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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 43318
   :PG.Title: Tarnished Silver
   :PG.Released: 2013-07-26
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Mary Frances Outram
   :MARCREL.ill: Stanley L. Wood
   :DC.Title: Tarnished Silver
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1914
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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TARNISHED SILVER
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      TARNISHED SILVER

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      By

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      MARY FRANCES OUTRAM

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      Author of
      "The Story of a Log-house,"
      "The Mystery of the Ash Tree," etc

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      ILLUSTRATED BY STANLEY \L. WOOD

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      LONDON
      THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
      Bouverie Street and 65 St. Paul's Churchyard
      1914

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   |  "*The eyes of the Lord are in every place,*
   |  *beholding the evil and the good.*"

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   CONTENTS

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   CHAPTER

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I  `Mr. Field Lays Down the Law`_
II  `Forbidden Fruit`_
III  `Judge Simmons`_
IV  `Timothy's Three Friends`_
V  `A Thief in the Night`_
VI  `That Terrible Eye`_
VII  `The Mysterious Packets`_
VIII  `Robin Hood's Lair`_
IX  `The Tramp`_
X  `A Flash of Lightning`_
XI  `The Treacherous Shore`_
XII  `Death and the Tide`_
XIII  `Near Death's Door`_
XIV  `Pin-pricks and Pellets`_
XV  `Alive from the Dead`_
XVI  `For Conscience' Sake`_
XVII  `Well-founded Fears`_
XVIII  `Judge Simmons Again`_
XIX  `Revelations`_
XX  `Good Hope`_

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.. _`Mr. Field Lays Down the Law`:

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   TARNISHED SILVER

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   CHAPTER I

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   Mr. Field Lays Down the Law

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In the breakfast-room of a large house near
the seacoast Mr. Thomas Algernon Field
sat eating a plain boiled egg.

It was a long time since he had tasted such
a rarity, and he was enjoying it to the full.

Not that eggs were scarce in his establishment,
but it was seldom that they found their
way to his table in so simple a form.  The Earl
of Monfort, the owner of the adjoining estate,
regularly ate a boiled egg every morning of his
life--three hundred and sixty-five in the year,
and one more in leap year, so he made his
boast--but to Mr. Thomas Algernon Field this would
have been sheer folly and waste.

Mr. Field had a French cook--a French cook
whose salary far exceeded that of many a
hard-worked clerk; and of what use was such an
expensive treasure unless to turn out elaborate
and costly menus?  So to the detriment of his
digestion, but with a brave effort to keep up
the honour of his table, the master of the house
wrestled daily with complicated dishes
burdened with high-sounding names, though often
longing secretly in his heart of hearts for plainer
and more wholesome fare.

The room in which he sat was a fine one, with
long windows opening on to a wide terrace
with heavy stone balustrades, over and through
which masses of roses climbed in graceful
luxuriance of spray and bloom.  Beyond lay
yet another terrace, wider and larger than the
first, with beds gay with many-coloured flowers,
set in the greenest of velvet turf.  A belt of trees
bounded the further side of the lower platform,
their topmost branches were bent sideways and
shorn by the prevailing winds, while in the
distance stretched the straight blue line of the
North Sea, now rippling and sparkling in the
morning sunshine.

Mr. Field finished his egg and leant back
pompously in his carved oak chair.

He was a strongly built man, of medium
height and with a tendency to stoutness, which
did not improve his already clumsy figure.  His
neck was short and thick, and more than one
layer of what is popularly known as a double
chin lurked beneath his square and heavy jaws.
Small eyes of a pale tawny brown looked out
from under scarcely defined eyebrows, which
twitched and frowned nervously, betokening a
restless and uneasy mind.  A scrubby moustache
only slightly hid the thin compressed lips, at the
corners of which ran deeply graven lines, as if they
sought by their almost cruel hardness to counteract
the weakness of the brow.  It was a selfish
and secretive face, and just at present it was a
very self-satisfied one as it turned towards the
fair scene beyond the casement.

"Julius," he said, turning to the other occupant
of the room, "it's not every lad of your age who
starts in life with such prospects.  A house like
Farncourt and enough dollars to buy up all the
landowners round about!  My sakes--not many
boys in England can boast of that, I can tell
you!  Don't you forget it, Julius; and don't
let others forget it either."

"I think Farncourt is a horrid old hole, father,
and what use is it saying you can buy up all the
landowners when you can't get the only bit of
ground you really want, however much you try,
even though it only belongs to a poor fisherman
like Timothy Green?"

The speaker was a small boy of about ten years
of age.  He might have been a good-looking
child if it had not been for the discontented
expression upon his face, and the ill-tempered
mouth and chin.  From his speech, if you did
not look at him, he might have been double his age.

Thomas Field's countenance darkened as he
directed his gaze beyond the terrace boundary,
where, in a gap between the trees, a
whitewashed cottage could be seen, standing out
plainly against the background of sea.

As a red rag to a bull, so was this unpretentious
building to the owner of Farncourt.

"It is absurd," he exclaimed, as he had done
many a time before, "to think that a beggarly
old fellow with one foot in the grave should be
able to defy me openly and ruin my view, when I
offer him good money down, tenfold more than
the ramshackle hovel is worth, if he'll only clear
out to a better house and leave me in peace.
When the whole of this fine place is mine,
honestly bought and paid for, why should he be
allowed to stick there in full sight of my windows,
so that I can't look out without for ever seeing
that one blot which spoils it all?"

"He says he'd rather die in his bed there than
own Farncourt," replied the boy.

"Obstinate old duffer," exclaimed his father,
"but I doubt he'll get his desire sooner than he
thinks.  The way the cliff is breaking away there
is a caution, and some fine night he may find his
precious roof come tumbling down upon his head;
which will be a good way out of the difficulty for
me, even if it does not benefit him overmuch!
I'll not rest till I'm master of all the land I can
see from Farncourt Tower, and have the undisputed
right to prevent upstarts from loafing
about the place."

"There are two new people come to live at
Mrs. Sheppard's house," remarked Julius, "a
lady and a boy.  I saw him on the beach
yesterday, and he seemed rather jolly.  I mean to have
him here to play with me sometimes."

"Listen to me, Julius," said his father; "you
get quite enough of your own way as it is, but I
do draw the line somewhere.  Ask me for
anything in reason and you'll get it, but to be allowed
to bring within my doors any chance riff-raff you
may happen to pick up, that I cannot and will
not permit."

"He's not a riff-raff," answered Julius sulkily,
"he's quite a gentleman, even if he has rather
shabby clothes, and he's not come on chance.
John says he's going to live here for some time."

"How often have I told you not to gossip with
your groom," retorted Mr. Field.  "If the earl
chooses to allow his tenants to let lodgings it's no
business of mine, and he may turn his end of the
village into slums for all I care, but the part that
belongs to me, I keep for myself and my own
people.  I've knocked about the world all my
life, and now I've made my pile and settled
down on my private estate, no one is to go
wandering over it without my permission.  I came here
for quiet and solitude, and I mean to see that I
get it, in spite of all the earls in creation.  If you
find that stranger woman or her boy trespassing
within my grounds, let me know about it, and I'll
soon teach them their place."

"I don't see why I shouldn't play with him,"
rejoined Julius, petulantly pushing back his
chair from the table, and kicking his feet about.
"You won't let me talk to John, and I don't like
the gardener's boys; they're horrid rude fellows
and won't do what I want."

"You've got everything you can desire that
money will buy," answered his father sternly.
"Only last month I gave you that thoroughbred
pony which you had set your heart on, and which
cost me a pretty penny, I assure you, though
you're welcome to another if you wish, for all it
matters to me.  You've got the best games and
books that can be bought, enough to stock a shop,
and yet it appears you are not satisfied.  There
are motors in the garage, and boats on the lake,
with servants at hand to do your every bidding,
why should you go hankering after loafers you
know nothing about, and who have the impudence
to hang about my property against my express desire."

"It's no fun playing games by myself,"
grumbled Julius.  "Now that old Finney has
gone, I've not even got him to help me.  I want
a boy the same age as me, that I can lick if he
gets cheeky, and who won't call me names, like
the gardener's sons."

"Call you names, like the gardener's sons,"
repeated Mr. Field incredulously.  "I never
heard of such a thing.  Benson shall have a piece
of my mind about this before the day is out, and
if he can't teach his cubs to behave themselves,
he must look out for another situation, that's all.
If things go on at the Good Hope mine as they
have done in the past, the world will hear about
you, Julius, and at no very distant time either.
Folk must climb down when they speak to you,
and treat you with fitting respect.  You've had
advantages that I never enjoyed, and some fine
day, if I mistake not, you'll find yourself at the
top of the tree; so in the meantime, my lad,
don't price yourself too cheap, but just stand up
with the best of them.  There's a new tutor
coming next term in place of Finney--a younger
man who has carried off every prize he could win
and charges accordingly, so you'd better get as
much as you can out of him when he arrives, and
leave this shabby young rascal and the gardener's
boys to fight it out together upon the beach."

With a satisfied air, as if the last word had now
been said, Mr. Field rose from his chair and
sauntered out to charge Benson with the enormity
of his offence, a congenial task which lost nothing
in the doing.  Meanwhile Julius, left to himself
in the breakfast-room, proceeded to feed Pat, his
Irish terrier, with chicken rissoles, until that
amusement palled, and he whistled to the dog to
follow him out of doors.

Aimlessly the child wandered round to the
back of the house, where a row of splendid
rabbit-hutches with pedigreed inhabitants
claimed his attention for a few brief moments.
There was nothing to do there, for the lad
specially engaged to attend to their wants had
just given them their morning meal, and each
silky creature was already contentedly nibbling
the tender cabbage leaves so plentifully provided
for their repast.  To excite Pat by inviting him
to put his nose through the wire netting was the
only interest in that quarter, and as the dog
sensibly refused to respond, there was nothing
for it but to go further afield.

For about half an hour Julius watched the
cleaning of the great sixty-horse-power car,
amusing himself by executing a series of deafening
hoots upon the motor horn to the distraction
of the chauffeur, who had learnt only too well
that to remonstrate only meant a prolongation
of the din.

From the garage to the stables was the next
move, and the order was given to saddle the new
pony.

"I'm going to take Prince over those hurdles
again," Julius remarked as John led the beautiful
animal out of its stall.  "You'd better come to
the field to set them up for me."

"The vet said as how Prince had been too
hard set at them last time, sir, seeing as he
strained his off foreleg a bit," replied the groom,
"and the master he told me he didn't wish the
pony to jump again for a while, though he was all
right for a quiet ride."

"What's the fun of a pony that can't jump?"
exclaimed the boy impatiently.  "I don't want
to walk about the roads as if I was at a funeral.
I won't ride at all if I can't try the hurdles, so you
may take the stupid beast away."

"There's Red Rover, sir, if you want another
horse.  I'll saddle him in a jiffey, and he's a rare
one at a gallop, even though he's not so light at
the fences as Prince."

Julius eyed the smart little cob that had been
his favourite mount till the new-comer arrived
upon the scene, and felt half inclined to follow the
friendly advice.  But after all, what was the good
of going for a gallop when there was nowhere
special to gallop to, and no one to gallop with
except John, who was apt to be surly if you went
too fast?  So he shook his head.

"I don't want Red Rover," he said.  "They're
a rotten lot, all of them.  I'll get father to give
me a stronger pony next time, that won't strain
its silly old legs by jumping over a footstool."

Turning his back upon the stable yard he
made his way slowly into the lane.

"I wish the new tutor was here," he said to
himself, "even old Finney would be better than
nobody.  I think I'll go to Timothy Green's
cottage and see how far the cliff has broken away.
Father seemed to think it was going pretty fast.
I wonder if some day the house will really topple
over on to the beach."

With some definite purpose at length in his
mind, Julius hurried down the track which led
through the copse to the sea.  The trees thinned
as he neared the cliff, those that were left,
standing out gaunt and weather-beaten by the storms
which broke upon them so fiercely from the east.

A rough fence enclosing a patch of ground
marked the boundary of the small domain which
had so excited the wrath of Mr. Field.  The
cottage lay end on to the sea, its low door facing
the south.  Hardy flowers bloomed within the
little plot, but Julius remarked with surprise that
the wall, on the further side of the garden had
disappeared since he had last walked that way.

Passing the rickety gate that gave entrance
from the lane, he crept cautiously to the edge of
the cliff and peeped down.





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.. _`Forbidden Fruit`:

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   CHAPTER II


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   Forbidden Fruit

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Far below lay the debris of the crag not yet
carried away by the waves which now
crept sleepily along the shore.  Harmless, gentle
ripples they looked that day, softly crooning a
lullaby to the pebbles on the beach; very
different to the angry guise in which they appeared
on winter nights, when the mighty hissing billows
came leaping up the cliff like hungry tongues,
seeking to lick out the very foundations of the
land.  Many a great slice had they already
snatched away.  Acre after acre of fair
cornfield and forest had once stood where now the
ocean rolled, and every year fresh portions of the
fruitful earth disappeared beneath the irresistible
onslaught of the foe.

North and south as far as eye could reach,
Julius could trace the long rampart of cliff facing
the wide expanse of water.  In the distance a
lonely church stood perched upon the edge, a
mere deserted shell, with ruined tower and
roofless nave, of which the greater part had long since
fallen into the sea.  Sole relic it remained of the
prosperous city which once in bygone years had
clustered round its walls.

As Julius withdrew his gaze from the distant
prospect to the nearer one at his feet, he noticed
the effects of the last storm on his humble
neighbour's property.

A large hawthorn hung head downward, its
roots holding on like claws in the crumbling crag,
while bits of broken garden fence still clung in
untidy festoons over yawning gaps along the
upper portion of the cliff.  Fragments of bricks
and boards were scattered upon the shore below,
waiting in disorderly confusion for the waves to
finish their handiwork and bury them out of
sight.  Only a foot or two of solid ground
remained between the sea end of the dwelling and
the top of the landslip.  Already great cracks
were making themselves seen in the cottage walls,
showing the gradual subsidence of the soil
beneath.

"I wonder old Timothy dares to stay in his
house when any moment a lump of earth may
break away," said the boy to himself.  "What a
lot has gone since I was here last!  I remember
there used to be a pigsty here in the spring, but
I suppose that's it lying in pieces on the shore.
I wonder if the pig was in it when it went down."

As he meditated upon this possible tragedy
the door of the house opened and two people
came out.  Julius at once recognized them as the
stranger lady and her little son, whom he had met
before and been cautioned to avoid.  He crouched
down behind a sheltering bush until they should
pass by.

"She's got rather a nice face," he murmured,
"and the boy's not half bad, in spite of all father
says against them."

It was no wonder that the lonely child looked
with longing eyes upon the pair.  Others as well
as he had found comfort in the calm sweetness
which rested as the habitual expression on
Madelaine Power's fair features.  As she turned
at the porch to wave farewell to old Timothy, the
honeysuckle made a fitting frame to her tall,
graceful figure, clad in the simple black gown
which tells the story of widowhood to the world.

Julius watched her as she walked down the
path towards the gate, her eyes full of
mother-love as she met the eager upturned gaze of the
curly-headed child at her side, and a sharp pang
of jealousy shot through his heart, leaving a sore
feeling behind.

"It's a perfect beauty, mother!" the boy was
saying.  "I think it was just awfully good of
Timothy to give it to me."

Julius noticed that the lad was carrying something
beneath his jacket, carefully pressed against
his chest--something that moved, for it needed
both hands and arms to hold it safe.

"We'll have to make a little house for it,
Robin," answered his mother.  "I'm afraid it
will feel rather strange at first, poor creature, in
its unaccustomed quarters."

"I wonder what he's got," soliloquized Julius.
"I expect it's a puppy or a kitten, or some
idiotic thing like that.  What's the use of making
such a fuss about it, when they're as common as
blackberries."

But to Robin the little, warm, furry bundle he
held so closely to his breast meant a treasure
precious beyond words, the possession of which
had suddenly turned his prospects rose-colour.
All the way down the lane his busy tongue
never ceased.  Plan after plan for the accommodation
of his new favourite was poured into his
mother's attentive ear.

Julius listened enviously until the clear ringing
voice had died away in the distance.  When he
could hear it no longer, he rose from his hiding-place
and sauntered slowly and discontentedly home.

It was early next morning when he met Robin
once again.

Yielding to John's persuasions he had
condescended to mount Red Rover, and after a good
gallop on the heath was returning by the road
that led to the sea.  He was about to pass in at
the lodge gates which guarded Farncourt, when
he caught sight of Robin coming towards him on
an ancient grey pony, whose sedate bearing and
somewhat stiff movements proclaimed a long life
of uneventful toil.

"That's a fine old cow you've got," he said
rudely, when the pair reached the entrance of the
park.

Robin flushed.  Pride had filled his heart
when he said good-bye to his mother at the garden
door, and he and the blacksmith's pony had gone
out alone into the great unknown.  No boy was
he, enjoying a rare and unwonted ride--rather
was he a knight in armour on his trusty warhorse,
pacing forth undauntedly to do battle with
tyrants and dragons in the cause of Right.  And
now--to hear his charger called a cow!  It was
galling, to say the least of it, and his spirit rose to
the occasion.

"Insult me not, caitiff!" he exclaimed, "or
thou shalt rue the day.  Stand and deliver!"

With a whoop, more like that of an Indian at
Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show than of an errant
knight of King Arthur's Table, the boy suddenly
applied his whip to the old pony's flanks, making
him lurch heavily forward to the charge.

Surprised by the unexpected attack, it required
all Julius' horsemanship to calm Red Rover, and
stay the plunging of the fiery little cob.  Quieted
at length, he managed to bring him to a standstill
within the gates, and from that safe vantage
ground he turned to face the enemy.

"You'd better not come in here with your
clumsy beast," he called out.  "If you do, you'll
be prosecuted.  Look, it's written up on that
board."

"I desire not to set foot within thy territory,"
replied Robin grandly.  "I go forth to the great
battle where the king awaits me, relying upon my
trusty sword."

Taken aback by this strange form of address,
Julius watched silently as the youthful combatant
laboriously turned his steed and passed with sober
tread along the road.  One more shot came
Parthian-wise as they went their way, revealing
the boy beneath the knight.

"It's all very well to call my pony a cow, but
it can shake hands and open a gate, and I expect
that's more than yours can do."

As Julius rode up the avenue one purpose only
filled his mind.  How could he get to know this
lad, and find out more about the delightful game
which he seemed to be enjoying all by himself.

"If only we could play at being knights
together, what glorious tournaments we could have
in the meadow," he thought.  "He looked so
jolly and brave when he came banging into Red
Rover like that, just as if he was a real warrior.
I wonder how he taught his pony to shake hands.
I wish Prince could learn to do it too.  Why does
father hate to have anybody here?  I don't
think it's fair.  Anyhow, I'm going to try and see
the boy again, whatever any one may say."

The late afternoon sun was shining down on
Sea View Cottage as Julius crept up to a small
hole in the hedge which separated the garden
from the lane.  A pretty picture met his eye as
he peered through.  Not a stone's throw from
him stood the little house, nestling in a bower of
green, its long slope of rich brown thatch cut
into fantastic patterns, across which wandering
creepers seemed to cast protecting arms.  A
profusion of sweet-smelling flowers filled the narrow
border on each side of the path, making a bright
foreground to the scene.

The stranger lady sat sewing in a low chair
beneath a tree, while beside her was the quondam
knight, hard at work with hammer and saw
fashioning something out of old boxes and wire.

"Where's Peter?" suddenly exclaimed Robin,
springing to his feet.

"Who's Peter?" whispered Julius to himself,
as he tried to get a better view of the group.

The words had no sooner fallen from his lips
than a tiny brown rabbit darted out of the hedge
at his feet and hopped rapidly down the road.
Quick as thought, Pat the terrier had the little
creature in his mouth, from which Julius rescued
it a moment later, trembling and terrified, but
apparently none the worse for its unceremonious
capture.

"What a good thing it was that you and your
dog were just passing when Peter slipped out,"
said Robin to him as he walked into the garden
and delivered up the runaway.

It was with certain qualms of conscience that
Julius had lifted the latch of the gate and entered
the forbidden ground, but he strove to stifle
them as best he could.  Even if his father did see
him, surely he would not blame him for doing
such a kind and simple act?  It was very
unlikely, however, that he would know anything
at all about it, for he hardly ever came to that
end of the village, and Sea View Cottage lay quite
off the beaten track.  There would surely be no
harm just finding out if the boy was a nice fellow
after all, for if he wasn't, he would not trouble
his head about him again.

Apparently his investigations proved satisfactory,
for it was only when it got too dark to
see any more that he reluctantly tore himself
away.  Never could he remember to have spent
an afternoon that passed so quickly.  No grand
patent rabbit-hutch, perfect in every detail, had
ever given him half so much joy as this rough
makeshift at which the two boys laboured eagerly
as long as it was light.

When at length the crowning moment arrived,
and Peter was formally introduced to his new
home, Julius was almost as excited over it as
was Robin himself.  Long did he linger, so
fascinating was it to watch the little inmate as it
explored the corners of the old packing-case, and
stood up on its hind legs to sniff the wire netting
which had been so carefully fastened on, with a
vast amount of vigorous hammering and
super-abundance of nails.  He almost danced with
delight when Peter went through the narrow
doorway, sawn with infinite labour in the hard
wood, which led to the sleeping apartment within.
How comfortable he would find it, filled as it was
with nice dry bracken, which the two lads had
gathered from the adjoining wood.

