesterday, but it is well-nigh unbearable since I have found you and my little son again."

"What can be worse than that which you have already told me?" asked Madelaine anxiously. "Be quick and let me hear what it is, so that I may know what I have still to face."

"Sit down beside me," said her husband, "and listen as patiently as you can, for the sequel to my crime is a long story and hard to tell."

It was indeed a pitiful tale that Gerald Barker unfolded in his wife's ears.

Cut off though he had been by his own hand from the old life, his heart yet hungered for news of those he loved, and many a time had he sought to gain tidings of them in the past. Hampered, however, as he was by the continual fear of detection, it was only under a feigned name and by circuitous ways that he could prosecute his search. He told Madelaine how, some months after the tragedy, he had written to the postmaster of the little Canadian town where last their home had been, to find out if she and the child were still in the same place where he had said farewell to them in his departure upon the ill-fated journey. The reply came that so far as the official was aware, they had sailed for England a short time before, leaving no address nor any indication as to their final destination.

Believing that his wife would probably return to her former haunts, he made further enquiries in the secluded Hertfordshire village where her father had so long practised as doctor to the countryside. Once again came the disheartening answer that information concerning her could not be supplied, no one of the name of Barker being resident in the neighbourhood.