"I'll come back to-morrow early," he remarked
to Robin, when at length he could bring himself
to say good-bye.  "I think everything's right,
but there might be a nail or two we could stick
in somewhere to make it all quite secure, and
we'll be able to see better in the morning."

"I think Robin's the jolliest boy I ever knew,"
he said to himself as he went home.  "I'll often
go to see him, if only I can manage without father
finding out.  We'll have some fine times together,
and no one will be any the wiser."

"I couldn't have believed he was such a
decent sort of chap," was Robin's comment after
Julius had taken his departure.  "He seemed
such an utter cad when he spoke to me at the gates."

"Poor little fellow," replied Mrs. Power,
"you see he's got no mother to help him to
behave, and I expect he's not used to meeting
people, as Mr. Field leads such an isolated life.
We must try and be kind to him if we can."





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.. _`Judge Simmons`:

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   CHAPTER III


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   Judge Simmons

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"A gentleman to see you, sir," said the
footman as he approached Mr. Field
with a salver on which lay a solitary visiting card.

"Eh, what?  A visitor, did you say?" said
his master.  "What's his name, Jenkins?"

"It's written there, sir," replied the footman.
"He said you wouldn't know him, but he would
be glad if you could see him for a few moments
on business."

"Judge Simmons," read out Mr. Field, as he
took up the card.  "Sounds as if he came from
America."

"So he does, sir, if you can go by his accent,"
answered Jenkins.

"Don't like Yankees, though I've spent so
much of my life among them," murmured Mr. Field
under his breath.  "What can this fellow
want, coming bothering me here?" he added in a
slightly louder tone.

"I don't know, sir, I didn't happen to
enquire," replied the footman.

"Don't be impertinent, Jenkins," said Mr. Field
looking up sharply.  He lived in continual
dread that his servants were making fun of him
behind his back, and Jenkins' tone was
suspiciously polite.  "Of course it's not your place
to question my visitors, and you'd pretty soon
find yourself in hot water if you did."

"Judge Simmons is a better specimen of a
gentleman than old Field," was the footman's
conclusion as he piloted the visitor into the
library, "and I fancy he knows a thing or two
by the look of him.  I shouldn't like to be faced
by him if there was anything shady I wanted to
hide.  His eyes seem to go right through you, as
if he could count your very bones."

Certainly the tall spare figure that crossed the
room to shake hands with Mr. Field was a good
example of the typical well-bred American.
Clean-shaven, with a firm jaw, and quick, piercing
eyes, he gave one the impression at once of a
strong man, alert and observant, with a sense of
humour tempering the sternness of the mouth.

"I must apologize," he said, "for intruding
upon you in this manner, but I shall be grateful
if you will allow me to speak to you on a matter
of rather urgent business."

Mr. Field motioned him to a chair, and replied
that he would be pleased to assist him if it was in
his power to do so.

"Well," continued the stranger, "the fact is
this.  I have a young friend over in Mexico,
who is rather too fond of embarking on
commercial enterprises of a decidedly risky and
precarious nature, and as I am in a way his adviser,
I feel a certain amount of responsibility when he
asks my opinion about things.  He has just
written, saying he has the option of purchasing
some land in which rumour says that silver maybe
found, and he wants to know what I think about
it.  It is quite out of your beat, Mr. Field, as I
know your mines are in California, so I felt it
would not be trespassing on your preserves if I
asked you to be kind enough to answer a few
questions in a friendly way as to the risks of
such a speculation, knowing what an authority
you are upon the subject.  I am staying with
Lord Monfort, and, hearing that you resided
so near, I ventured to make myself known to
you, hoping that my nationality would perhaps
appeal to you, seeing you have lived so long in
my country."

Mr. Field's features, which at first had been
decidedly forbidding, relaxed at the mention of
the earl.  Aloof though he held himself from the
ordinary run of mankind, it was his secret ambition
to mix with that society into which, except
for his great wealth, he could never hope to obtain
entrance.  To know that he had been the subject
of conversation at Lanthorne Abbey was as
nectar to his aspiring soul.

"I shall be glad to do what I can for you," he
said urbanely, "if you will kindly give me some
particulars as to locality and the like."

After about half an hour's conference Judge
Simmons rose to go.

"You will stay to lunch, won't you?" urged
Mr. Field.  "It's getting on towards one o'clock,
and I shall be pleased to welcome you, if you will
be content with merely the company of myself
and my little boy."

"I've only once been down your way," remarked
Judge Simmons as they were seated at table,
"and that was some years ago, before you had
made that corner of the world a household word.
Everyone knows the Good Hope silver mine and
its apparently exhaustless resources, but I wish
I could locate it better in my own mind.  I don't
seem able to fit it in with what I remember of
the place.  I went with a nice young fellow named
Barker who was prospecting then in those parts,
and he staked out a claim somewhere thereabouts.
I recollect he called it Wild Goat Gully.  I've
quite lost sight of him since, and have never
been up there again, but I fancy he didn't strike
it rich, or we should have heard of it before now."

"I was told that he went completely to the
dogs, and was at last drowned when crossing one
of the big rivers," replied Mr. Field.  "He
certainly made nothing out of his Gully, so far as I
heard, and the very name he gave it has died out."

"One peculiarity about it struck me much at
the time," remarked the judge.  "There was a
high precipice bounding it on one side, with a
great orange streak right across it as if it had
been daubed on with a brush.  Some geological
freak, I suppose."

"Why, how funny!" exclaimed Julius, who
had been sitting silently listening to the
conversation.  "That's just like the Good Hope cliff.
It looks exactly as if some enormous giant had
thrown his pot of yellow paint at the rock."

"Strange," said the judge, glancing up at
Mr. Field, "I heard there wasn't another formation
like it in the whole country."

"What nonsense!" ejaculated Mr. Field
testily.  "I've explored every part of the district
for miles round, and know every inch of it well,
and I could show you half a dozen valleys where
there were similar rocks, any one of which might
be Wild Goat Gully."

"I don't think there are, father," chimed in
Julius, "for I asked old Joe the trapper, who
has lived there all his life, and he told me just
the same as Judge Simmons.  He said it was
'unique,' and I remember when I asked you what
that was, you said it meant there wasn't another
like it in the world."

"If you contradict me in this way, Julius, you
may just leave the room," said his father in an
angry tone.  "I won't have lies told at my table,
even by my own son.  Do you hear me, Julius?
Be off with you this instant, or I'll give you a
thrashing that you won't soon forget."

"It's quite true, father," stoutly asserted
the boy.  "You know you've often said to me that
no one could equal the Good Hope mine any more
than they could match the yellow splash on its
cliff."

A box on the ears was Mr. Field's only reply,
as he grasped the lad by the arm and hustled
him out of the door.

"I am sorry, sir," he said when he returned
to the table, "but I am ashamed to say my boy
has developed a terrible faculty for telling the
most deliberate untruths, and I have to do my
best to check him.  He seems to take a perfect
delight in inventing stories without a shadow of
foundation, and in sticking to them at all costs."

"I believe the child's version was the right
one," said Judge Simmons to himself as he
motored back to Lanthorne Abbey.  "Why
should Field be so anxious to demonstrate that
orange streaks were such very ordinary things?"

Suddenly he sat up and gave a low exclamation.

"What if he wished to prove to me that Good
Hope mine could not possibly be the same as
Wild Goat Gully?  That's a question which
opens out some interesting answers.  I guess I'll
make some enquiries when I get back to California
again."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Timothy's Three Friends`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV


.. class:: center large bold

   Timothy's Three Friends

.. vspace:: 2

Madelaine Power wandered along the
shore idly watching the waves as they
came tumbling in, their white crests curling in a
succession of long feathery lines, until with a
roar and a hiss they were flung upon the beach,
spreading themselves out like great fans of foam
upon the shingle.

No figure but her own was to be seen on the
narrow pebbly strip, which ran like a yellow
ribbon between the foot of the cliff and the
incoming tide.  No sound was to be heard save
the monotonous music of the breakers, and an
occasional wild cry as a stray sea-gull circled
above her head.

Madelaine gave a little shiver as her eye
followed the desolate track.

"Only eleven years ago this month since
Gerald and I trod this very shore," she said.
"Only eleven years, and yet what a lifetime it
seems!  Truly much of it has been to me a sad
and solitary way.  It has been heavy walking,
and most of it against the wind!"

She stood for a moment gazing at the coast-line,
up which a sea-mist was slowly travelling,
blotting out the distant view of ocean and headland.

"Just as my troubles have blotted out my
sun," she thought to herself, as she morbidly let
her mind dwell on the dark days of the past.

It was not strange that her spirit failed her
at times, for the road had indeed been toilsome
to her young feet.

The only child of a struggling country doctor,
and left an orphan at the age of seventeen, she
had early engaged in a hard fight for existence,
earning a scanty livelihood by teaching in the
neighbouring town.  It was there that the girl
made the acquaintance of the handsome young
surveyor whose friendship made so great a
difference to her lonely lot.  Small wonder was
it, when he asked her to be his wife, that she
should feel as if a new and glorious era had
suddenly dawned.  No matter that her home
was to be henceforth in the unknown West.
The heart's love of her strong and generous
nature had been given wholly to him whom she
would gladly have followed to the ends of the
earth.

With high hope the youthful couple had gone
forth to try their fortune in the New World, and
for some months things went cheerily enough
with them.  Then came speculations and
accompanying failure, and Madelaine learnt only too
well the weak side of the man whom she still
loved, but with the pitiful sustaining tenderness
of a nobler and braver character than his own.

After the birth of their boy, Gerald had for a
time displayed greater energy and perseverance in
seeking to better his position, journeying often
long distances in search of work.  It was during
one of these absences that Madelaine received
the letter which almost broke her heart and
sprinkled her chestnut hair with grey.

It told her how her husband had been suddenly
smitten by the cold hand of death while travelling
in a wild part of the country, his body being laid
to rest in the depths of the trackless forest.
His watch and chain and an unfinished diary
were the only tokens enclosed in the accompanying
package, and the young widow was left to
realize as best she could the desolate and
penniless position in which she and her infant were now
placed.

Neither she nor Gerald had any relatives to
whom she could appeal, and had it not been for
the aid given to her in her distress by an eccentric
and benevolent neighbour she would indeed have
been destitute.  Touched by the forlorn condition
of the hapless pair, this aged recluse invited
them to share his humble dwelling, and when he
died about three months later, Madelaine found
to her surprise, that he had willed the whole of
his little property to herself and her son.  One
solitary stipulation he made, and that a hard
one in the faithful Madelaine's eyes.  Only by
adopting his name could she and the boy claim
the legacy that he left.  It was after much
searching of heart that finally the thought of the
benefit which would accrue to her child
outweighed the repugnance she felt in setting aside
the sacred name of her dead husband, and as
Madelaine Power she set sail with her baby for
England, and settled down in their new home.

Helping out the small income by typewriting
and fine needlework, she had managed hitherto
to make a fairly comfortable living; but at
present the thought of Robin's education weighed
somewhat heavily upon her heart.  To be either
a doctor or a surveyor was the summit of the
boy's ambition, but how to give him the training
he required for such a career was a problem she
had not solved as yet.

As she let her mind wander again to the future,
she chanced to look down upon the beach where
a wave had run up higher than its fellows, almost
to the spot where she stood.  There at her feet
lay a tiny fish, struggling vainly on the sand, a
helpless waif, left high and dry by the retreating sea.

"You poor little thing," she cried, as she
stooped, and, lifting it gently, threw it with a
steady hand into the deep water beyond.  "I
couldn't leave you to die there all by yourself.
How strange to think that in all these miles of
desolate shore you should have been washed up
just at my feet.  I wonder if God knew?  Yes, of
course He did, for we're told plainly that the eyes
of the Lord are in every place.  If He hears the
young ravens when they cry, and notices if a
sparrow falls, He knows surely when the
humblest of His human creatures are in need."

She turned and walked back by the shore, now
brightened by a gleam of sunshine, as the
sea-mist cleared away.  The waves seemed to sing
a new refrain as she passed along, the melody of
which put vigour into her steps and a light into
her eyes;

   |  "How much more .... How much more
   |  Will He clothe you,
   |  O, ye of little faith?"
   |

"I may as well go up and pay Timothy a
visit," she thought, as she reached a rough ladder-like
staircase which gave access to the top of the
cliff from the beach below.  The wall of the aged
fisherman's cottage could be seen almost on a
line with the edge of the crag.

"How terrible it must be to live there," she
exclaimed as she looked up.  "I hardly like
even to go in to visit him for a few minutes, and
to think of trying to sleep in such a place!"

She knocked at the door, and entered the little
kitchen, which was fortunately at that end of the
house which was furthest from the sea.

It was a low room with heavy wooden rafters
and whitewashed walls.  The old man was sitting
by the open fireplace in his high-backed chair,
placidly smoking his pipe, while at his elbow
stood an oak table an which lay a well-worn
Bible in its brown leather binding, and a pair of
horn spectacles.

After a few words of greeting, Mrs. Power's
thoughts turned naturally to the danger threatening
the occupant of the perilous dwelling.

"I wonder you're not afraid, Timothy, of
staying here all by yourself.  Any night the
waves may break away another piece of the cliff,
and the house may go."

Timothy slowly took his pipe out of his mouth
and laid it carefully upon the table; then placing
both his withered hands upon his knees, he leant
forward and nodded his head gently, while he
kept his kindly eyes fixed on the face of his
visitor.

"I be ninety-four year old come next
Lady-day," he commenced in his high quaking voice,
"and I've seen many a good friend pass away.
The old wife she's gone, and the two little ones
that God took with the whooping cough when
they were but babes.  My brothers are all gone,
and my three sisters, and the fine comrades I
started with on life's journey.  We went
together down to the sea in ships, and not one on
'em's outside the harbour now, except my old
worthless self.  They're all gone, all my good
true friends, all gone but three.  And them three,
I think on them by day, and I dream on them by
night, the only three on 'em that's left.  Like as
not you'll smile when I tell you their names.
They be right strange friends even for an old
man like me."

"Tell me who they are?" said his visitor,
for Timothy had ceased speaking and was gazing
absently into the fire.

He hesitated a moment.

"Well," he said at length, "I'll tell you.
One on 'em's Death, and another be the Tide,
but the third be the best One of all."

"What do you mean?" asked Madelaine, for
the old man had paused, as if his thoughts had
wandered back again to long past days.  "How
do you count them your friends?"

"This here little house was my father's before
me," continued Timothy, as if talking to himself,
"and man and boy I've never lived elsewhere,
though when I was a little lad there were two fine
fields between us and the cliff.  I was always a
running to the edge to watch the tide, it fair
bewitched me to see it come creeping up and
then backing away, day in, day out, like some
mighty living thing with a living breathing heart.
And when I got a bit older, that there sea made a
fisher of me.  Summer and winter it gave me my
daily bread; it never failed me yet.  The sea's
been a rare good friend to me from the one end
of life to t'other; a rare good friend it's been.
It'll not go back on me now, it won't.  'Twould
be a mean trick to play on me, it would, if it
took the old place from under my feet, after four
and ninety years of good fellowship!  I'm not
afraid of the Tide."

Mrs. Power knew not what to say.  No arguments
rose to her lips, though she vainly longed
to remonstrate.

"Well, Timothy," she said at last, "I can't
say that I'm as well acquainted with the ways of
the tide as you are, but the other of your friends
that you seem so sure of, I have often heard
mentioned as the great Enemy."

Timothy's face lit up with a triumphant smile
as he raised one hand and pointed upwards.

"And why?--I reckon it's because they don't
understand.  I thought that once myself, but I
see clearer now.  The Tide's a good friend, but
Death's better."

"How did you find that out, Timothy?"
questioned Mrs. Power.

"It was many a long year ago now," was the
reply.  "The old clergyman's sister, Miss Alice,
she was a good one, she was, and she would have
us young chaps up at the big house to learn us
summat when the winter nights did come, and the
sea was too rough for the fishing.  She was
always for book learning, was Miss Alice.

"'Don't go and waste your life, lad,' she would
say, 'thinking it's enough to feed the poor body;
'stead of that, do something for the soul too.'

"It's dead and buried she's been this long
while now, but she comes back to me plain,
she do, my eyes they seem to see her sitting there
yet, same as I saw her last, the week before she
died.  She sent for me, she did, seeing I was one
of her old scholars, to tell me she was going home,
and to bid me take more thought for heaven.
She was always a wonderful kind teacher, was
Miss Alice, and her face fair shone when she spoke
of God and the golden city.

"That evening she was sitting by the fire, and
on the wall just behind her was a big picter.
Well--that picter it transfixed me wholly; it
stuck in my mind, it did, I have it before me
now, as plain as a pikestaff."

"What was it like?" asked Mrs. Power.

"There was an old chap--as it might be me,"
answered Timothy, "and he was sitting in his
big arm-chair--as it might be this 'un, and his
Bible by his side, and his vittles on the table--just
as I have here.  He did look so wonderful
tired, that poor man, and he was resting so
comfortable in the big chair.  His eyes they were
shut, and his head it was leaning back, and he was
sleeping so quiet and peaceable-like.  But you'd
never guess what was in that room along of him.
No, you'd never guess."

"I would rather you told me," said Madelaine,
"I'm not good at guessing."

"Well," continued Timothy, "along side of
the table was a great big skeleton, dressed up in
long flowing clothes, and its face looked right
kind and gentle, it did, and its hands were
stretched up, a-pulling the rope of a great bell
that hung in the belfry over the old man's head.
The sun was just sinking, you could see it out of
the little window in the back of the picter.
Says I to Miss Alice, 'The old chap'll be finely
scared when he wakes up and sees the ghost.'  'No,'
said she, 'there's writing here below, and
it means something quite different.  The name of
that picture is "Death as Friend."  It means
that he's come to call the poor man away from
all his want and all his weariness, and to tell him
it's time to go up to the beautiful city and the
light of God.'  He's no enemy--he's a right good
friend for an old man to have."

"So you're expecting him to come for you,
Timothy," said Madelaine gently.

"Yes, I'm just waiting here for my friend," was
the quiet answer.  "He won't be long now, and
the other friend down below there, I know he'll
wait till I'm in the mansions of gold before he
takes down the walls of my little house here.
I'm waiting quite patient, and I'm not afraid.
We're waiting, all of us, my friends and me, for
we're all in the Hand of Him that's mightier
than the mightiest, Him that's the best Friend of
all.  I be safe to trust in Him, for He knows the
end from the beginning, and the times and the
seasons are His alone."

The old man took off his fisherman's cap as he
spoke, and closed his eyes as if in prayer.
Mrs. Power did not like to disturb him, but silently
left the hut.

The sunny landscape look blurred to her
as she walked home along the edge of the cliff.

"I've had a lesson," she said to herself.  "The
Lord knoweth them that are His.  Surely we
may well commit ourselves to the care of our
Best Friend."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A Thief in the Night`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center large bold

   A Thief in the Night

.. vspace:: 2

It was a warm August evening, and the windows
of Sea View Cottage were opened wide
to let in the faint breeze which had risen with the
turning of the tide.  The lamp was lit in the
little sitting-room, and in its soft glow sat
Mrs. Power, her head bending low over her work.

Suddenly she looked up.

"What was that curious noise?" she exclaimed.
"It sounded as if someone was in the
garden.  I really wish old Mrs. Sheppard would
keep a dog.  It is not safe to be so far off the
high road, and she so deaf."

She rose and went to the window, peering
vainly out into the darkness, where nothing was
to be seen save the dim outlines of the trees lazily
waving their branches against the starlit sky.

"I wonder if it was Robin walking in his
sleep again," she said.  "I'll take the light and
see if he's all right."

She turned to go, but before lifting the lamp
she glanced at the watch which lay beside it on
the table.

"Half-past ten!" she remarked, as she took
the key and wound it up.  "Late hours for this
Sleepy Hollow, but I think I'll go on a little
longer with my embroidery before I go to bed."

Replacing the watch, she disappeared with the
light into the passage.  As the door closed, a
man's face glanced stealthily in at the window,
and the next moment a rough figure in a long
overcoat had crept unobserved into the room.

"Ladies shouldn't leave their jewellery so
tempting-like in a poor man's way," he muttered.
"What else can they expect but to find their
trinkets gone when they come back?  Serves
'em right for dangling them in front of a fellow's
nose!"

He made his way cautiously to the table and
groped about with his hands until he found
what he wanted.  "Gold!" he ejaculated, "I'm
pretty sure of it by the feel, and a gent's too, by
the size of it; not to speak of a good thick
chain that'll bring in a nice little sum by itself."

He slipped his spoils into the pocket of his
coat, and stood pondering for a moment.

"Is there nothing else that I could nab?"
he said to himself.  "Silver spoons aren't usually
found in country lodgings, so it's no use looking
in the sideboard, but I think I caught sight of a
missionary-box on the mantelpiece which might
be worth enquiring into, seeing there's not much
else to bag.

"Ha!  Pretty heavy!" he added, as he
weighed the box is his hand.  "With no
disrespect to the missionary, I'll relieve him from
having to dispose of too much wealth.  Pennies,
no doubt, mostly, but they tell no tales, and come
in handy for a drink."

As he was in the act of putting the box into
his other pocket, he saw to his dismay that the
light was again approaching the door.

"I've particular reasons for not showing my
attractive face in this neighbourhood, lady,"
he continued under his breath, "so with your
leave I'll decline the pleasure of making your
acquaintance this evening, and go back by the
way I came."

He made his way hastily to the window, and
was in the act of getting out, when the light of
the lamp flashed out over the garden from the
porch.

Madelaine had found her little son fast asleep
in the tiny room which opened off her own, and
her motherly anxiety being allayed, her thoughts
turned again to outside dangers.

"I'll close the parlour window," she said, "as
it's getting late, just in case there might be some
one loitering about."

By experience she had discovered that to do
this efficiently it was necessary to push the sash
up from outside, so placing the lamp on the
porch-seat, she walked a few steps along the path which
led by the front of the cottage, and proceeded to
shut up the casement with a bang.  The stranger
had just time to withdraw his hands from the sill,
and to start back into the darkness of the room.

"Look out there!" he growled low to himself,
"I don't want to leave the tip of one of my
fingers in exchange for what I've taken.  Now,"
he added, "the question is--how shall I get
out of this hole?  My knowledge of old Mother
Sheppard's diggings in the past ought to serve
me in good stead to-night.  If I can only manage
to slip into the dark passage that leads to the
kitchen, I know there's a capital hidey-hole under
the stairs, where I've lain in ambush as a boy,
and into which I expect I could squeeze again at a
pinch."

Sure enough, before Madelaine had re-entered
the house and reached the sitting-room with her
lamp, the intruder had gained the coveted refuge,
and was crouching down unseen within the
recess.  Here he remained, cramped and silent,
until the last sounds had died away in the house,
and the uneasy watcher had laid herself down
to rest.  Not till then did he creep forth from
his shelter and make his way to the kitchen,
into which he walked as one intimate with the
place.

"Mother Sheppard generally had a shakedown
in the room at the side," he soliloquized.
"If she's as deaf as she used to be, there's not
much fear of disturbing her, even if I dance a
hornpipe on the table.  Anyway, there's no
doubt she's a good sleeper, judging by the noise
she makes over it.  Sounds more like a concert
of tin whistles and drums, than one old woman
snoring!"

The burglar peeped in at the half-open door,
and by the light which came from the still
flickering fire in the kitchen, he made out the humble
couch whereon Mrs. Sheppard lay.

"Wonder if she keeps her hoard under her
pillow," he continued.  "They say these
skinflints usually do.  Anyhow it's worth a search,
and I'll hope for a bit of good fortune this time."

He went up to the bed and gently inserted his
hand beneath the bolster, on which reposed the
aged head with its close-fitting nightcap and neat
grey hair.

"Nothing there!" he said.  "Perhaps it's
under the mattress.  I'll have one more try,
and then I'll go."

If a flash-light had been turned at that moment
suddenly upon the scene, it would have disclosed
the evil look of triumph which just then rested
on the man's face.  With a sardonic grin he
withdrew his arm, clutching in his hand a leather bag,
tied tightly up with knotted string.  Returning
to the kitchen, he quietly let himself out by the
back door, after having feasted royally upon
goodly slices of the bread and ham which he
found so conveniently ready to his use in the
old dame's cupboard.

"Now, where are those two nice fat ducks I
collared so cleverly before I went round to the
front?" he said.  "One of them nearly gave
me away when I cotched it round the neck.  I
thought some one would be sure to hear its
parting quack.  I'll be off with them and the rest of
the swag to Westmarket, before the sun is up,
and amuse myself there for a few days, before
coming back here to pay my respects to the old
man.  No one saw me to-night, and if I turn
up like a good innocent prodigal son in a week's
time, not a soul will connect me with this neat
little job."

It would indeed be difficult to decide which of
the three inhabitants of the cottage was most
distressed when the morning revealed to them
their loss.

Poor old Mrs. Sheppard sat rocking herself
to and fro in her chair by the kitchen fire, her
hands over her face, and the tears streaming
down her shrivelled cheeks.  "It's all my
little savin's as have gone," she moaned, "every
mortal halfpenny as I've worked so hard to put
by.  There's naught to keep me out of the
workhouse now--not even enough to bury me, if so
be as I die of a broken heart to-night."

"I don't believe I should mourn the theft
of all the money I have in the house as I do that
of the watch," said Madelaine, as for the
twentieth time she hunted in every likely and unlikely
place in hopes that she might absently have laid
it down somewhere the night before.  "That
which my dear husband always wore, and which
was sent to me after he was dead!  It may be
silly of me, but the face of that watch seemed to
me as the face of a friend.  It comforted me when
I looked at it, and made me feel nearer my lost
one than anything else."

As for Robin, he was inconsolable.  To think
that his beloved Lily and Snowball should have
been carried off!  His two special pets who
were so tame they would follow him all round
the garden and eat out of his hand!  It was too
dreadful to think that their pretty sleek necks
had been wrung, and that they would be plucked
and eaten like any common barndoor fowl.
Such a possibility had never before entered his
head.  To him they were only the beautiful
creatures which the good God had created for
his special joy.  It is to be feared that the
disappearance of the missionary-box sank into
comparative insignificance beside this larger
grief.

It was vain to recount their woes to the stolid
village policeman who came pompously to
enquire and make elaborate notes of all.

"He's been a clever fellow, that!" was the
verdict.  "But whoever he is, he's got clear
away, and left no clue either.  It's a mystery,
m'am, and a mystery it will remain for ever."

"It's a pity I've just come a few days too
late," said Benjamin Green, old Timothy's son,
as he sat taking a glass at the "Bull Inn," the
Saturday after the burglary.  "Hopeless stick-in-the-muds
you are in this out-of-the-way place.
If you want to be wakened up it's to America
you should go, where I've been all these years.
Away there, they'd have hunted the scapegrace
out in no time, aye, and strung him up on the
nearest tree too, for daring to rob widows and
children in that heartless manner.  If only I'd
been here in time, I bet you I'd have found him
for you!  It's just my luck only to have arrived
to-day."

"Have you been up to see your old father yet,
Green?" asked one of the men.

"No," answered Ben.  "I thought I'd
fortify myself here before setting out for the
affecting interview.  It's not every day that a
long-lost son returns home, and I always feel
the better for a dram."

"What be you a-going to do with him, now
you've come back?" continued his questioner.
"Be you going to leave him to tumble over the
crag along with the house, or be you going to
make him move, and take Squire Field's offer
before it be too late?"

"What offer is that?" asked Ben.  "I
haven't heard of it before."

"Mean to say you've been half an hour in the
place, and nobody's told you how the squire
says he'll give old Timothy one hundred pounds
for the bit of ground he owns on the top of the
cliff?  Which sum he'll pay in solid gold the
day the old man quits the house.  They say he's
wild to pull down the whole place seeing as how
it spoils the view from his grand windows."

Ben whistled.

"I've not been up to see my father yet, but I
warrant you, he'll not stay much longer in yonder
cottage if that's the way the wind blows.  One
hundred pounds in solid gold!  What can the
old chap be dreaming of?  Why on earth didn't
he move the same hour as the offer came?"

"Says he'll never budge till he's carried out
feet foremost," replied another of the company.

"There's no use argufying with him.  He's
wonderful firm."

"It's not argument I'll use," answered Ben.
"It's common sense first, and then force, if need
be.  You tell me the house may fall on to the
beach any day now, and if that happens Mr. Field
may cancel his bid for the land.  Of course
one might draw him again by threatening to
build another house a little further back, but
that's a risk.  If the offer is in writing it would
be safer to hold him to it now, so long as the walls
are there.  Catch me losing a hundred pounds
for the sake of an old man's fads.  I'll go up
to-night, and we'll soon see who's got the strongest
will!"

It was a strangely assorted pair that sat
opposite each other in the little cottage on the
cliff that evening.

Ben's countenance was dark with passion, and
his eyes were fixed with a vicious scowl upon his
father's frail shrinking form.

"You say you'll not move," he shouted.
"You dare tell me that, and a hundred pounds at
stake."

"I dare," was the answer, and the quavering
voice seemed to take on a new strength as he
said the words.  "Never will I sleep under any
roof but this.  Here was I born, and here will I
die, and no man has a right to say me nay.  Many
a time have I prayed for thee, Ben, and longed
to see thee again, my only child, but for such a
home-coming as this did I never reckon.  It had
been better that you had never returned at all.
Go now, and leave your old father to die in peace,
alone with God."

For a moment, even Ben's rough spirit was
checked as he heard the quiet decision come from
the pale thin lips.

The old man looked up with calm and reproachful
eyes into his son's face.  "I'm in the
Hand of the Almighty," he added.  "I'm not
afraid."

As he spoke, a sudden sound like the report
of a gun made the two men look round, and Ben
involuntarily took a few steps in the direction of
the door.

"Why, it's a great crack just come in the
ceiling beyond the passage," he exclaimed.  "The
next thing will be that the wall itself will be
down.  If you don't think it worth while saving
your own neck, I certainly shan't risk mine a
minute longer.  But you needn't flatter yourself
that the last word has been said.  If the house
is still standing to-morrow morning I'll be up by
sunrise to carry you out bodily, with or without
leave, it matters not to me, and I'll see to it that
the money's paid--cash down--before that same
sun has set."

With an oath, Ben hastily quitted the house
and went back to console himself in the hospitable
parlour of "The Bull," where he aired his
grievances before an admiring and sympathizing
group, only too glad to drink at his expense to
the success of his desires.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`That Terrible Eye`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI


.. class:: center large bold

   That Terrible Eye

.. vspace:: 2

The sun rose on Sunday morning in a cloudless
sky, and as the day wore on, continued
to pour down his golden beams upon the earth.

The bells of the little church rang out their
invitation to the villagers to come and worship
in the house of prayer, and from far and near
quiet groups of country folk wended their way
through leafy lanes and ripening cornfields to
hold their tryst with God.  Robin and his
mother were there betimes, and old Mrs. Sheppard
took her seat as usual in the foremost pew,
her shawl pinned across her stooping shoulders
and her old-fashioned bonnet tied with large
black ribbon bows under her chin.

Service ended, the little knots of worshippers
scattered once more in pleasant anticipation of
the Sunday dinner awaiting them at their
journey's end, and the hot afternoon wore on to its
close, its silence broken only by the low murmur
of the tide upon the beach.

The sun was now nearing the end of his giant's
race across the sky, but old Timothy still sat
peaceful and unmolested in his cottage upon the
cliff, untroubled by the angry threats hurled at
him by his son the night before.

The truth was that Ben was in no state that
Sabbath morning either to carry out his designs
against his father or to think again of the
tempting bait held out by Mr. Field.  His time in the
"Bull Inn" the preceding evening had been
only too zealously employed, and all that long
summer day he lay a useless and helpless log in
an upstairs chamber of the little hostelry,
sleeping off the effects of his night's excesses.

Another inhabitant there was of that seaside
village to whom this day had been a blank.  For
Julius, the lonely child of Farncourt, Sunday
brought no pleasant memories.  The Sabbath
bells meant nothing to him, for Mr. Field had
long since given up church-going, and his little
son connected the day only with the dreary fact
that even the gardeners and grooms would be
away during all the long and cheerless hours.

On this particular afternoon he felt more than
usually dull.  The glimpse he had got of Robin
and his happy home interests made him long to
share again in the latter's pursuits.  Neither his
rabbits nor his dog seemed altogether satisfying
after having once tasted the joy of a congenial
friend.

"I'll go down to the Cottage," he said to
himself, "and see how Peter is getting on in his new
hutch.  I know father's gone off in the motor to
call at the earl's, and he can't be back for an hour
at least, so I'm pretty safe not to be caught."

There was no one in the garden as he walked
up the little path, but just as he reached the
door of the house Robin rushed out with a
paint-box in his hand.

"Hullo, Julius, is that you?" he said, coming
suddenly to a stand.

"Hullo, Robin," was the reply.  "How's Peter?"

Without more ado the two boys made their
way to the rabbit's dwelling, and stood for a
few moments wrapt in contemplation of their
joint handiwork.

"I mustn't keep mother waiting any longer,"
said Robin at last.  "I'm going to paint a text
while she reads to me.  We're sitting in the
summer-house, as it's so hot in the sun."

"What do you mean by painting a text?"
asked Julius.  "I thought texts were in the Bible."

"You *are* funny, Julius," replied Robin.  "Of
course they're in the Bible, but these are printed
on cards in nice big letters with borders and
flowers.  I'm allowed to paint them on Sunday,
and they're really jolly to do."

It was not long before Julius was introduced
to the series of large outline texts which Robin
displayed with pride and the eager energy which
characterized his every action.

"If you like," he said, "perhaps mother will
let you paint one with her colours.  She's lent
me her paint-box as it's so much better than
mine."

"I've got a far finer one than that," remarked
Julius, "with ever so many more paints in it."

Robin looked up in surprise at the unmannerly
comment, but his mother signed to him to pass
it by, and spread out the texts for the boys to
choose.

"I find there are two exactly alike," she said,
"suppose you each take one, and we'll see who
gets on the better."

Robin read out the words as she held them up
for him to see.

"The eyes of the LORD are in every place,
beholding the evil and the good."

"That's my favourite verse," he added.
"Let's paint that."

"I don't think that's at all a nice one," said
Julius.  "I don't want God's eyes to be always
looking down at me, seeing everything I do."

"It just depends on how you feel about God,"
said Mrs. Power, "whether you look upon Him
as your enemy or as your friend.  You remind
me of two little stories I once heard.  I'll tell
them to you and then you'll understand what I
mean.

"There was once a prisoner who had been
sentenced to solitary confinement in a gaol.
He was condemned to live for months in a cell
with no window except a tiny grated one so high
up in the wall that he could not see out of it.
It was bad enough to be obliged to endure this,
but there was something else which made it much
worse.  In the door of the cell a little round
hole had been made, and behind it a jailor was
always stationed so that he could look in through
the hole and watch the prisoner."

"How horrid!" exclaimed Robin.  "I
wonder how he could bear it."

"The thought of that eye always upon him
and taking note of everything that he did, nearly
drove the poor captive mad," continued his
mother.  "Sometimes he would dash up
suddenly to the little aperture and thrust his face
close to it, if by this means he could perhaps
startle the jailor and make him withdraw if only
for a moment from the unceasing watch.  'That
terrible eye,' he would call it, when he was at
length released, and could recount his experiences
to his friends."

"I'm sure God's eye is terrible," said Julius.
"It makes me frightened when I think of it."

"Listen to the second story then," answered
Mrs. Power, "and you'll see the other side.

"My mother used to tell me that when she
was quite a little girl she was dreadfully afraid
of two things--a brindled cow that had been
known to run at a child, and the butcher's large
black dog.  My grandfather's cottage was at the
side of the road, and there was a straight piece
that led from its door to a small shop just at the
entrance of the village.  You could see the entire
length from the corner of the garden, and it
would not take you more than five minutes to
run the whole way between the two houses.
One day my mother was sent to fetch some
groceries which had been ordered at the store,
and as the sister who usually went with her was
ill, she had to go alone.  Now this was very
alarming to her, as the brindled cow's field lay beside
the road, and she had never been quite so far by
herself before.  'Don't be silly, Lizzie,' said her
father, who was smoking in the porch.  'You're
getting too big a girl to be frightened at nothing.
I'll watch as you go along and see that no harm
comes to you.'  So off she started with her
pennies in her hand, and a very anxious little heart
beating beneath her white pinafore.  To her
dismay, just when she had got about half-way,
the head of the brindled cow appeared above
the hedge, and a moment later the creature had
forced its way through and was standing in the
lane.  The child turned, and would have fled
homewards, but there, trotting leisurely towards
her in the middle of the path, whom should she
see but none other than her second enemy, the
butcher's dog."

"What did she do?" asked Robin breathlessly.
"Did she climb up a tree and get safe?"

"There was no tree to climb," replied
Mrs. Power.  "The only thing she could do was to
crouch down, crying and trembling on the ground,
and try to hide herself under the brambles by the
road-side.  Her one thought was, 'I'm so glad
father's looking, for he'll be sure to come and
help.'  Sure enough before either the brindled
cow or the dog had reached the spot where she
lay, her father's hearty voice was calling to her
not to fear, and the next moment she was safe in
his strong arms, clinging to him with all her
tiny might."

"What a good thing he kept his promise and
didn't forget to watch!" exclaimed Julius.
"Supposing he'd been looking the other way
when the cow got out!"

"There's my lesson," said Mrs. Power,
smiling.  "To know that her father's eye was
following her all the time was the greatest comfort
she had.  It is just the same with us in regard
to God.  If we look on Him as our kind, loving
Father and Friend, ready to help and to save,
it will only give us joy to think of His watchful
eye upon us, noticing everything that happens
to us.  It will make us more careful than ever
not to displease Him, but all the same it will
cause us to feel very safe and happy.  It is a
perfectly different case to that of the poor prisoner
living in constant dread of the terrible eye of his jailor."

"I think I'll paint the verse after all,"
remarked Julius after a pause, in which the boys
had been silently considering the matter.

"I'd like to feel God was my Friend," he said
to himself as he walked home.  "But all the
same there's a heap of things I wouldn't like Him
to see."

Mr. Field drove up in the motor as Julius
arrived at the door.  A glance at his face showed
the boy that his father had not returned in the
best of tempers.  His eyebrows were drawn
together in a nervous frown, and his voice,
as he gave some orders to the chauffeur, was
harsh and imperious.

"Did you see the earl?" asked Julius.

"No, I didn't," was the abrupt reply.  "Don't
come bothering me with questions, Julius.  I
haven't time to listen to your chatter just now."

The truth was that Mr. Field's visit to
Lanthorne Abbey had not turned out so successful
as he had expected it to be.  The interview with
Judge Simmons had given him the opportunity
to call which he had so long and vainly sought,
and it was under pretext of seeing him once
more that he had set off that day.

"I'll be certain to find them all in on Sunday
afternoon," he meditated, as he made his plans,
"and as I know the judge is leaving to-morrow
early, it will only look neighbourly if I run over
to give him a few more tips about that mine
before he goes."

It was therefore a great disappointment to him
to find that the earl was not at home, it being his
invariable custom to walk over to tea with his
mother every week, at the Dower House about
two miles away, where she had resided ever
since his father's death.  The countess too was
absent, so he was told, when he enquired for her.

Only Judge Simmons was in, and his manner
towards his visitor was chilling, to say the least
of it.  Mr. Field could not get rid of the
impression that the American was trying to read him
like some enigmatical book, of which the
title-page had given him a distaste.  It was with
feelings of relief that he once more found himself
leaning back in his car, and speeding swiftly
down the long avenue.

"Queer fellow, that judge," he mused.  "I
was rather an idiot to run my head against him
unnecessarily.  I'd sooner have his room than his
company any day."

It was not till Julius came to say good-night
that his father deigned to take notice of him
again.

"Well, what have you been doing with yourself,
my boy?" he said.  "I've hardly set eyes on
you since morning.  Been up to any mischief, eh?"

"I wish I had," answered Julius, "but I've
no such luck.  It's awfully dull, father, playing
all alone."

"Nonsense!" said Mr. Field.  "You've got
everything and more than any sensible fellow
can wish.  I hope you've not been dangling
after that strange lad that I warned you against,
Julius?" he added sharply, eyeing the doleful
face before him.

"No," was the answer.  "I haven't seen him again."

"Good boy," said his father.  "Keep yourself
to yourself till you find someone worthy of
you.  That's sound advice.  Go to bed and
sleep upon it."

As Julius lay that night restlessly tossing to
and fro, did the angels gaze in pity upon the
poor ignorant child?

"I know God saw, and God heard," he murmured
to himself.  "I believe He's looking down
at me now.  I want to shut out His eye, but I
can't.  I know He can see even in the dark."

He covered his head with the bedclothes, but
to his excited imagination the eye seemed to
pierce right down into his very heart.

"I'll ask Mrs. Power how I can make God
my Friend, so that I won't mind Him watching
me," he said at length.  "I liked the story of
the little girl."

Dwelling again in thought upon the simple
incident with its happy ending, the weary boy
finally dropped off to sleep.

Robin had knelt that evening as usual at his
mother's knee, but when he had finished his
prayer, a dreamy look stole into his face, as if
he was thinking of some great and solemn thing.
Madelaine waited quietly, wondering what new
revelation had come to her little son.

"Mother," he said earnestly, "I'm so glad
God can see *everything*, not only the good things,
but the bad too.  I'm really *glad* he sees the bad."

"Why is that, Robin?" enquired Madelaine.

"Because then I'm sure that He won't leave
one single sin behind when I ask Him to 'Wash
me, and I shall be whiter than snow,'" replied
the boy.  "I can't recollect them all, but if He
has seen everything He will know when the very
last one is blotted out."

"The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from
all sin, little Robin," said his mother.  "You
can trust Him to complete His gracious work,
for He is able to save to the uttermost them that
come unto God by Him."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Mysterious Packets`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII


.. class:: center large bold

   The Mysterious Packets

.. vspace:: 2

It was not till Tuesday evening that Benjamin
Green was in a fit condition to visit his father
again.  He found the old man in bed, very feeble
and shaky, but determined as ever that no power
on earth should prevail on him to leave the homely
roof which had sheltered him for so long.

"I daren't exactly carry him off as he is,"
thought Ben, after he had tried every form of
persuasion and threat which occurred to him.
"If he died on my hands upon the way I'd get
into a pretty row, I suppose, taking him out of
his house against his will.  They'd say I did it
only for the money.  It's a pity I ever let on
that I wanted it so much."

He leant back in his chair with his hands
thrust into his pockets, and allowed his eyes to
wander round the room.  They lit upon his
father's desk, carefully laid out as the centre
ornament on the top of the high chest of drawers
at the foot of the bed.

"I wonder what he's got in there," the rascally
son said to himself.  "I'll make a point of
having a good hunt through it before long."

"Father," he added aloud, "did Mr. Field put
his offer in writing when he promised you a
hundred pounds for the cottage and the land?"

"Maybe he did, and maybe he didn't," was
the ambiguous reply.  "It matters not what he
said or how he said it.  Here I be and here I
remain, same as I have done all my life long.
It's no use you or the squire trying to make me
change my mind, no manner of use, I tell you.
It's in this little room that I'll be when the call
comes to go up higher, and I'll bide here till it
reaches me, and not trouble nobody whiles I wait."

Ben shrugged his shoulders impatiently as he
rose to go.  "I must see if I can't make
Mr. Field fork out the tin somehow," he muttered.
"If I wait till the house falls down, he may not
see the fun of paying so much for a field that
will sooner or later follow suit.  It won't be
difficult to find out if the proposal's in black and
white, if only I can get to the inside of that desk."

As Ben issued from the door of the cottage
he caught sight of someone contemplating the
scene from the top of the wooden stair which
led to the beach.  He drew back into the shelter
of the porch to watch the stranger.

"Seems to me as if that man's figure is familiar
to me," he said.  "I wonder where I've seen him
before.  He appears mighty interested in the
place, the way he's staring so hard at everything.
I wish I could get a better view of his face."

As he spoke, the man apparently finished his
survey and commenced to descend the steps to
the shore.

A minute later, Jenkins, the Farncourt
footman, walked past the end of the garden with
some towels over his arm.  Ben had struck up
an acquaintance with him during one of his not
infrequent visits to "The Bull," and he now
hailed him from the door.

"Who's that fellow that's just gone down
there?" he asked, pointing his thumb in the
direction of the sea.  "A thick-set man with a
jerky sort of walk, looking for all the world as
if the whole place belonged to him."

Jenkins peeped down over the edge of the cliff.

"Why, that's my governor!" he remarked,
"old Tommy himself.  As it happens, the whole
place does belong to him, barring your little
house here that he can't get."

"Mr. Field!" exclaimed Ben, "Tommy, as
you so respectfully call him.  Sounds very
natural to me somehow."  Suddenly he slapped
his hand upon his thigh.  "Tommy Field!" he
repeated.  "Tommy Field!  Of course I remember
now.  Made his money in America, didn't he?"

"Piles of it!" ejaculated the footman.  "He's
called 'the Silver King,' he's so rich.  But I
must be off, or I'll get a wigging.  He's going to
bathe this evening, and I've got his majesty's
towels."

For some time did Ben continue to lean over
the garden gate after Jenkins had left him.
Judging from his preoccupied face his meditations
appeared to be profound and perplexing.
And so indeed they were.

His thoughts were far away, dwelling upon a
scene very different to the homely English
landscape now before him.

A vivid picture was being conjured up in his
mind.  The roar of a mountain torrent seemed
again to make subdued music in his ears, and he
could almost feel the night breeze which stirred
the pine branches, as they waved in the
moonlight over a little wooden house which stood
upon the bank of the stream.  Within the hut
two men held converse by the glimmer of an oil
lamp suspended from the rough beams of the
ceiling.  He seemed to be looking into the
cunning, bloodshot eyes of one of the speakers, as he
leant forward to emphasize some remark.

Ben laughed grimly as he recalled the scene,
for the features were those of Field, and in
Field's companion he recognized himself.

"It's strange we've not met again since that
time," he soliloquized as he puffed away at his
pipe.  "Never dreamt he'd get on in the world
like this.  Mighty queer he was that night, I
remember, though his tongue was so glib.  Rum
thing altogether, now I come to think of it!"

For some minutes Ben appeared to be lost in
speculations too deep for words.  At last he
gave a low chuckle.

"Wonder now if I could work it?" he
continued.  "Sure enough I've got precious little
to go upon, but if I'm on the right tack and play
my cards well, I may be able to put the screw
on somewhere.  'Conscience makes cowards
of us all,' and if there was anything fishy about
it, he'll know, even if I don't!  At any rate it's
well worth trying."

When Jenkins returned with the towels about
half an hour later, Ben walked back with him a
little way upon the road.

"Seeing your master's so rich I suppose he's
pestered with letters of all sorts?" he said,
"begging, and such-like?"

"Crowds," replied the footman, "mostly
circulars though, enough to light a bonfire every
week."

"Does he ever get threatening letters, do you
happen to know?" enquired Ben, "from socialists
for example, who hold it a sin to own more
than your neighbours do."

"Not that I'm aware of," answered Jenkins,
"but he doesn't do me the honour of inviting
me to share his correspondence, so you see I've
no means of judging."

It was two days after the above conversation
when Jenkins again joined Ben as he was having
his usual glass at the inn.

"It's curious you should have asked me that
question about the socialists," he said, "for I do
believe old Field got a warning from one of them
only this morning.  He turned green enough for
anything when he read the letter."

"What letter?" enquired Ben, carelessly.

"Well," replied the footman, "I suppose
strictly speaking it could hardly be called one.
I happened to be handing him something at the
table, and was standing just at his shoulder
when he opened the envelope, so of course I saw
right enough what was in it.  It was only half
a sheet of ordinary foolscap, and on it was pinned
a piece of blue paper of rather an unusual shade.
There was nothing written on the blue bit, but
on the white was a sentence in large letters a
blind man could have read."

"What was it?" asked Ben.  "Anything
about cross-bones and skulls?  Generally they
begin that way."

"No," answered Jenkins.  "These were the
words, and very harmless they seemed to
me--just this plain question--

"'WAS IT NOT WRITTEN ON PAPER OF THIS SHADE?'"

"Was that all?" exclaimed Ben, "and yet
Field turned green as he read it!"

"Green as a pea-pod," was the reply.  "For
a minute he stared at the words as if he didn't
quite take in their meaning, and then he just
crumpled the paper up quick and tossed it right
into the fire.  A good shot he made too, so I
didn't have the satisfaction of picking it out of
the grate afterwards.  He looked up at me
sharp, as if wondering could I have seen
anything, but I was gazing straight before me at
the big picture on the opposite wall, like the
well-trained footman that I am--so of course I saw
nothing."

"Queer," remarked Ben.  "I wonder why
he was so put out.  It seems to me that the
words were simple enough."

All that day Mr. Field was visibly upset.  The
mysterious missive of the morning had evidently
got upon his nerves, and he could settle down to
nothing.  As the posts came in he scanned them
anxiously, taking good care to open his letters
in the privacy of his own room.  It was, however,
not till the end of the week that something
else happened to disturb him still further.

"May I undo your parcels, dad?" asked Julius
as he sat at breakfast with his father.

It was a special privilege accorded to the
boy, to investigate the numerous advertisement
samples which poured in upon the wealthy owner
of Farncourt.  Now it was a bottle of horse-liniment,
or a dainty tin containing some new style
of food for pheasants--now a neat box of super-fine
cigarettes, or a packet of some special blend
of tea--all professing to be the very best and
cheapest of their kind ever yet put upon the
market.  It was an exciting occupation to cut
the string and discover the contents, and Julius
never failed to find amusement in the process.

"Yes, yes," said his father impatiently, in
answer to the boy's question, as he gathered up
his letters and went off to the study with them.

"Look what a very funny advertisement this
is," said Julius, a few minutes later, as he opened
the study door.  "Neither Jenkins nor I can
understand what it's meant for."

He laid a narrow cardboard box before his
father, in which reposed, on cottonwool, a short
wooden penholder, the end of which had been
evidently burnt off, as the blackened stump
clearly testified.

"There was only a scrap of paper besides, with
one sentence on it," continued Julius, as he read
out the following words--

"'WAS IT NOT WRITTEN WITH A PEN LIKE THIS?'"

Mr. Field started up and seized the slip from
the boy.

"Some wretched joke," he said, but Julius
saw that his father's hand trembled as he spoke.
"I'll open my parcels for myself in the future.
It's scandalous that anyone should be subjected
to vulgar pranks like this.  I'll inform the police
if it goes on, and you can tell Jenkins so, if it's
true what you said about his having seen this
silly hoax."

There was only one very small parcel addressed
to Mr. Field next morning, which, being marked
"private," excited Jenkins' curiosity to the
uttermost.

This time no one but the owner saw the contents,
for the study door was locked when they
were brought into the light of day.

Only an old match-box, with one dead bee
carefully enshrined, rewarded Mr. Field's research,
and he was apparently completely puzzled
as to the meaning of the strange consignment.

"I see they've written 'to be continued in our
next' on the top of the box," he said, "so perhaps
the answer to the riddle will come to-morrow."

His supposition was correct, for sure enough a
postcard which seemed to give the clue arrived
by the very first mail.  In one corner was
scribbled the word "continued," and in large
capitals right across the card were printed the
four letters--

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center

   "WARE."

.. vspace:: 2

"A dead bee yesterday and a communication
with 'ware' on it to-day," meditated Mr. Field
as he scrutinized the handwriting, "that can
mean nothing but 'beware,' I suppose, seeing
that the two are intended to supplement one
another.  The postmark is London, so there is
not much help in that.  I might as well look for
a needle in a haystack, as try to track my
correspondent through the post.  Who can he be, and
what does he know, I wonder?  I'd give a good
deal to find out."

His disquietude was not allayed by the receipt
a day or so afterwards of two more little
matchboxes, each containing the corpse of another
bee.  Hour after hour he mused on the possible
explanation.

"Surely it can't be a warning of death," he
shuddered.  "If so, why should bees be chosen
as a sign?  It is more likely that they stand for
letters.  Perhaps the initials of the man who
sent them."

Suddenly he started as an inspiration seemed
to flash into his mind.  "Why, yes, of course
that's it," he exclaimed.  "I see it all now."

His heart seemed to stand still for a moment,
and a cold perspiration broke out on his forehead.
He sank down in his armchair, and covered his
eyes with his hand.

"I wonder how much he knows," he said to
himself.  "If it's a question of wanting money
I shan't grudge it if only I can stop his mouth.
It won't be long, I expect, before I hear from
him again."

A week passed by and the tension on Mr. Field's
nerves grew worse and worse as each day
brought no fresh light to bear upon the case.
Jenkins and the chauffeur had both given notice,
unable to endure the unreasonable behaviour of
the master of the house.

"Such tantrums as he goes into nowadays
I never did see," bewailed the footman to his
chosen cronies in the village.  "No wages will
ever pay for what I've had to put up with lately.
You'd hardly believe it, but yesterday he actually
threw a plate at me and nearly cut my chin, and
all because there was a little spot of dust upon
the rim.  Catch me staying to be murdered
because of the carelessness of the kitchenmaid!
Not if I know it!"

It seemed an unfortunate time for Ben Green
to select, when he sent up a note one evening
offering to remove his father from his cottage,
and to make arrangements for the sale of the
land, if the squire would kindly let him know in
writing the terms of the agreement.

"What impudence!" exclaimed Mr. Field, as
he read the demand, "as if I would bind myself
down on paper to anything of the kind.  The old
man wouldn't budge when I made him the offer,
fair and square, nearly a year ago now, and I'm
not going to renew it to this scamp of a son, who
they tell me has just returned to idle about the
place like a vagabond.  The next gale will take
the house down on to the beach, and the sea will
soon eat away the rest of their paltry field, so I'm
not likely to pay this ne'er-do-weel a hundred
pounds for sitting by to see it go.  Once their
little bit of land has disappeared I'll be careful
to put breakwaters along the shore to prevent
the waves doing any further damage to my own
property, but the sooner that portion of the cliff
falls over the better for me."

"Old Timothy's son says as he'll be much
obliged if you could see him for a few minutes,"
said Jenkins, who had stood meekly by during
this tirade.  "There's something rather special
he wants to say."

"You may send him up then," replied
Mr. Field grimly, "and I'll give him a piece of my
mind.  I don't think he'll favour me with a
second call, once I've had my say."

"You'll have a gay old time in there,"
whispered Jenkins as he ushered Ben into the room.
"I wouldn't be in your shoes for anything."

The footman wondered at the strange smile
which stole over Ben's face at the words.  "I
expect I'll get on all right," was the reply.

Vainly did Jenkins apply his eye and ear to
the keyhole, hoping to catch something of the
interview within, but the apartment was a long
one, and the occupants were at the further end,
so he had to retire baffled to the hall.

It would have edified him could he have seen
what was taking place inside.  Mr. Field stood
with his back to the fire, ready to let loose the
fury of his wrath upon the intruder, but as Ben
advanced, the great man's countenance suddenly
changed.  His jaw fell and his eyes glared like
some startled animal when an enemy is near.
Ben walked quietly up to him.

"I suppose I'd better introduce myself as you
don't seem exactly to remember me.  At any
rate you don't give the warm sort of welcome
an old pal might expect.  B. B., Blustering Ben,
alias Benjamin Green, at your service, sir."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Robin Hood's Lair`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII


.. class:: center large bold

   Robin Hood's Lair

.. vspace:: 2

Contrary to Mr. Field's expectations, this
was not by any means Ben's last visit to
him.  Sometimes he would be absent from the
village for a week at a time, but on his return
no long period would elapse before he presented
himself again at Farncourt, and to the surprise
of the household, never failed to gain admittance
to their master's presence.

"Oh, I knew him in past days," was Ben's
reply in answer to the many questions which
were addressed to him.  "Why shouldn't a
fellow sometimes go up to have a chat with an
old friend?"

"It's plain enough those conversations don't
agree with him then," was the universal opinion.
"He's getting so jumpy and nervous, not half
the man he was a little while ago."

There was certainly something wrong with
the Silver King.  His double chin was fast
disappearing, and his waistcoat hung in loose folds,
instead of presenting the smooth expanse which
had formerly been the wearer's pride.  His
temper also did not improve as time went on,
but became shorter and shorter, until at last even
his own son grew afraid of him, and gave him
as little of his company as was possible.

"If only I had a better clue I'd drive the nail
in harder," said Ben to himself after one of his
periodical absences, "as it is, however, I'm
apparently on the right tack, and if only I can
get him to commit himself a little further by
letting out something more definite when he's
speaking to me, I may be able to bring him
altogether to his knees.  I could of course make
more public enquiries, but unfortunately I've not
got quite a clean sheet myself, and I might
perhaps find that I'd made it hot for Number One as
well as for Mr. Thomas Algernon Field.  Besides,
I shall probably squeeze a good deal more out of
him by working this little affair on my own hook
than by letting someone else poach on my
preserves.  Whatever it is that he's done, he's in
a blue funk over it, and would give anything to
hush the matter up.  I must just go cautiously
to work, and in the meanwhile it's extremely
convenient to have such a handy bank to draw
on whenever I choose."

Ben jingled some money between his fingers as
he spoke, with evident satisfaction, and puffed
complacently at his cigar.

"I wonder why he was in such a hurry to get
me to sign the document that night," he mused.
"If I hadn't been half-seas over I'd have looked
at it closer, but as it is I haven't a notion
what it was about, though I remember well the
colour of the paper, and the burnt penholder.  He
hints darkly that I have let myself in for something
that I'd be sorry for once I was found out, but
I can't help thinking that in that case he would be
in a worse position than me.  Anyhow, if we're
both in the same boat it won't be to my advantage
if I sink the craft by peaching to the world.
I'd better go on as I'm doing for the present
and reap the harvest I'm enjoying in consequence
of his fears.  I think I'll walk up to Farncourt
now, and give another twist to the screw.  My
last week in town was a roaring one, and the
sovereigns flew.  It's fine fun to live like a
millionaire every now and then.

"There's one other thing I can't understand,"
he added, as he wended his way to the house of
his victim.  "Why did he look so pleased that
same night when he found the letter in old Wattie's
coat as it was hanging on the wall?  He didn't
know I was peeping at him when he took it out
and slipped it into his own pocket.  I know it
was only a few lines the boss had written to his
daughter, for he'd read it over to me that very
afternoon, and I was to post it when I went off
next day.  It surely couldn't have had anything
to do with the paper I signed?  I wish I had
asked about it at the time."

As he passed the lodge gates he met Julius
hastening to the village.

The voice of conscience, awakened in the boy's
heart by the terrors of the hours of darkness and
the loneliness, had been stilled and silenced when
the morning light arose, and having once
overstepped the bounds of truth and obedience, it
was easy to continue along the path of wrong.

Two months had passed since that Sunday's
talk.  The new tutor from Oxford had come and
gone, peremptorily ordered out of the house by
Mr. Field, who could not brook the superior
intellect and independent manner of the young
graduate.  Thus the lad was left once more to
his own devices, and few were the days when he
found it impossible to arrange a meeting with his
friend at Sea View Cottage.  He had almost
ceased to look upon his disobedience as a sin,
his only fear being that his father would find him
out at last.

This morning he found Robin in a great state
of excitement, brimful of new ideas and plans.
To the unimaginative Julius these continual
surprises were an unmixed delight.  He never
knew what new rôle he would be expected to take
up as he joined his comrade in his play.  Sometimes
it was a knight in armour, going to rescue
a captive princess, represented perhaps by old
Mother Sheppard or Mrs. Power.  These, being
supposed to be under the spell of a magician,
were naturally unwilling to accompany their
youthful deliverers to the shore.  Sometimes he
had to represent a character in a favourite tale,
but more often it was Robin's history lesson which
afforded the framework for some entrancing game.

"I'm so glad you've come, Julius," was the
welcoming cry now as he appeared at the door,
"but what a pity your coat is grey.  It's
fortunate my old jersey is green, for if I pull it
down as low as I can, it almost covers my knickers,
and no one would naturally look at them first."

"Why shouldn't my coat be grey?" questioned
Julius.  "It's a very good colour."

"Because it should be *green*--Lincoln green,"
exclaimed Robin.  "They all had it.  It was their
sort of badge."

"What badge?" asked Julius, altogether
puzzled by the reply.

"Oh, I forgot you hadn't heard," was Robin's
rejoinder.  "I've been reading to-day in my
history-book about Robin Hood.  He was an
outlaw--a splendid one--who lived in the woods,
and he and his followers were always dressed in
green, and had bows and arrows and hunted the
king's deer.  I'll be Robin Hood, because of
course it's my name, and will you be one of my
merry men, Julius?"

"I don't think an outlaw is a nice kind of
man," was the reply.  "They were generally
hanged, weren't they?"

"Robin Hood was a *good* outlaw," responded
Robin earnestly.  "He used to do all sorts of
kind things to the poor, and they loved him and
would never tell where he was hid."

"My coat has a greenish lining," remarked
Julius.  "Do you think if I turned it inside out
that it would do?"

"Perhaps it would," answered Robin doubtfully.
"I'll ask mother to lend you her green
scarf to tie round your waist, and we'll pretend
it's all that colour."

This weighty matter arranged, the two boys
sallied forth to the little wood which lay at the
back of the cottage.

"The first thing to do is to find a cave, or some
place to sleep in," was the leader's order,
"and then we'll have a look at the king's deer."

"I'm sure there aren't any deer here," remarked
Julius, "and if there were, we'd get into
a jolly row if we killed them."

"There are lots of rabbits, and they'll do just
as well," replied Robin cheerfully.  "Of course
we won't kill them really, we'll only
make-believe they are dead."

It was not long before an ideal site was found
for the hiding-place of the merry men.

A high bank had been dug into long ago to
obtain gravel, leaving a hollow of about six
feet square.  Young saplings and briars had
sprung up all around making an arch of green
above the level floor.  Robin gave a shout of
triumph when he discovered the spot.

"If we can drag some branches here to make a
roof, it will be just like a real house," he said.
"We might make a wall in front with these
stones which are lying about, and only leave one
little hole for the door, so that it will be nice and
warm inside, and nobody will be able to see us,
even if they pass quite near."

It took longer than he had calculated to carry
out the grand idea--indeed for a whole week the
king's deer were permitted to go unmolested,
Robin Hood and his follower being too busily
engaged in building operations to turn their
thoughts to the chase.

It was a proud day when Mrs. Power was
invited to inspect the result of the boys' labours.
True, the wall was of such an unstable nature that
their guest had to be well warned not to lean
even her hand against it, in case it should fall.
What did it matter that the stone part of it only
attained to about the height of Robin's elbow?
The rest of it was satisfactorily completed by a
dilapidated wooden gate perched on the top,
and interwoven with fern and twigs, so as to
form an impenetrable screen from the outer
world.  An old rug had been suspended by its
corners across the top of the pit, making a grand
roof when supplemented by branches laid in thick
layers above.  Moss had been laboriously
collected from all parts of the wood wherewith to
cover the floor, and ferns were ingeniously planted
in crannies in the sandy walls to make it look
more natural, Julius said.

It was a glorious moment when the kettle at
length boiled upon the camp-fire kindled at the
entrance, and still more delightful when
Mrs. Power and the two boys all squeezed inside
the hut to enjoy smoked tea in enamelled mugs,
and regale themselves with ginger biscuits and
toffee.

"You told us to get what we liked with the
sixpence, mother," explained Robin, "so Julius
chose the toffee, and I took the biscuits."

"It is hardly what I should have selected
myself," answered Mrs. Power, "but if it's what
you like, I'm more than satisfied."

"What do you think we ought to call the
house?" asked Julius.  "Robin says 'The
Outlaw's Castle' would be a good name, but I
think it's a very silly one, as we've no
battlements or dungeons, not even a drawbridge."

"Julius wanted to call it 'Farncourt Arbour,'"
said Robin contemptuously, "which would be
simply awful."

"What do you say to 'Robin Hood's Lair'?"
suggested Mrs. Power.  "I believe that was
really the name of one of his retreats."

"It's better than 'Farncourt Arbour,'"
responded Robin.  "Let us call it that."

"I wish we had a cupboard for the mugs and
the kettle," remarked Julius, "but perhaps the
tramps might find them and take them away.
It does seem a pity we can't sleep here, for I'm
sure not a drop of rain would come through the
roof."

"There is just one thing I shall bring to leave
here always," said Robin, "and that's the text I
painted the first Sunday Julius was with us.  If
you will lend me two of your long hat-pins,
mother, I shall stick it up on that smooth piece
of the wall, so that if anyone did happen to
come in he would see it at once.  It will make the
inside of the house quite bright and cheerful and
much more home-like.  And you know, mother,"
he added shyly, "the words might do a poor
tramp good."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Tramp`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX


.. class:: center large bold

   The Tramp

.. vspace:: 2

"Julius," said Robin in an awestruck voice
a few days later, when they met as usual
at the entrance of the wood, "I do believe the
tramp has really come.  You said you would be
here at ten o'clock punctually, but I waited and
waited and you never turned up, so I thought
you had forgotten all about it and that I had
better go on to the hut by myself.  When I had
got quite close up to it I saw a boot sticking out
of the door, and it gave me such a fright, I simply
scooted back into the road again.  I was jolly
glad to see you coming along, I can tell you."

"I thought you wanted a tramp to come," said
Julius rather scornfully.  "The best thing we
can do is to tell the policeman, and he'll send the
fellow about his business pretty quick.  I call it
cheek for a nasty dirty beggar to go and rest in
our nice house."

"It looked quite a good boot," replied Robin,
"not all over holes like some of them have.
Perhaps he's only a poor clean wanderer who
wouldn't do any harm."

"Let us have another look," said Julius.
"We needn't go very near."

With much care and precaution the boys crept
silently through the undergrowth until they came
in sight of Robin Hood's Lair, taking the greatest
pains to avoid treading on dead sticks or twigs,
after the manner of Red Indians tracking their prey.

"There are two boots now," said Robin under
his breath, "and they're quite tidy, both of them.
Perhaps he's not a tramp after all."

As he spoke, there was a movement inside the
hut, and a man emerged into the open.  The
youthful spies crouched low among the bracken
to watch the intruder.

He was a tall, well-knit figure, but with a droop
in his shoulders which told of ill-health and
fatigue.  His face bore out the same story, for
it was white and drawn as if with long suffering,
and his somewhat weather-worn clothes only
emphasized the frailty of the form beneath.  His
cap was off, and the sun glinted down upon his
fair hair and short well-trimmed beard, revealing
a shapely head and thoughtful brow.

"He's the nicest tramp I ever saw," remarked
Julius, "but he looks awfully ill."

"I don't believe he's a beggar," rejoined
Robin.  "I expect he's just someone come to
stay at the village so as to get sea-air after having
been in a hospital.  They often do that.  He
must be very poor, however, for though he seems
quite respectable, his coat is all patched and
frayed."

The intruder had turned and was contemplating
the architecture of the hut with an amused
countenance.  He now replaced his cap and
walked away in an irresolute manner, as if he
did not know exactly in which direction to bend
his steps.  To the boys' dismay he finally bore
down straight towards their hiding-place.

"Keep still, Julius," whispered Robin.
"That's the way wild animals do when danger
is near.  If we run, we're sure to be seen."

Alas for his hopes!  Wild animals do not
usually wear clean white collars, and in this
instance two snowy spots gleamed clearly and
distinctly through the thick screen of fern.  In
another moment Robin felt his arm suddenly
seized, and glanced hastily up into the face that
bent above him, anxious to read his fate.

It was a reassuring sight, for the blue eyes
that looked down upon him were full of sparkle,
and a merry smile was stealing round the corners
of the mouth.

"I'm afraid I've been trespassing," was his
captor's remark, as he held the boy with a firm
but gentle grip, "and worse than trespassing--actually
taking possession of a man's house
during his absence and making use of it as if
it were my own."

Julius had bolted like a hare at the sight of his
comrade's capture, but seeing that a friendly
conference was evidently taking place, he gradually
drew nearer to hear what was being said, being
very careful, nevertheless, to keep well out of
harm's way.

"I'm glad you used our house, sir," answered
Robin, gaining confidence by the kindly tone.
"I hope you found it comfortable."

"Most luxurious," responded the stranger.
"Indeed I must confess to having spent most of
the night there.  I fell asleep yesterday evening
on that delicious carpet of moss, and when I at
last awoke it was actually morning and broad
daylight."

"Were you really there all night?" exclaimed
Robin delightedly, "just as if it was a proper
house!  I rather wish it had rained a little
though."

"I'm very glad it didn't," was the reply.
"I hardly think that is a charitable desire of
yours!"

"I only mean that it would have been so
jolly to hear the rain outside, and yet to know
you had such a good roof over your head
that it couldn't get through," explained Robin.

"I am glad to learn that you had no worse
motive than that for your wish," laughed
the stranger.  "Now, my little chap, can you
tell me which direction I must take to get to the
high-road, as I haven't had my breakfast yet
and I'm growing hungrier every moment.  I don't
want to go back to the village, but to strike out
for the next hamlet, as I'm tramping to London
and don't want to spend more time than I can
help upon the way."

"You *are* a tramp, then?" exclaimed Julius,
who was now standing near, "even though you
haven't got holes in your boots."

"Well, I suppose I am," was the reply.
"Perhaps it would sound better if you said I
was on a walking tour.  It comes to much the
same thing."

"I thought you were a poor man just arrived
at Sunbury to get sea-air after you had been ill,"
remarked Robin.  "You looked so frightfully thin."

"A regular scarecrow!" said the stranger.  "I
congratulate you as well as your friend on
being right in your guesses.  I *am* a poor man
and I *have* been ill, and I certainly had hoped to
stay in Sunbury for a few days to try and get
up my strength a little; but I heard something
at the Bull Inn yesterday afternoon on my
arrival which made me change my mind and
resolve to move on.  I mustn't waste time
talking, though, for I'm getting quite faint for
want of food, and must ask the next good
woman I meet to make me a cup of tea in her
kitchen."

His looks certainly corroborated his statement,
for a deadly pallor had overspread his countenance
and he almost fell as he staggered up
against a tree.

"I'm weaker than I thought," he murmured.
"I wish I had gone on last night instead of
stopping here."

"If you will wait a minute," said Robin
eagerly, "I'll fetch you a glass of milk and some
biscuits.  Mother always gives them to me for
my lunch, but I'd much rather you had them
than me."

"It's too bad to rob you of your lunch, my
boy," was the grateful answer, "but really I
should be very glad of a bite.  It would just
help me to get along.  By the way," he called
out as Robin was darting off, "could you manage
to bring the refreshments without letting
everyone know I'm here?  I have particular reasons
for asking.  I'll tell you why when you come back."

"It will be quite easy," asseverated Robin.
"I often eat my lunch in the wood, so nobody
will think it funny if I carry it away."

Julius considered it wiser to accompany the
messenger rather than remain with the man,
and many were the conjectures of the two boys
as they went together upon their quest.

"I think he is in hiding from someone," said
Robin, "and is afraid to risk going into the
village in case he is taken prisoner.  I wish he
was a cavalier on some secret errand from the
king.  How splendid it would be to help him in
some glorious adventure like one reads about in
books!"

"He's much more likely to be a fugitive from
justice," replied the more matter-of-fact Julius.
"It's rather queer of him sleeping in Robin
Hood's Lair all night, and not wanting to go to
Sunbury again.  I've half a mind to tell father
about him and get him to send one of the
game-keepers round."

"If you betray him I'll never play with you
again!  Never!" exclaimed Robin indignantly.
"It would be mean after he's trusted us like
this.  I wouldn't have a traitor for my friend
for anything, and that's what you would be if
you told!"

When the pair returned to the house in the
wood with a plentiful supply of the promised
food, they found the stranger almost in a state
of collapse.

With the greatest difficulty they got him to
swallow a little milk, which revived him
somewhat, so that with their assistance he was able
at length to regain the shelter of the hut.

"I'll be all right soon," he said to them.
"It's only my silly old heart.  I've let myself
run down rather too much, that's all."

To the boys' relief, in about twenty minutes
he was able to sit up, and partake sparingly of
their provisions.

"I'm afraid I must ask you to let me lodge
another night in your mansion," he said.  "I
don't think my legs would carry me far to-day."

"Why don't you go to 'The Bull'?" asked
Julius.  "You'd be much more comfortable
in a bed.  I know there is lots of room now, for
the season is over, and all the visitors have
gone."

"It was my intention to stay there when I
came to Sunbury," was the answer, "but I heard
that somebody was now living in the neighbourhood
whom I would rather not meet again, and
therefore as I did not wish him to recognize me I
thought it best to go away.  I tried to take a
short cut through the wood which I remembered
of old, but happening to come across your
little hut, it looked so inviting that I just
stumbled in and went to sleep.  I never woke
till you found me this morning."

"We must go home to dinner now," remarked
Robin, "and Julius won't be able to come again,
as he's got to go out with his father this
afternoon, but I'll look in later and see if I can bring
you some more food."

"Keep my secret, then, like good boys," said
the stranger.  "I won't harm anybody or anything,
and I shall be off to-morrow by the break
of day, and not trouble either of you any more."

Many a time it was on the tip of Julius'
tongue to let fall some remark about their strange
guest, but the fear of losing Robin's fellowship
held him back.  It is not nice to be called a
"traitor," and the flash in his friend's eyes when
he said the word lingered unpleasantly in Julius'
memory.  There was also the ever-haunting
terror that his father would discover the
deception which he so consistently practised in utter
disregard to the parental commands.  It was no
feeling of honour that checked the sentences
as they rose to his lips, but dread of the
consequences which might perchance recoil upon
himself.

"I'm going to read to old Timothy this evening,"
said Mrs. Power to her little son, "and may
be out rather late, as I shall stop at the Vicarage
on my way back.  You can take your supper
when you like, as I shall not be home in time to
give it to you."

Never before or after was Robin known to have
such an abnormal appetite.  Fully half the loaf
and the whole of the butter vanished as if by
magic from the table.  He surprised Mother
Sheppard also by a polite request for cheese, and
to her astonishment the whole piece was finished
when she came to clear away after Robin had
left the room.

"If that boy doesn't burst with the supper
he's took to-night, my name's not Jemima Ann,"
she exclaimed, "and every drop of the milk
gone as I heated specially, expecting as there
would be a good cupful left for me when he'd
done.  I'm blessed if the boy don't seem to have
swallowed the jug too.  Anyhow it's disappeared
as well as the milk."

Robin in the meanwhile was curled up
contentedly in a corner of the hut, watching its
inmate ravenously devour the supplies which he
had so successfully secured.  A thick rug had
also been obtained by the boy and carried up in
triumph to the Lair.  The ground was still dry
after an exceptionally long hot summer, and the
little bower certainly made an excellent shelter
with its firm sandy walls and mossy floor.  Many
another wayfarer has been less comfortably lodged.

"I don't think you can be a wicked man,"
remarked Robin, after a careful scrutiny of the
worn face before him, "but I wonder why you
are so anxious not to meet the other fellow you
told us of.  Perhaps it's he who is the bad one,
and not you."

"No," answered the stranger, with a sad
attempt at a smile which went to Robin's heart.
"I'm sorry to say that I'm the bad one, as you
put it, but I am thankful I needn't stop there.
The sinner has been forgiven by the grace of
God, though the consequences of his sin on earth
cannot be rubbed out."

"Then you're not afraid of that?" said
Robin, nodding his head towards the text on the
wall.

"I rejoice because of it," was the reply.  "He
Who knows all can forgive all."

The blue eyes gazed out into the tangle of
wood, where the sun was setting behind the
interwoven branches, brown now with the touch of
coming whiter.

"A great sinner needs a great Saviour," he
murmured half to himself.  "Perhaps He can
even help me to put right some of the wrong
before the end comes."





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.. _`A Flash of Lightning`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X


.. class:: center large bold

   A Flash of Lightning

.. vspace:: 2

When Robin awoke next morning he found
that the weather had completely changed
during the night.  Gusts of wind howled round
the little cottage and rattled the casement, as if
angry foes sought admittance to his room.  From
his bed he could hear the hollow boom of the
waves upon the shore, and the old apple-tree
outside his window creaked and groaned as it
was forced to bend its aged limbs before the gale.

His first thought was of the house in the wood
and its mysterious occupant.

"I'll run up at once and see how the man has
got on," he decided.  "I don't think it looks as
if it had rained yet, and it's pretty sheltered in
the coppice, so I hope he has had a good night.
I wonder if he is still there, or if he went at break
of day as he said he would."

It was not long before he was peeping through
the doorway of the little hut, his hair blown like
an aureole about his forehead and his cheeks
flushed by the buffeting of the wind.

"Of such is the kingdom of heaven," were the
words that rose spontaneously to the stranger's
lips as he glanced up at the fair vision before him.

"I'm not gone yet, Robin," he said as he held
out his hand to the boy.  "I am afraid I must
ask you to put up with me for a few hours
longer.  I didn't feel quite up to an early start
this morning."

Robin flew to his side and took the thin fingers
in his.

"Of course you may stay here as long as you
like," he replied.  "I'm only afraid there's a
storm coming on, and if it's very bad the roof
might perhaps let in a little rain, supposing, you
know, it came down in torrents."

The stranger smiled.  "It's worth feeling ill
to get another glimpse of you, my boy," he said.
"I must confess that the longing for it rather
weighed with me when I debated about my
departure in the early dawn.  I shall have to start
soon, however, so as to be sure to catch the
evening train to London, as it is hopeless to think
of getting there on foot after this attack.  It is
six miles to the station, isn't it, Robin?"

"Six and a quarter," answered the lad, "and
there are two hills on the way."

"I shall be lucky if I arrive there before
midnight," was the reply, "but I'll have a try,
anyhow.  Meanwhile, I've still got some of the bread
and butter you brought me last night, and a little
milk in the bottom of the jug, so I shall do very
well.  Don't you bother about me, little chap.
I'm used to roughing it a bit."

"I will bring you my lunch again at eleven
o'clock," said Robin, "but I do wish you would
let me tell mother about you, as she would know
so much better than I do what you ought to have.
I promise you, honour bright, that I wouldn't
tell anyone else."

"Not even mother," answered the stranger,
"though I am sure she must be a true and good
woman who owns you as her son.  God bless
you both--if a prayer from such as I can bring
you a benediction."

He watched the boy disappear among the
trees, and then, turning over with his face to the
earth, he groaned aloud.

"Oh, my God!" he exclaimed.  "What might
not have been!  Truly the way of transgressors
is hard."

There were traces of tears in his eyes when he
at length rose and proceeded languidly to finish
the provisions lying beside him.

"Julius, I want you to come with me to
Westmarket to-day," said Mr. Field as he sat at
the breakfast-table that morning.  "Be ready at
eleven o'clock sharp.  A grand bazaar is being
held there in aid of the Town Hall, and no end of
swells are to be present.  The Countess of
Monfort is taking a great interest in the cause,
and I must certainly put in an appearance, or
they might think it rude.  Money is not a bad
thing, after all, and I have no doubt they will be
glad enough to see me, even though neither her
ladyship nor the earl have taken the trouble to
return my call."

"I don't want to go," was the sulky reply.
"I hate bazaars, and swells, and countesses,
and it's beastly rot driving in the motor, with
nothing to do but to sit still."

"Don't let me hear you speak like that again,
Julius," said his father sternly.  "Those are my
orders and it is your part to obey."

"Couldn't you go a little later?" pleaded the
boy.  "Eleven o'clock is so very early."

It certainly was a little hard upon him, for he
had set his heart on going down to the wood
immediately after breakfast.  The tramp, as he
still called him, fascinated the lad strangely and he
longed to find out more about the lonely stranger.

"The countess herself opens the bazaar at
noon," replied his father, "and we shall need all
our time to get there before the ceremony.
So not a moment later shall I start.  If you are
not standing on the doorstep waiting for me, it
will be the worse for you."

As Mr. Field left the apartment, Julius stamped
his foot in impotent anger.

"It's too bad!" he exclaimed.  "Why should
I have to dress up like a doll in my best clothes,
and waste the day like that, when Robin is
allowed to run about in the wood just as he likes.
I wonder if there would be time for me to slip
down before I have to get ready for the car.
There is just an hour.  If I ran all the way I
think I could do it.  I should like to see if the
man is still there."

Eleven o'clock came, and the motor was at the
door.  So was Mr. Field, but no Julius.  For
five minutes there was ominous silence, as butler
and chauffeur stood motionless, awaiting their
master's pleasure.

"Drive on," said Mr. Field at length, as he
flung himself into the car, and the look on his
face was not agreeable as he passed out of sight.

"I'm sorry for the little fellow, even though he
is such a spoilt puppy," volunteered the footman
who had come in Jenkins' place.  "I expect
he'll catch it hot before the day is out."

It was difficult for Mr. Field to regain his
composure before he arrived at the end of the
drive.  To be openly defied by his son in the
presence of his servants was an offence not to be
lightly passed over.  The unctuous smile which
illumined his features was forced and unnatural
as he officiously went up to the countess to
congratulate her on the success of her undertaking.

"What an impossible man he is," she
remarked later to a friend.  "He seems to have
'money' written all over him, and nothing else
apparently to recommend him to the world.  I
really am honestly grateful to him for the way he
is showering sovereigns about, but it doesn't
make me any more anxious to have him as my
next-door neighbour.  I shouldn't mind his
being uneducated or plain, some of the best of
nature's gentlemen are that--it's the
pretentious vulgarity of the man I can't stand."

Mr. Field fared no better with the earl.  A few
cold words of welcome in response to the effusive
greeting bestowed upon him by the millionaire,
and Lord Monfort turned away to escort a
new-comer to his wife's stall.  It was pleasant,
however, to feel that in spite of it all, he was
undoubtedly considered a person of importance
at the sale.  Fair ladies crowded round to
persuade him to buy absolutely useless things at
utterly exorbitant prices, and his circuit of the
hall was a sort of triumphal progress, delightful
while it lasted, but leaving him somewhat
exhausted at the close.

He had other business in Westmarket besides
his social duties, which detained him there some
hours, but he returned to the bazaar to have a
cup of tea before leaving the town.  He was
resting comfortably in the refreshment marquee,
enjoying the band, when a sudden drop in the
music caused the voice of someone sitting at a
distant table to resound distinctly across the
room.  Mr. Field would not have noticed his
companions, had he not happened to look up
hastily and so caught the eye of a young man,
one of the group, who was facing him.  He
recognized him as the countess's nephew, and saw
him give a quick sign to his friend to cease
speaking, but not before a few isolated remarks had
reached the listener's ear.  He could not follow
the whole sentence, but he was sure he heard
the name of Judge Simmons mentioned in
connection with a certain money affair.  There was
no doubt about the concluding words--"distinctly
shady"--for the band stopped suddenly
as they were uttered, and there was nothing
to veil the unpleasant insinuation of the phrase.

"What possible reason could that young
fellow have had in checking his companion
when he saw me, unless it was because I was
the subject of their conversation, and they did
not want me to hear?"  So he mused as he
absently stirred his tea.

The band struck up once more, but to Mr. Field
the music this time sounded intolerably
harsh and grating.  The jingle of the tune set
his teeth on edge, and he felt he could endure it
no longer.  It was a relief when the crowded hall
was left behind, and he felt the cool air again
upon his brow.

It was nearly four o'clock now and the day
was closing in.  Heavy clouds were massed over
the sea, looking black and thundery, and the
dust blew in fitful eddies around.

"I think we're driving into a storm, sir," said
the chauffeur.

The simple words jarred strangely on Mr. Field.

"Don't speak till you're spoken to," he
snapped.  "What you have got to do is to
attend to your business and not make remarks
about the weather."

At that moment the motor reached a steep
part of the last hill, necessitating dropping into
a lower gear.  The chauffeur, irritated by the
uncourteous taunt, plied pedal and lever with
quite uncalled-for vehemence.  There was a
harsh grinding sound and the car stopped with a
sudden jerk.

"It's no use, sir," he said, after a few moments
tinkering at the machinery.  "The gears are
jambed and she won't move an inch.  I'm afraid
I'll have to get her towed home."

"Not here a fortnight, and you've broken the
car already," exclaimed Mr. Field, his fury rising
to boiling-point as he realized that he should
have to yield to the inevitable and walk
ignominiously back to Farncourt.  "I give you
warning on the spot, and no character; so you
may leave when you choose."

Discarding his fur coat as too heavy, he turned
his back on the damaged vehicle and set out
upon the way home.

"Driving into a storm!" he repeated to himself
as he plodded along the road.  "I only hope
not.  If I was superstitious I should call it a
horribly bad omen.  Curious how nervous I feel
to-day!  It surely must be something in the air.
But bad gales have been weathered before now,
and I think I'm pretty safe, considering all things.
I confess it was a nasty shock when Ben Green
first turned up, but he evidently knows very
little, or he would have had me in a hole long
ago.  There is no one else I need fear.  I fancied
Simmons had a queer look in his eye that day I
saw him at the Abbey, but he's powerless to do
any real harm.  Even if he raked up unpleasant
questions about the papers, not a soul was
witness of what led up to it all.  That is a secret
known to no one in the wide world but myself.
The past is too deeply buried by this time
for any spectres to rise from the grave now."

As he spoke, a peal of thunder reverberated
forth, so unexpectedly that it caused him to give
an involuntary start.

"I shall take the short cut through the wood,"
he said, "and I must be quick about it, for it's
looking rather bad all round."

The sky was becoming more and more threatening
every moment, and darkness seemed to
descend almost at once upon the land.  Mr. Field
shivered as the air grew chill, and regretted
the warm garment he had left behind in the car.

"I'm feeling out of sorts," he added.  "Those
silly remarks at the bazaar upset me a good deal,
though there is really no need for me to mind.  I
wish, however, I hadn't come by the wood,
especially as I seem to have lost the right path,
and wandered rather out of my way.  It is
eerie all by myself in the gloom, with such a
tempest brewing too.  Bother!  There's the
rain!" he exclaimed, as two or three big drops
splashed against his face.

A flash of lightning lit up the sky, revealing to
his anxious gaze the rough hut which the boys
had constructed with so much care, and which
stood only a few paces from the narrow track.

"A woodman's shed, I suppose," he said.  "I
may as well take refuge inside, for it looks as if
there was going to be a regular deluge."

He was right.  Down came the rain, pattering
loudly on the crisp autumn leaves, first with a sort
of measured beat, then more rapidly, as if driven
fiercely by an ever-compelling force from behind.
Suddenly with a mighty rush, it seemed as though
the cloud had burst overhead, and hissing torrents
poured in straight unbroken lines from the clouds.

The little house was empty, and Mr. Field
stood looking out of the door, while the lightning
played about the tops of the trees, illuminating
the depths of the dark copse as with the
brightness of day.  His was not a brave nature at the
best, and the scene was terrific enough to strike
awe into the heart of a bolder man than he
claimed to be.  He withdrew further into the
shed, as the thunder continued to roll above him
in long deafening crashes.

"Who is it says that thunder is the voice of
the Almighty?" he muttered.  "It is in the
Bible, I believe.  It sounds awful enough for anything."

Just then a flash of more than usually vivid
character lit up the interior of the shelter, and to
Mr. Field's consternation, words of fire appeared
to blaze out before his eyes.  For a moment, to
his excited imagination it seemed like the writing
on the wall at Belshazzar's feast.  Could this
be the Hand as well as the Voice of God?

It was the text which Robin had pinned up
inside the hut--

"THE EYES OF THE LORD ARE IN EVERY
PLACE, BEHOLDING THE EVIL AND THE GOOD."

It came like a message from an unseen Power,
an answer to the thoughts which had so lately
filled his mind, and the words burnt into his
very soul.

"In every place--in every place.  Beholding
the evil--beholding the evil."

The sentence echoed through his brain until
he could bear it no longer.

"Will that verse never cease to haunt me?"
he exclaimed.  "Is there truly a Witness in
Heaven Who sees all--all--and Who can,
when He wills, bring even our hidden sins into the
light?"

He made as though he would leave the hut,
when suddenly to his horrified gaze, a second
flash revealed a pale emaciated face peering in
through the door.

With a loud cry, Mr. Field rushed at the
opening, and with superhuman strength hurled the
apparition from him as he dashed past.

A dark form fell heavily into the bushes, but
he stayed not to see.  Scrambling, falling in the
inky blackness, he at last gained the edge of the
wood--how, he never knew.  Drenched to the
skin and with his eyes staring wildly before him,
he reached his home.  Speechless and trembling,
he passed his astonished butler on the stairs,
and paused not till he had locked himself into the
safety of his own room.

There, at length, he was able to regain his
composure, and think more calmly of the events
of the preceding hour.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Treacherous Shore`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI


.. class:: center large bold

   The Treacherous Shore

.. vspace:: 2

It was about seven o'clock when a tap came
at Mr. Field's door.

"Is that you, Burns?" was the response from
within.  "I am not feeling very well this
evening, so I shall not come downstairs to dinner.
You can bring me up something on a tray."

"Very good, sir," replied the butler, "but I
wanted to ask you about master Julius.  He has
not been home all day, and we don't know where
he's gone."

"Not been home all day," exclaimed Mr. Field,
unlocking the door.  "Surely with a houseful of
servants you might have looked better after the
boy than that."

Burns was relieved to find that his master
appeared more like himself than when he had
last encountered him, though still strangely
perturbed, as if he had recently undergone some
severe shock.

"Master Julius never turned up all the
morning," answered Burns, "so we came to the
conclusion that you must have met him as you were
going down the drive, and taken him on with you
to Westmarket.  The chauffeur has only now
returned with the car, and he says master Julius
never accompanied you at all, so we thought it
better to come and tell you at once."

Messengers were sent out to make enquiries
whether the lad had been seen by anyone during
the day, but neither garden, stables, nor farm
could contribute even the slightest clue to his
movements.

Mr. Field was standing in the hall making
arrangements to send search-parties in other
directions, when there was a ring at the bell,
and a lady was ushered in.  She was dripping
wet, and the light veil over her head clung
closely round her troubled and agitated face.

"I must apologize for intruding in this
manner," she said, "but I am dreadfully anxious
about my little boy.  He and your son left me
about two o'clock, and I have seen neither of
them since.  I hoped he might have taken shelter
here from the storm, so I just came up to see."

"It is Mrs. Power, sir, from Sea View Cottage,"
explained the butler, in answer to Mr. Field's
mystified look.  "I believe master Julius often
goes to play with the young gentleman."

"The impertinent rascal sets all my commands
at defiance, it appears," was the angry reply.
"It is directly against my wishes, madam, that
Julius has made your acquaintance, and I have
not the slightest notion where either of the
two lads have gone.  Your son is certainly not
here, and neither is mine, for that matter."

"It is a dreadful night for anybody to be out,"
said Mrs. Power.  "I could scarcely battle against
the wind and rain as I came along.  The lightning
has ceased, but there is a regular hurricane
blowing from the sea.  Robin would not willingly keep
me in suspense, as he knows how disturbed I
should be, and I can't help fearing some accident
may have happened to them both."

All at once Mr. Field's heart seemed to well up
with a sudden rush of fatherly love, such as he
had not experienced for years.  He had allowed
such a thick crust of ambition and avarice to
overgrow the softer qualities of his character,
that they had been well-nigh extinguished.

"What would all my wealth be without my
little lad?" was the thought that flashed across
him as Mrs. Power spoke, and an agony of
apprehension filled his mind.  "We must rouse the
place at once," he said aloud, "and I will turn
out all my men.  Surely it can't be long before
we discover the runaways."

The wood was thoroughly searched first, but
with no result, and every cottage in the village
was applied to, but all in vain.

Suddenly a sickening fear seized Mrs. Power.
"Was it possible that they could have gone upon
the beach?"

A brawny fisherman shrugged his shoulders
hopelessly as he heard her question.

"We've thought of that before," he replied,
"but we didn't like to suggest it to you, m'am.
Some of us have been along the top of the cliff
already, to see if we could make out anything.
They're beyond help now if they went there, poor
little chaps."

"Let us go to the shore," said Mrs. Power, but
the men shook their heads as they accompanied
her upon her fruitless errand.

The long wall of cliff which extended for so
many miles towards the south came to an abrupt
termination near the hamlet, and a flat extent
of coast reached thence to the next headland.
A narrow lane at right angles to the sea, and
bordered by high hedges, led direct to the beach
at the point where the cliff ended.  So long as
the search-party kept within the comparative
shelter of this lane, all went well, but when they
emerged from it, they were met by the full
strength of the gale.

The rain was over now, though the wind still
raged with tempestuous force.  A full moon
peeped out now and then through the rapidly
driving clouds, lighting up the wild expanse of
waters which heaved and surged in ceaseless
turmoil as far as eye could reach.

"Could the boys have been caught between
the cliff and the sea?" gasped Mrs. Power.
"Shall we go a little way along the shore in case
they may have taken refuge somewhere, and are
afraid to move on?"

For answer one of the men pointed silently in
the direction she had indicated.

It was enough--no words were needed to prove
the impossibility of the task.

The moon gave sufficient light to show up the
long dark line, at the foot of which the yellow
ribbon of sand was wont to lie.  In its place now
tumbled a white mass of foaming waves.  Here
and there great billows, lashed by the wind, would
hurl themselves half-way up the steep incline,
breaking with thunderous noise upon the
rampart which barred their way, and sending up
sheets of spray into the air, like the steam from
a boiling cauldron.

Mrs. Power covered her face with her hands.

"My boy!" she said.  "Oh, my boy!"

Unresisting, she allowed herself to be led back
to the silent cottage, where all that long dreary
night she sat, a pale and broken-hearted watcher,
waiting with dread for the only tidings which it
seemed possible could reach her now.

To understand what had happened to the
boys, we must follow Julius as he ran off to the
wood on the morning of that long day.  To do
him justice he had really meant to be back in time
to go with his father in the car; but an hour is
short in the days of youth, and the time went
all too rapidly.

He had just passed the lodge gates on his
return when he heard the motor approaching,
and quick as thought he had hidden himself
behind the laurels at the entrance of the drive.
His heart beat as he meditated on the
punishment which doubtless awaited him for his
disobedience, but a reckless feeling soon intervened.
"In for a penny, in for a pound."  He knew his
father was not to return till dusk, for he had
heard him tell the butler so, therefore he might
as well have a jolly day before the reckoning came.

"I'll go back to Robin," he said, "and see if
I can't do something specially nice, as I needn't
be home for ages."

It was with rather forced merriment, however,
that he joined in the games, for an uncomfortable
feeling would obtrude itself even in the most
exciting moments, that something was hanging
over him which sooner or later must be faced.

Mrs. Power had asked him to stay for lunch,
hearing that his father was away for the day,
and not knowing of the interdict which had been
laid upon the boy.

"Let us go for a walk, Robin," said Julius
afterwards, the restless mood increasing as the
day wore on.  "The tide is coming in strong,
and I shouldn't wonder if we found some buckles
and things washed up on the beach.  You know
the fishermen pick up lots of treasures along the
shore."

"Yes," answered Robin, "it is just like a fairy
tale to hear of that ancient city which once
stood where the ocean now rolls.  Old Timothy
has been telling me all about it--how there were
churches, and streets, and battlements there in
the days of old, but the waves gradually ate away
the cliff, just as they are doing now, until one
after another the buildings fell into the sea, and
the whole town was buried beneath the water."

"I know a man who got quite a number of
things which had been washed up," remarked
Julius, "seals, with people's names on them, and
rings, and dear little bronze brooches, besides
crowds of coins.  Couldn't we go and have a
hunt now?"

"I simply ache to find something," said Robin,
"even if it is only an old pin, but I'm not sure
whether mother would like me to go without her,
as it is rather a dangerous beach when the tide
is coming in."

"We're not babies," answered Julius, "surely
we can keep a look-out so as to get back in plenty
of time.  Besides, we needn't go far.  The man
told me that the best place to find the things is
just under the ruined church, and it won't take
us ten minutes to walk there."

"Well, if we only go a very little way," said
Robin, "and come back when the waves get at
all near the cliff, I don't think there can be any
harm.  Mother has never forbidden me to go,
and I should like awfully to find a brooch for her
to wear."

Did no friendly eye watch the two young
figures as they wandered further and further
along the treacherous shore?  Time and tide
were forgotten in the excitement of searching for
the spoil.  When at length the gloom of the
coming storm caused them to look up, to their
distress, they saw that the white line of breakers
had almost closed the pathway of their return.

"Run, Julius," said Robin.  "We may just
do it, but the wind seems to be driving the waves
in fast, and there is not a minute to lose."

Their feet sank in the loose pebbles and sand!
as they hurried along, impeding their progress
so that the inflowing tide gained upon them
every moment.

"I didn't know we had come so far," panted
Julius.  "I feel as if my legs were made of lead.
I don't think I can run any more."

They glanced up at the cliff, hoping against
hope that some way might reveal itself by which
they could scramble up its face, out of the danger
zone below, but the sheer and crumbling
surface offered no foothold.

By this time some of the foremost waves were
sweeping up in long cruel rushes right across their
track.  It was only by waiting till they sank back
again and then making a dash before another
came up, that the boys were able to get on at
all.  Even then they were overtaken again and
again by the relentless waters, and had to wade
as best they could through the surf, the strong
receding current threatening to carry them off
their feet into the sea.

To add to their terror, the storm which had
surprised Mr. Field, now burst above their heads,
and the crash of thunder drowned even the roar
of the breakers upon the beach.  It suddenly grew
so dark that they were unable to distinguish
anything more than a few yards away, and
the rain coming down in torrents soon
completed the drenching which the waves had begun.

Just as they were about to give up in despair,
Robin caught sight of a feeble light glimmering
upon the cliff above.

"I do believe it is Timothy's cottage," he
exclaimed, "and if so, we must be quite near
the stair.  Yes, here it is, Julius, I am holding
the railing in my hand."

In another moment two woebegone little
objects were standing before the old man's fire,
too exhausted and miserable even to explain
what had brought them there in such a plight.





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.. _`Death and the Tide`:

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   CHAPTER XII


.. class:: center large bold

   Death and the Tide

.. vspace:: 2

The grey dawn was creeping in through the
windows of Sea View Cottage, eclipsing
the yellow glow of the lamp which had burned
all night in the little sitting-room.

Madelaine rose from her chair and pulled up the
blind.  The wind had abated somewhat, though
a stiff breeze still blew from the sea.  Dead twigs
and fallen leaves were littered over the lawn, and
the plants in the border were bent and broken
from the effects of the late gale.  A great sheaf
of white chrysanthemums lay prostrate on the
ground just in front of where she stood, the
pure blossoms all draggled and smirched.

"How Robin admired those flowers yesterday,"
she said to herself.  "I think I can see him now
as he stood beside them, looking back at me
with his own bright, happy smile.  Shall I never
see him run to meet me again--my precious little son!"

As she spoke, she heard the click of the garden
gate, and there, right before her on the path, was
Robin himself--a pale, rather dishevelled Robin,
it is true, but there was no doubt about the
reality of the sight.

Madelaine felt almost delirious with joy as
she held him in her arms, and showered kisses
upon his cheeks, his hands, his hair.  She could
scarcely believe that the terrible dream of the
night had passed away, and that her treasure
had been restored to her again.

"Mother," he said, looking anxiously up into
her face, "I wish you would go to Julius.  I'm
sure he is very ill, he looks so funny, and he is
talking such nonsense too.  I couldn't get him
even to sit up."

"Where is he, Robin, and what have you been
doing with yourselves all this time?"

"I was afraid you'd be worrying about us,"
answered the boy.  "I wanted to come on to
you at once, after we had got rested a little in
the cottage, but the wind was so bad, I really
don't think I could have walked along the cliff
by myself, even if it had been daylight.  Then
my clothes were so sopping wet, old Timothy made
me take them off and get into his bed.  I was
dreadfully tired, mother, and I fell asleep in
about a minute, and didn't wake up until it was
morning."

"Old Timothy!" repeated Mrs. Power.
"Have you been in his house all night, then?"

"Yes," replied Robin, "but I don't think it's
at all safe for him and Julius to be there now.  A
great piece of the wall fell down just as it began
to get light.  I rather fancy it was that which
woke me.  There is only one end of the cottage
left, and a big hole came in the ceiling of the
kitchen just as I was going out at the door."

Mrs. Power rose to her feet.

"I must go to the village at once and rouse the
men," she said.  "The rest of the house may fall
at any minute.  Oh, Robin my boy, to think
what you have escaped!  It makes me shudder,
even to imagine it!"

"It was nothing to the awful time we had upon
the beach, before we got into shelter," answered
the child, "but I'll tell you all about it, mother,
after you come back.  I do so want you to go
and look at Julius."

Leaving Robin to be fed and cared for by
Mrs. Sheppard, Madelaine Power sallied forth without
further delay.

Only one or two were stirring in the hamlet at
that early hour, but among these she gladly
recognized Benjamin Green as he opportunely
issued from "The Bull."  He had wakened that
morning with a strange feeling of guilt upon his
conscience.  It seemed to lie like a heavy burden,
not to be easily shaken off.  For a moment he was
unable to account for such an unwonted sensation,
when suddenly recollection returned to him,
and leaping up, he hastily put on his clothes.

"I ought to have gone last night," he said.
"Such a storm as it was, and poor old father all
alone up there in that dangerous place!"

Tardy thoughts of duty rose within his breast,
and faint pulses of filial affection, long passed
away, began once more to make themselves felt.
He willingly joined Mrs. Power as with rapid
steps she trod the narrow path which led along
the top of the cliff.

The storm had passed away, but the sea still
flung itself sullenly upon the shore.  As they
neared the spot, Madelaine gave an exclamation
of distress.

"Look what a huge piece of the crag has gone!"
she said.  "I thought Robin was exaggerating
when he told me half the cottage had fallen down,
but it is much worse than I expected."

"It's a good thing the kitchen is at the landward
end," remarked Ben.  "I see it is standing yet."

They were soon at the little garden gate, but
though it was wide open, they found their way
barred.  It now hung uselessly over a great
empty gap, its broken rails flapping drearily in
the wind.  A long crack down the middle of
what remained of the house showed where the
next slip would probably come.  The portion
next the cliff had already given way and the
rafters were even now overhanging the edge.
Some bricks from the chimney loosened as they
approached, and they heard them clatter down
the roof and fall with a dull thud on the beach
below.

"Surely father will not be against leaving the
place now!" said Ben.  "If we get him out before
the whole thing goes down, we shall be lucky."

He vaulted over the low wall, and in a few
strides had crossed the garden plot.  Mrs. Power
scrambled after him and reached the door almost
as soon as he did.  In spite of the peril and the
ominous sounds of sliding and cracking which
surrounded them on every hand their steps were
arrested on the threshold.

Old Timothy was lying asleep on his pillow as
they entered, his white hair scarcely whiter than
his face.  No sign of fear was on it, and he
seemed breathing as peacefully as a child upon
its mother's arm.  Beside him in the bed lay
Julius, flushed and feverish, moving his head
restlessly from side to side.

As they stood, the first rays of the rising sun
burst through the little latticed window and
shone full on the old man's face.  He felt the
glow through his closed eyelids, and opened them
with a startled glance.  Springing up in his bed,
he stretched out his arms to the light, apparently
dazzled with the sudden brightness.

"It is the glory of God!" he cried--and to
Madelaine his homely features seemed transfigured
with a radiance that was divine.  "It is
the blessed Angel of Death, and he has come to
bear me up to the city of gold."

Folding his hands as if in prayer, he closed his
eyes and reverently bowed his head.

"I'm waiting, old friend," he said.  "I'm
waiting, and I'm wholly ready to go."

Suddenly the frail figure relaxed its tension
and fell back upon the pillow.

"He's gone," whispered Ben.

Madelaine went forward and gently smoothed
his brow.  "We can do no more for him now,"
she said.

"His poor body must not be left here,"
remarked Ben.  "I shall take it to some safer
resting-place than this.  If I carried him, do you
think that you would be able to manage the boy?"

"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."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Near Death's Door`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII


.. class:: center large bold

   Near Death's Door

.. vspace:: 2

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."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Pin-pricks and Pellets`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIV


.. class:: center large bold

   Pin-pricks and Pellets

.. vspace:: 2

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--

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   LAUNDRY
   WASHING DONE CHEAP

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Alive from the Dead`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV


.. class:: center large bold

   Alive from the Dead

.. vspace:: 2

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."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`For Conscience' Sake`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI


.. class:: center large bold

   For Conscience' Sake

.. vspace:: 2

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.

"Why, of course not!" exclaimed Madelaine.
"The postmaster there was a new man, and had
only heard of me as Mrs. Power, so he would not
recognize me as the same person about whom
you were asking.  I must tell you how the change
came about, for I have something to confess to
you, Gerald, something which I must ask you to
forgive.  I do hope you will not think I did
wrong, but truly it was a difficult matter to decide."

"You did perfectly right, Madelaine," replied
her husband, when he had heard the story of the
generous friend who was raised up so opportunely
to care for the helpless ones he had himself
deserted in their need.  "I am only thankful
that you did not suffer more from my selfish
cowardice.  It has been misery to me to think
what you might be enduring, and I powerless to
make amends.  During all my wanderings I
have tried to put by small sums from time to
time, hoping that one day I might find out your
retreat, and be able to make life easier for you,
anonymously at least, even if I were unable to
reveal myself as your rightful provider and guard."

It was in furtherance of this desire that Gerald
had at length taken the voyage to England,
trusting that the ten long years which had passed
had so effectually altered his appearance, that he
could safely revisit the scenes where he might
most probably hear news of those he had lost.
A morbid terror of recognition had by this time
fastened upon him, becoming a second nature,
so that he could not easily associate with other
men.  Thus all his enquiries had ended in
disappointment and failure, being only addressed to
strangers who would naturally be unable to give
him the personal clue which he sought.

"I went as a last chance to Norwich," he said,
"knowing that you had a relative there who
might help, but I found that he was dead, and
his wife also, so that hope fell to the ground.
By this time I was quite worn out by privation
and anxiety, so that my heart got affected, and
I had such a bad attack that I was obliged to go
into hospital for some weeks.  It was there that
the change came, and I saw my life in the light
of Heaven.  I realized that I had sinned not
only against man but against God.  As I lay
upon what might have been my death-bed, I
made a solemn vow that if I was spared I
would go back to California, and give myself up
to justice, so as to atone as far as I could for
what I had done so many years ago.  I determined
to delay only long enough to get back
my strength, and it was for this reason I decided
to come to Sunbury, knowing the pureness of
its air, and remembering too the happy days
of our short honeymoon here, when we were
young and knew not what life held of bitterness
for us both."

Madelaine's face was strained and grey as she
sat listening silently, trying to take in what her
husband's words signified, and her parched lips
almost refused to utter the question which she
strove to ask.

"Do you mean to say you are going to leave
me again, and to deliberately give yourself up
to trial and perhaps even death?  After all this
time too?  Oh, Gerald, is it really necessary?
It is more than I can possibly bear.  Surely
there is some other way?"

"It is the only way," replied Gerald, "there
is no other.  I have not a shadow of doubt about
it.  But, oh, my darling, it is a cruel blow to deal
you, and to know that it is I who have inflicted
this pain upon you is a worse punishment than
any that can possibly come to me from the
hands of the law."

Madelaine made no reply.  She sat as if
stunned by the terrible future which had opened
out before her, following so closely upon the
sudden joy.  Her hands were tightly clasped
together, and she gazed out of the window as
one who saw nothing.

"Madelaine!" exclaimed Gerald suddenly, "is
it too great a sacrifice that I am asking you to
share?  Am I wrong in demanding it of you?
We are one, my wife, and you have a right to
speak on this matter which concerns us both so
intimately.  I put it to you--shall I stay so long
as you need me, or do you agree that it is right
for me to go?  Help me to decide, only remember
it must be a decision which is made in the
presence of God."

Madelaine gave a shiver as at length she turned
her eyes from the window, and fixed them
mournfully upon her husband's face.

"It is right for you to go, Gerald," she said
with a little choking sob.  "I will not hold you
back.  God have you in His keeping, and may
He in some way bring light into this black dark
night which has settled down upon us all."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Well-founded Fears`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII


.. class:: center large bold

   Well-founded Fears

.. vspace:: 2

One slight reprieve did Gerald and his wife
allow themselves, as they talked over
their future plans.  It was decided that he should
not disclose his identity until he had reached the
district where the crime had been committed.
Until then they would make the most of each
other's companionship, Madelaine and Robin
going with him to California, so that they might
be together as long as possible before the final
separation.

"I must find out about berths and the dates
of sailing," said Gerald, "and in the meanwhile,
we had better go to London or Liverpool,
where we can easily lose ourselves in the crowd."

"Why not remain here?" asked his wife.
"It is such a quiet little place, and people have
got accustomed to look upon you as an ordinary
lodger, who has been delayed by illness in
Mrs. Potter's rooms.  No one here would ever dream
of associating you with what happened ten years
ago on the other side of the world."

Gerald's brow clouded.

"Sunbury is one of the most dangerous spots
on earth for me at the present time," he replied.
"Two men only were witnesses of my deed, and
one of them has lately come to live here.  If he
should happen to come across me, there is
nothing to hinder him from handing me over at
once to the nearest magistrate, in which case the
few precious days that still remain to us would
be lost.  I heard about him at the inn when I
first arrived, and it was because of this that I so
hastily decided to leave the place.  I was on my
way to the station when I came upon Robin's
castle, and falling asleep there from sheer
exhaustion, was found by the boys next morning
when they came to play.  If it had not been for
the illness brought on by exposure and drenching
on the night of the storm, I should have been
across the sea by this time, so as to place as many
miles as possible between him and me.  When
I plead guilty at the bar, I wish to do so of my
own free will, not because force has been brought
to bear upon me from outside."

"Who can it be?" asked Madelaine anxiously.
"Surely no one would do you any harm after all
these years."

"I should be utterly helpless in his hands if
he chose to lodge an accusation against me,"
answered Gerald.  "His name is Thomas Field.
He was in Wattie's hut the night on which I
killed the old man, and he saw the whole thing.
He was with me when I took my mad plunge
into the river, and therefore imagines me to be
dead, but he would certainly recognize me if I
stayed on here.  You told me he fulfilled his
promise of writing to tell you of my death.  Did
he not give you his name when he wrote?"

"I got a short letter from a man who signed
himself, T.A.F.," said Madelaine.  "He sent
back your watch and chain at the same time.
Why, of course those are Mr. Thomas Algernon
Field's initials!  How strange that I never
connected them before!  He gave me no address,
so I was never able to write and ask for further
details."

"Did he return nothing but the watch?"
enquired her husband.  "There were some papers
I left for him to forward also."

"He enclosed your diary," replied Madelaine,
"but he said your papers had been lost in the
river when you were drowned."

"Surely I could not have been absent-minded
enough to put them into my pocket again!"
exclaimed Gerald.  "I am certain that I handed
them over to him in the hut, but the truth is
that I was in such a state of mind at the time,
that I may have picked them up again without
knowing it.  They were documents concerning
a piece of land that I had staked out away up in
the wilds as a sort of speculation, and I asked him
to advise you about it.  It wasn't worth very
much, and probably would have turned out a
failure as most of my ventures have done, but I
wanted you to know it was there, in case you
might have made a few pounds on it.  I should
like to ask Field about it, only that I dare not
face him again."

"Oh, Gerald," rejoined Madelaine, "I would
not trust that man!  He looks as if he could be
cruel as well as hard.  Do not run the risk of
putting your life into his power.  Let us fly
while we can, for you are liable to meet him at
any moment, and you might be snatched from
me almost before our little time together is begun."

"To tell you the truth, I have met him
already," said her husband, "but he evidently
took me for a spirit, believing that I had done
away with myself so long before."

Gerald proceeded to give his wife an account of
the unexpected meeting at the entrance of the
little house in the wood, when the flash of
lightning had suddenly revealed the two old
acquaintances to each other, and Field had dashed the
supposed apparition to the ground.

"I was barely able to crawl to good
Mrs. Potter's," he continued, "but she took me in,
and there I have been until to-day, when I
ventured out for the first time, longing for
another glimpse of the little angel-messenger
who had tended me so lovingly in his leafy bower.
No wonder that I loved the lad, seeing he was
my own son!"

It was late according to the primitive habits of
Sunbury when Gerald at last rose to leave.

"I must go back now to my worthy landlady,"
he remarked, "or she will wonder what
has become of me.  I will come over early in the
morning, and we can make arrangements to
leave for London to-morrow afternoon.  Please
God, Madelaine, we shall have some blessed days
together, before we need to part again."

"I shall be thankful when we are off," said
his trembling wife.  "Do be careful, Gerald, and
keep out of Mr. Field's way.  I don't like to
think of you showing your face at all while you
are here."

"I'll take good care, dearest," he replied, "so
don't you worry.  Now I must just run up and
take a peep at little Robin before I go.  Oh,
Madelaine, if you only knew how I have hungered
for a sight of you and the child!  I can't think
how it was that my instinct did not tell me who
he was, when he came to me in the wood.  It was
the name that put me off."

"I could not call him 'Gerald,' even though
we christened him so," explained Madelaine, as
she stood beside her husband, looking down at the
sleeping boy.  "It was too precious a word to
be used for anyone but you, and I got to speak
of him as 'Robin' that first winter after we came
to England, because of his bright eyes and rosy
cheeks, and the name has stuck to him ever since."

The interview next morning was satisfactorily
concluded, and Gerald was on his way back to
Mrs. Potter's house.

His heart was lighter than it had been for
many a long day, as he walked through the
wood.  Although a terribly dark cloud loomed
ahead, a rainbow seemed to have thrown itself
across the grey and troubled sky, and rays of love
and hope shone all around.

It was still early, not yet nine o'clock, and he
was congratulating himself on having encountered
no one either on his way to or from Sea
View Cottage.  One more bend in the woodland
path, and Mrs. Potter's chimneys would be in sight.

He swung round the turn, and almost collided
with a man who was walking briskly in the
opposite direction to which he was himself going.

Words of apology rose to his lips, but they
died away in dismay before they were uttered.

He was face to face with Thomas Field.

"So it was you after all, and no ghost!"
exclaimed the squire.  "How is it that you
have turned up here, Barker?  What do you
want with me, dogging my footsteps like this?"

To Gerald's surprise Field's countenance had
assumed an expression of the utmost fear and
dislike, as he suddenly realized who it was that
had thus encountered him.

"I must have given him an uncommonly bad
shock that night when I came upon him during
the storm," thought Gerald, as his mind took a
rapid survey of the past.  "He looks perfectly
terrified at the mere sight of me, though it is I
who have cause to be frightened of him, not
he of me.  I suppose it's because he has so
long accustomed himself to think of me as dead."

"You were my friend once, Field," he added
aloud, "and I must throw myself on your mercy
again.  I have no wish to intrude my presence
upon you.  Let me disappear, as you did before,
to be lost in the waters of oblivion.  I ask no
more than to be left to go my way unquestioned and alone."

A look of relief overspread the millionaire's
features, and his aggressively domineering
manner reasserted itself.

"Well, Barker," he said roughly, "many a
time have I wondered if I was right in letting you
slip through the fingers of justice as I did that
night.  Death by drowning was too easy a way of
escape for a man who had murdered another in
the cold-blooded fashion in which you finished off
old Wattie.  My duty, no doubt, is to report you,
now that I know you are again at large."

Gerald winced at the coarse cruelty of the
words, and his thoughts flew to Madelaine and
the boy.  Would the cup be dashed from his lips,
just when he was about to taste the sweetness of
life for the last time?

"I have long ago repented of my sin," he
replied humbly, "and strong drink has been put
far from me since that day.  It brought misery
enough then to make me shun it for ever.  I
have suffered, Field, and I know I have been
forgiven by my God.  I can but ask man to have
pity likewise."

"You don't deserve it," was the harsh reply,
"but I suppose I can't hit a fellow when he's
down, so I'll give you one more chance.  I shall
not hand you over to the law this time, but I tell
you plainly if I find you loafing about here again,
you'll have to pay for it.  My conscience will not
permit me to let you off so easily a third time,
so you had better keep out of my way.  I'll give
you a friendly tip, though, before you go.  You
have more occasion perhaps than you know to
avoid Sunbury.  I'm not the only man here who
holds the key to your past.  Probably you have
your own reasons for banishing from your mind
the fact that you were ever acquainted with
Blustering Ben, the hunter, but he will not so quickly
forget you.  He was a chum of old Wattie's too,
so he would not be so lenient as I am, supposing
he caught sight of you here.  You know what
he saw last time you met, so take my advice and
don't run your neck into the noose sooner than
is necessary.  The faster you make yourself
scarce the better for everyone."

"Thank you," said Gerald, though his spirit
chafed at the insulting speech.  "I had no idea
Ben was in Sunbury.  I have certainly no wish
to meet him again."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Judge Simmons Again`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII


.. class:: center large bold

   Judge Simmons Again

.. vspace:: 2

Mr. Field turned to go, but he was
arrested by a question from Gerald,
which made him pause once more.

"There is one thing I should like to ask before
we part," he said.  "Did I not leave some papers
with you that dreadful night?  I remember
speaking to you about them before I went down
to the river."

"You babbled to me about some claim which
you had patented," answered Mr. Field, "and
told me what you meant to do with it, but I can't
say your head was exactly clear that evening;
and all papers, if there were any, went the same
way as yourself, plump into the water.  You left
nothing with me.  I took the trouble, however,
to ask some fellows who came from that part of
the country, and they told me you had been
regularly taken in about it--the whole property
was not worth a cent.  So you need not cry over
spilt milk.  By the way, they know all about old
Wattie up there, so it would be wiser not to make
too many enquiries in that quarter."

It was on the tip of Gerald's tongue to ask why
Mr. Field had not even mentioned the matter to
Madelaine when he wrote, but he checked himself
in time.  If the land was really of no value, it
was not worth bringing his wife's name into the
conversation.  Better to let the matter drop,
and leave well alone.

"I have no wish to rake up old stories," he
said.  "Only I thought there was no harm in
asking you about the papers, seeing I had
mentioned them to you before.  I pass now out of
your life for ever."

So saying he turned abruptly and continued
his interrupted course towards the edge of the
wood.

Mr. Field watched him until he disappeared
behind the trees, then, with knit brow and a
preoccupied look he slowly made his way back to
Farncourt.  He was met by Julius at the lodge
gates.

"You are late for breakfast, father," said the
boy.  "Why did you go out before you had had
anything to eat?"

"I could not sleep last night," was the answer,
"and I thought half an hour's stroll might give
me an appetite, as I am not feeling very fit.  I
was longer than I meant to be."

"It seems a day for early walks," said Julius.
"Robin has been up to see me already.  Oh,
father, isn't it dreadful?  He and Mrs. Power
are going away this afternoon by the four o'clock
train.  He said they had to meet someone in
London, I think it was, so they were leaving
a few days sooner than they meant to do.  I shall
miss them awfully, especially Robin.  It will be
just horrid without him."

The boy's lips quivered as he spoke, and he
tried manfully to keep back the tears which
would well up in his eyes.  The last month or
two had been the happiest that the lonely child
had ever spent, in the companionship of his cheery
little friend and the protecting tenderness with
which Madelaine had welcomed him into her large
and loving heart.  Even in the midst of his own
conflicting thoughts, Mr. Field felt touched by
the lad's evident distress, and endeavoured to
comfort him as best he could.

"Never mind, Julius," he said.  "I'm going
to make some changes before long, so perhaps
you won't miss Robin so much as you think.
This place doesn't seem to suit me very well.  I
believe it is too near the sea, so I am going to try
how I get on further inland.  I have seen a very
good estate advertised for sale about which I
intend to enquire, and you may find other friends
there who may make up to you for your loss.
Besides, I have quite made up my mind that it
is full time to send you to school.  I can't stand
any more tutors, and it is not good for you going
moping about here by yourself.  How would
you like to go to Eton or Harrow, or some other
first-class place like that?  I'll see that you don't
want for pocket-money, my boy, so that you can
foot it with the best of them, and lord it over the
lords if so you will."

Mr. Field chuckled over his joke, but though
for a moment a gleam of comfort lightened the
gloomy horizon of the lad, the thought of losing
Robin settled again upon him like a cloud.

"It would be simply ripping to go to school if
only Robin could come too," he said.  "I wish
Mrs. Power would send him with me, but I'm
afraid they're rather poor, so perhaps they
couldn't afford it.  They asked me to spend the
morning with them at Sea View Cottage, father,
that's why Robin came up so soon, in case I
should be going out in the motor, and they
would not be able to say good-bye."

"You may certainly go, Julius," replied Mr. Field.
"Mrs. Power has been a good friend to us,
and contrary to my custom I shall call on her
myself to thank her for all her kindness to you."

"Robin is going to give Peter his liberty before
he goes," remarked Julius.  "You know he was
only a baby wild rabbit that old Timothy caught
in his garden, so he will be quite pleased to live
a free life again.  We are first going to give
him a feast of everything that he likes best, and
then we shall take him to our hut in the wood and
let him loose there.  Robin says that if we tunnel
out a little hole in the wall, Peter may perhaps
believe it is a real rabbit's burrow and make a
home there.  Of course the roof is all tumbled in
now, so it is no use as a house for us, but it makes
it all the better for Peter, as he can hide so easily
under the fallen branches.  Robin does think of
such delightful things!"

Breakfast was over and Mr. Field had gone into
his study to write some letters.  He had not been
there many minutes when the footman entered
and informed him that two gentlemen were
waiting to see him in the drawing-room.

"Who are they?" he asked impatiently.

"I don't know, sir," replied the man.  "They
did not give any names."

"As Julius said, this seems a day on which
people are early astir," muttered Mr. Field to
himself.  "I wish callers would not come bothering
round at this time of day.  I wonder who they
can be."

The visitors were admiring the view from the
window when he entered the room, and he was
almost at their side before they realized he was
there.

"Judge Simmons and Elihu Pratt!" he
exclaimed as they turned towards him.  "Whatever
brings you here together at this hour?"

"We should be glad of a little conversation
with you, Mr. Field," replied the judge.  "There
is a certain matter about which my friend and I
have been making enquiries, and we believe that
you may be able to throw some light upon it."

"What is the subject under consideration?"
asked Mr. Field, nervously requesting his guests
to be seated.  "Is it your young ward's
speculations in Mexico?  I remember you were
doubtful as regards his ventures in the silver
line last time you were here."

"I am glad to say he is doing well," replied
Judge Simmons, "but it is not about him that
we came.  You may not perhaps have heard
that Mr. Elihu Pratt has lately been appointed
District Attorney for the locality in which the
Good Hope mine lies.  He is now engaged in
investigating the titles of the various mining
claims about there, and he finds some difficulty
in connection with the deeds to your property.
It so chanced that I was interesting myself
concerning the bit of land acquired by my former
acquaintance, Gerald Barker, and not being able
to reconcile several conflicting facts, we
determined to call upon you together, both of us
happening to be over in England just now.  No
doubt you will be able to make it clear, but we
shall be much obliged if you will kindly do so."

Mr. Field moistened his lips before he spoke,
and hastily mopped his forehead with his handkerchief.

"I have my title deeds all right," he said.  "I
can show them to you if you like, but there is
nothing conflicting about them, so far as I know."

"You remember, sir," continued the judge,
"that when I called upon you before, you were at
some pains to convince me that Gerald Barker's
claim was in quite another valley to yours--a
valley possessing the same strange geological
features as that in which your mine is
situated--although your little boy gave contrary evidence,
much to your displeasure.  Now, Mr. Field, I
was with Barker when he staked his claim, and I
have just returned from a visit to the 'Good Hope.'"

"Well, what of that?" was the blunt rejoinder.

"They are one and the self-same place,"
answered Judge Simmons gravely, casting a
penetrating glance upon the man before him.

"I never said they were not," snapped Mr. Field.
"I only told you there were lots of cliffs
of that formation about there.  It was simply
my boy's rude way of contradicting that made
me so angry with him."

"There is no rock anywhere in the countryside
similar to that which overlooks the Good
Hope mine," broke in Mr. Pratt, speaking for
the first time.  "I find, moreover, that the land
on which you, as reputed owner, pay taxes, is
identical with the claim patented some ten years
back by Gerald Barker.  The Registrar's books
fail to record any transfer of the property.
How did it happen to come into your possession?"

"Barker sold it to me, if you want to know,"
answered Mr. Field, indignantly.  "It is really
intolerable to be cross-questioned in this fashion.
If you were not a government official I would
kick you out of the house for daring to insult
me by your dastardly insinuations.  You may
examine the patent for yourself, if that will
satisfy you, and also the transfer which Barker
signed with his own hand, in which he gave up
all his rights to me."

"I should like to see them," was Mr. Pratt's
only reply.

The millionaire hesitated for a moment and the
colour fled from his cheeks, but recovering himself
quickly he invited them to accompany him into
the study, where he proceeded to unlock his safe
and spread out some documents before them on the table.

"There is no doubt that this is Barker's
patent," remarked Mr. Pratt.  "Now for the
transfer.  I see we have here the signatures of
two witnesses, Benjamin Green and Walter
Long, as well as that of Gerald Barker.  It is also
signed by Caleb Denham, who describes himself
as a Notary Public, and whose seal, according to
custom, is appended here.  Have you any idea
where the witnesses are now?"

"Benjamin Green is a rolling stone, always
knocking about the world," was the reply, "and
old Walter or Wattie, as he was called, is dead."

Mr. Pratt glanced across at Judge Simmons.

"This transfer is dated the day after that on
which Barker was drowned," he said quietly.

"How do you know so exactly when that took
place?" questioned Mr. Field.

"His wife has supplied us with the information,"
answered the judge.  "I have here a copy
of your own letter to her."

"Ass that I was!" muttered Mr. Field under
his breath.  Aloud he added, "It is easy to make
a mistake like that in the backwoods, where
every day is alike."

"These little mistakes sometimes need to be
enquired into," rejoined Judge Simmons.  "We
shall have to look up this same Benjamin Green
and find out what he has to say about it.  It is
fortunate that we have an independent witness
in this case, although it is unusual to have other
names besides that of a lawyer subscribed to a
similar deed."

Mr. Field bit his lip with vexation.  "I have
over-reached myself there," was the thought
which passed rapidly through his mind.  "I
believed it would make it all the safer if I had
those two signatures as well as Caleb's, but they
may prove my undoing.  All the same, I don't
think I could have got the old shyster to put his
seal to it if their names hadn't been there, so
they served my turn after all."

In an injured voice he next addressed the judge.

"Surely," he exclaimed, "you can rely on the
statement of a Notary Public without having to
get proofs of his veracity."

"I happen to know that this particular Caleb
Denham has just been convicted as an unprincipled
and dishonest scoundrel," answered Judge
Simmons.  "He is now undergoing a well-merited
term in jail because of his illicit
practices.  I would not give a button for his word."

"By the way," he added, turning again to the
letter before him, "when I saw you last you gave
me to understand that it was only a report of
Barker's death which had reached you, but it
is mentioned here that you yourself saw him
swept away by the river.  These statements
seem rather conflicting.  Was anyone else there
at the time?"

"No," replied Mr. Field.  "We were quite
alone when the accident happened."

"Are you prepared to swear that you have
given a strictly accurate account of the whole
incident?" asked the judge, his keen eyes fixed
on Mr. Field's agitated face.  "I cannot deny
that appearances are very much against you.  It
is a queer thing that Barker should have
disappeared in this mysterious manner just at the
very time that you became possessed of his
papers.  When we questioned Mrs. Power about
it this morning, I thought she seemed rather to
hesitate when I asked her if she had any reason
to doubt the truth of your report."

"Mrs. Power!" ejaculated Mr. Field.  "Whatever
has she got to do with it?"

"You are evidently ignorant of the fact that
she is Gerald Barker's widow, she having changed
her name on account of some stipulation in a
will," replied Judge Simmons.  "We traced her
by the information given to us by a servant of the
old gentleman who left her the money.  Finding
that she was at present staying in Sunbury, we
had an interview with her this morning before
we came on to you."

"It is apparent that Mrs. Power has not let
out to them that Barker is alive," was the thought
that flashed across Mr. Field's mind.  "She has
evidently been in touch with her husband all
along, but is terrified at the idea of him being
taken up for the crime.  I never should have
believed that she could be so cunning as to
hoodwink me like this.  I suppose she has set these
men to catch me out.  I'll be even with her
though, and with Barker too!"

"Look here," he said in a bullying tone,
"this Mrs. Power, or Barker, or whatever she
chooses to call herself--does she mean to make
a fuss about these papers which there is no doubt
her husband signed?  Because, if so, will you
please go back to her with a message.  Tell her
from me that silence is the price of silence.  If
she wants me to hold my tongue she had better
not provoke me too far.  I put myself
unreservedly into her hands.  If after giving her
this message she still wants you to take up the
cudgels for her, I confess I shall be surprised.
She is more likely to go down on her knees,
begging me not to disclose her secret to the world.
You think perhaps you are doing her a service,
but she may end by crying, 'Save me from my
friends!'"

"This is a most extraordinary threat!"
exclaimed the judge.  "You had better explain
yourself more fully."

"I shall have great pleasure in doing so,"
answered Mr. Field.  "Doubtless you are not
aware that her husband's last public act was to
kill a defenceless old man in cold blood--this
very same Walter Long whose signature is on
this paper.  It was a false report which got
about concerning Barker's death.  True he tried
to drown himself in despair when he realized
what he had done--I saw him leap into the river
with my own eyes, and honestly believed him to
have perished that day--but it seems he managed
to reach the bank again some way further down
the stream.  He has been a fugitive from justice
ever since.  It was only this morning that I
learnt he was still alive.  I happen, moreover, to
know where he is hiding at the present moment,
and you may tell Mrs. Power that if she pesters
me with questions about the property which I
honourably came by, I shall know well enough
how to be avenged!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Revelations`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX


.. class:: center large bold

   Revelations

.. vspace:: 2

It was with feelings of perplexity and
foreboding that Madelaine had received her two
visitors that morning.

Her heart died within her when Judge Simmons
introduced himself as an acquaintance of
her husband, with whom he had travelled during
that momentous journey to the west.  She
wondered how much of the terrible past lay open
to his gaze, and what new peril the future might
have in store.

It was a relief when the strangers' conversation
turned at once to the subject of the tract of land
acquired by Gerald so many years before, the
title deeds to which they told her they were
desirous of investigating.  What was the value
of a few acres in the wilds of America compared
with the well-being of the one she loved?  True,
he had spoken regretfully of it to her, but he had
also mentioned it in connection with Mr. Field,
the man of all others whom he sought to avoid,
and she had no wish to stir up dangerous enquiries
by seeking to establish a claim to that which
had so long passed out of their hands.

Afraid of implicating her husband or doing
anything of which he would not approve, she
committed herself to nothing, merely assuring her
callers that she would gladly give up all idea of
the recovery of the property rather than involve
herself in legal or other toils.  Much against her
will, she at length permitted Elihu Pratt to make
a copy of the letter written to her by Mr. Field,
which she produced at their request, comforting
herself that it only afforded additional proof of
Gerald's supposed death, and might thus be of
advantage to him than otherwise.

"I am thankful to be leaving Sunbury to-day,"
she thought, "and that I shall be able to talk
it over with my husband this evening.  By
to-morrow I trust we shall be lost to the world in
the great whirlpool of London."

There was one thing only which Madelaine
desired to do before she left.  She could not
depart without bidding farewell to the man whom
she had so recently nursed back to life from the
very borders of the grave.

"I wish you would run up to the village and
ask Benjamin Green to come and see me, Robin,"
she said after the two visitors had left the house.
"Tell him we are going away this afternoon, and
that I want to say good-bye to him."

It was not long before Ben appeared, his arm
still in a sling, but otherwise almost recovered
from the effects of his late accident.

After a few moments' chat Madelaine excused
herself, saying she must finish her packing, as the
fly was coming for them soon after lunch.  She
shook hands cordially with her former patient,
but Ben still lingered.

"Mrs. Power," he began, but words seemed to
fail him, as he shuffled his feet awkwardly on the
carpet, and half turned away his head.  All at
once he hastily put his hand into his coat pocket
and took out a small parcel which he placed
upon the table before her.

"That is yours," he said.  "It was lying just
there when I took it."

"What can it be?" asked Madelaine in
surprise as she opened the packet.  "My
husband's watch!" she exclaimed in delight.  "How
did you get hold of it?  I am truly pleased to
have it back again."

With shame and contrition did Ben confess his
misdeeds, telling how on the night of his first
return to Sunbury, he had been tempted by the
open window as he prowled round the house
after his raid on Robin's ducks.

"I've got Mother Sheppard's bag of coin here
also," he said, "and the three and ninepence
that was for the missionaries, though I'm sorry
the box is gone.  It would be mighty kind of you
if you would let me hand it all over to you, so
that you might give it back to them as rightly
owns it.  I've got the promise of two nice fowls
for you, which I'll just run over and fetch before
you leave, if you won't mind taking them instead
of the other birds that I pinched."

"It is very brave of you, Ben, and of course
right to tell me this," remarked Madelaine, "for
I had no suspicion of it."

"It's no use saying a fellow wants to be a
Christian if he don't act like one," replied Ben.
"If Christ is my Master, I must see to it that I
don't do the Devil's bidding.  It's the least I
can do to give back what isn't mine, even if it
lands me in the lock-up, where I ought of rights
to be, if I got my deserts."

"Who am I that I should accuse him?"
said Madelaine to herself as she listened to his
confession.  "Surely I of all others should deal
mercifully with those who have gone astray, and
who desire to return, remembering all my Gerald
has gone through."

With gentle words she assured Ben of her
forgiveness, and told him she would answer also
for Mrs. Sheppard and Robin.

"You have begun well," she said at length,
"for this has been a hard thing to do.  May God
help you to persevere."

"Would you mind me asking you one thing
before I go?" said Ben.  "There was some
writing inside the watch, saying as it belonged
to a Gerald Barker.  I came across someone of
that name out west about ten years ago, but he
disappeared rather sudden, and the report got
about that he was drowned.  When you cried
out just now, saying it was your husband's watch,
I wondered could he have been the same Barker
I'd known then.  If so be as it was, I suppose
you've married again, seeing you're Mrs. Power now."

Madelaine wished she had bitten her tongue
out before she uttered the exclamation
with which she greeted the sight of the watch.

"I have never married again," she faltered.
"It was owing to a legacy that I was obliged to
change my name."

Ben looked at her narrowly, surprised at the
sudden alteration in her voice.

"Was Barker not drowned then, after all?"
he asked.  "It is very queer, but I could almost
swear that I caught a glimpse of his face last
night as I went back to the inn.  I was rather
late coming home from a friend's and someone
was lighting his pipe at the corner of this road
as I passed.  The match flared up for a second,
and I thought to myself at the time, 'How like
Jerry,' as we used to call him.  I sang out, 'Who
goes there?' but the man had vanished before I
got to the turn.  If so be that your husband is
still living as you give me to understand, I guess
it was really he that I met, and that he's staying
here with you now.  By the way, I remember
Barker used to be a chum of Field's.  The last
time we three were together was in Wattie Long's
house in the backwoods.  It's a night I couldn't
well forget.  It would be odd if we met again
here in Sunbury after so many years."

"Oh, please don't say anything to Mr. Field
about it!" cried Madelaine piteously.  "Ben, I
must throw myself on your mercy, as I believe
you wish to be my friend.  You must know all,
if you were in the hut that night, so I need not
hide anything from you.  The kindest deed you
can do both to my husband and me is to say
nothing about this unexpected meeting.  Gerald
is dead to all intents and purposes, and you can
do no good to anyone by publishing his existence
to the world."

"You may be sure I wouldn't lift a finger to
hurt you or any of yours, Mrs. Power," answered
Ben earnestly.  "I have too much cause to bless
you for all you did for me.  If Barker wants to
lie low, I'm not the one to give him away."

"I trust you," replied Madelaine, "and I am
sure you will not mention to anyone that you
have seen him here.  Only I would just like you
to understand, Ben, before I leave, that my dear
husband was not conscious of what he did that
fatal night when you last met.  It was from
Mr. Field's lips that he learnt the consequences of his
hasty blow.  He must have been maddened by
the strong liquor which had flowed so freely
among you, for he had no spite against poor
Mr. Long, and can recollect nothing of the quarrel
which laid the old man dead at his feet.  As you
know, he tried to drown himself in despair, after
he realized what he had done, but God in His
mercy saved him and gave him another chance.
Sorely has the terrible crime blighted both his
life and mine, but he has sincerely repented, and
indeed is now going to make amends, if he can,
for his sin."

For a moment Ben stood as if meditating upon
her words.

"And has Gerald Barker been in hiding all
these years because of this?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Madelaine, "and I am in
mortal dread lest Mr. Field should hear of him
being in England, and give information which
might lead to his immediate conviction.  Until
yesterday, I myself believed him to have perished
in the waters, and we have only just been restored
to one another again.  Like yourself, Ben, he has
lately come to see things differently, and has
made up his mind to return to California at once,
so as to give himself up voluntarily before a
magistrate.  I am counting more than I can say
on the few precious days that remain for us to be
together on the voyage, and I think I should break
my heart if he was snatched away from me now."

"Never you fear," was the answer, as Ben
took his departure.  "I'm your friend to the
backbone, Mrs. Power, and sorry should I be to
harm you either by word or deed."

It would, however, have disturbed Madelaine
greatly had she known that Green's first act on
leaving her was to walk straight to the Vicarage,
where he requested a few moments' conversation
with the clergyman, who was also a Justice of the
Peace.  She would have been still more anxious
had she seen the two men set out almost at once
in the direction of Farncourt.

"Are the American gentlemen still with Mr. Field?"
asked Ben, as the butler opened the door.

"That's lucky," he remarked to the vicar, on
receiving an answer in the affirmative.  "I
thought I recognized Elihu Pratt as he motored
past.  He was pointed out to me one day in New
York as one of the rising men.  I'm glad he's still
here, for he may be useful to us."

Thus it was, that as Mr. Field uttered the
words recorded in the last chapter, the door of
the study opened, and the vicar and Benjamin
Green entered the room.

"Why, here is the very man we wanted," said
Judge Simmons, as the servant announced the
new-comers.  "He may be able to throw light
not only on the document before us, but on the
astounding statement which Mr. Field has just
made.  Mr. Green, would you first kindly tell us
whether you can identify this signature as yours?"

"Yes, that is my handwriting," replied Ben,
as he laid down the paper, "and I see the other
witness is Walter Long."

"Mr. Field has just informed us that this same
Walter Long was murdered by Gerald Barker, the
man in whose name the deed is made out, and
that Barker threw himself into the river in
dismay at having committed such a crime,"
continued the judge.  "Discrepancies, however,
seem to multiply as we proceed further.  The
document, which purports to be a transfer of
Barker's land to Thomas Algernon Field, is dated
the day after that which Field himself gave to
Barker's wife as the one on which her husband
was drowned.  If Gerald Barker killed Walter
Long, how then is his victim's signature found
here also?"

"It is no great wonder that I made an error in
writing to Mrs. Barker," blurted out Mr. Field
impatiently, "but Ben acknowledges himself
that he signed the transfer all right, so why
should you keep on harping about it like this?"

As he spoke, the harassed man sought to catch
Ben's eye, in a desperate endeavour to convey
some signal of warning or appeal.

"I never knew what the paper contained till
this moment," exclaimed Ben, ignoring the look.
"It clears up a good deal that was difficult to
understand.  You remember, Field, you would
not let me read it, being as you said, your own
private will, and you told me to be sharp about
it, as you were in such a hurry to be off.  I know
now what it was, and why you sat up writing half
the night when you believed I was asleep.  You
considered it a good opportunity to get hold of
Barker's claim, and, seeing he had already done
away with himself, I suppose you thought you were safe."

"You dare to accuse me in this manner?"
shouted Mr. Field, crimsoning with fury.  "I
challenge you to prove the truth of your words."

"I now also know why you wanted Wattie's
letter," continued Ben, taking no notice of the
interruption.  "I saw you steal it out of the
old man's coat.  It was a rare chance for you to
copy his name also, he lying powerless in the next
room and unable to testify that it was forged."

"Can you tell us exactly under what circumstances
this interview between you and Mr. Field
took place?" asked Judge Simmons.

"When I put my name there, in Wattie's own
hut in the backwoods," replied Ben, "he had
already been felled by the cowardly blow, and
Barker had been gone some hours."

"Did you see Barker knock the old man
down?" questioned Mr. Pratt.

"Barker never lifted a finger against anyone,"
answered Ben bluntly.

"Why then, who struck him?" exclaimed
Judge Simmons in surprise.

"There stands the man who did it!" said Ben,
dramatically pointing with his finger at Mr. Field,
as he stood livid and trembling before his accuser.
"He evidently thought I was too drunk to notice
it, but I had still enough sense to know what
happened.  Field and Wattie had been playing
cards, and no doubt Field lost, for all of a sudden
he got up in a towering rage, shouting out
something about a cheat.  I myself saw Field dash
Wattie to the ground with his fist.  The poor
chap fell against a corner of the table, gashing his
head horribly upon the edge.  I watched Field go
to him and bind up the wound, but the old man
never spoke or moved.  Field then carried him
to the inner room where there was a bed, and
shut the door.

"What had Barker to do with it then?"
enquired Judge Simons.

"Gerald had no hand in it at all," answered
Ben.  "He was lying on the floor all the time,
sleeping off his bout.  Field had been egging him
on to drink the whole evening, and he had had
more than enough, being a tender-foot and not
used to our liquor."

"What followed?" asked Mr. Pratt, as he
jotted down something in his note-book.

"I went to sleep too after a time," continued
Ben, "and when I woke, Barker was gone, and
Field was sitting at the table writing for all he
was worth.  It was then I saw him steal old
Wattie's letter.  He got me to sign something
when I was coming round, but I was too mixed
to know what it was.  That's the very paper
you have there, with my signature at the foot.
Next morning Field hurried me off with him at
dawn, we having arranged beforehand to travel
together to the south.  I thought Wattie was
still resting after the blow, and Field persuaded
me not to disturb him, as he was asleep.  We
separated as soon as we reached the nearest
station, and I never met him again until I found
him here in Sunbury on my return home."

"You lie!" thundered Mr. Field.  "Every
statement you have made is false!  You confess
that you were drunk, so how can you give any
reliable account of what took place?  Surely
Barker's deliberate attempt at suicide is enough
to prove his acknowledgment of the crime.  It
is preposterous to try to lay it at my door.  What
witness can you bring to prove your accusation?
It is only one man's word against another, and I
have as good a right as you to be believed."

"There is a witness whom I can bring,"
answered Ben calmly, "and one whose evidence
will be conclusive too."

"Who is it, pray?" asked Mr. Field with a
mocking laugh.

"Old Wattie himself," was Ben's reply.

As he said the words, Mr. Field suddenly threw
up his hands, and staggering to a chair, fell back
unconscious upon the cushions.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Good Hope`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX


.. class:: center large bold

   Good Hope

.. vspace:: 2

All was commotion and confusion at
Farncourt as servants hurried hither and
thither, and a message was sent off to the doctor
to come without delay to the assistance of the
master of the big house, who meanwhile lay so
helpless within its walls.

"It was a stroke," said Ben to Mrs. Power, as
he stood in her little parlour giving an account of
the sudden seizure.  "They say he may regain
consciousness towards the end, but there is no
hope that he can recover."

"How did it come on?" asked Madelaine.
"He seemed quite well when I saw him yesterday."

"The two American gentlemen are coming to
explain," answered Ben, "as it has something to
do with you, Mrs. Power.  They will be here in a
few minutes."

"Something to do with me!" repeated Madelaine
in astonishment.  "I don't understand."

A motor drew up to the gate as she spoke,
and she was soon listening to the strange tale.
Clearly and concisely did Judge Simmons lay
the whole case before her, dwelling as gently as
he could upon the sick man's guilt, but demonstrating
to her in no uncertain terms the cruel
deception which had been practised upon her
husband, blighting his life for so long.

"Do you mean to say that Gerald is entirely
innocent?" she asked, hardly able to take in the
wonderful news.  "Am I right in believing that
he did not even strike old Mr. Long--much less
kill him?"

"There is absolutely nothing against him,"
replied the judge.  "He is free to hold up his head
with any man."

The chauffeur had by this time been sent off in
the car to Mrs. Potter's, with instructions to bring
Mr. Barker back with him at once to Sea View
Cottage.  Gerald had already started on his
six-mile walk to the railway, but it was not long
before the motor had overtaken the traveller,
and a note from Madelaine put into her husband's
hands, bidding him come to her without delay.

It was a joyful reunion when at length Gerald
made his appearance at the cottage, and the glad
tidings were broken to the exiled man.  Again
and again he had to be told the details of the
marvellous story, while he listened hungrily, his
eyes glittering with new hope and his cheeks
flushed with the emotion which he did not seek
to hide.

"Is it indeed true that I can live out the rest
of my life openly before all?" he said at last,
"with no haunting spectre dogging my steps or
barring the way to rest and happiness?  What
these past years have been to me in their utter
misery, no one will ever know.  I feel as if a
crushing burden had been suddenly lifted off, and
my heart is light once more.  Oh, Madelaine, we
need talk no more of separation.  It is as if
the sunshine had all at once flooded our future.
Please God it may be a very happy one both for
us and our little son.  As long as I live, I can
never praise Him enough for what He has done!"

For some time did the little company remain,
talking over the many eventful circumstances
of the past.

"I never could make out why Mr. Field always
seemed to be in such a fright, as if something was
hanging over him," said Ben.  "The worst thing
I laid to his charge was some sort of forgery, to
which I had unwittingly put my hand.  The
suspicion of a crime did not enter my head, as I
had no idea there had been any talk of Wattie's
death.  Many a time have I seen the old man
and talked with him since the day when all this
coil began.  I had no cause to question what
Field told me, and believed he was merely sleeping
off the double effects of the drink and the blow
when we went off that morning, and never
imagined there had ever been any serious danger
at all.  He was very indignant with us for deserting
him as we did, and no wonder, for he was only
just breathing when some lumber-men happened
to come in, and looked after him like good
Samaritans for a day or two till he got better.  He was
afraid of being left alone in the hut after that,
and soon went off to a married daughter in
Toronto, where he has been ever since.  I suppose that
is why Mr. Field did not come across him again,
and so never doubted that he was actually dead, as
might well have been the case had he been left
to our tender mercies."

"Do you realize now what your position is
in regard to your little property in California?"
asked Mr. Pratt at last.  He turned to Gerald
and looked at him with an amused smile as he
put the question.

"I seem to care for nothing except that the
intolerable weight has gone, which has crushed
me down for ten interminable years," was the
reply, "but I expect I shall take the first
opportunity of getting rid of anything that is mine in
Wild Goat Gully.  I never want to see the place again."

"You won't have many offers," said Mr. Pratt,
with a knowing nod.

"Not worth anything, I suppose," answered
Gerald.  "Well, I thought as much, only I
don't seem to care."

"There are not a dozen men in the world who
could bid for it," returned Mr. Pratt.  "Do you
understand, Mr. Barker, that you are now the
Silver King?"

It was indeed with feelings of astonishment
that Gerald and Madelaine listened to the account
of the Good Hope mine, with that tell-tale orange
streak across its rocky wall, and learned that its
rich treasures were indisputably their own.

Not till a week later were they able to grasp
the reality of what it all meant, when they
were called to the dying bed of the man who
had robbed them not only of their heritage but of
their peace.  Broken and penitent, Thomas Field
made full confession of his sin, praying those he
had injured to forgive him for the wrong which
he had done.

It was Gerald Barker who supported the sick
man's head in that last dread struggle for breath,
and Madelaine who closed his eyes as he passed
away from the world he had so much misused.

"You promised you would be good to my
boy," he gasped a few minutes before the end.
"He is blameless, though he must suffer for his
father's evil deeds, poor little chap."

"He is going to be our boy now," answered
Madelaine, putting her arm round the sobbing
child.  "Robin and he will be brothers in everything,
and Julius shall share with him both our
home and our love."

To the utmost did Gerald and his wife fulfil
their promise to the erring parent, and brighter
days dawned for little Julius than he had ever
experienced before.  To a stranger's eyes, no
difference could be seen in their loving care for
the two lads.

"They shall share and share alike," said
Gerald.  "It was Julius' father who first
exploited the mine, and his enterprise that carried
it on, so it is only fair that his son should reap
some of the reward.  I hold this wealth as a trust
from God.  I am but a steward of His to see that
it is spent as He would desire, and my wish is that
the boys may be brought up to use rightly what
will one day be theirs."

As for Benjamin Green, who helped so largely
in bringing the truth at length to light, his
energies could not long be confined to quiet Sunbury.
When Mr. Barker offered him an important
position in connection with the "Good Hope"
he accepted gladly, and for many years proved
himself not only a capable servant, but a faithful
friend.

It is as bright Harrow boys, home for the
holidays, that we must take our last glimpse of Robin
and Julius, as they sit talking with Gerald and
Madelaine round the drawing-room fire at Farncourt.
Robin's fair curly head is laid against his
mother's knee, and Julius' dark one is not far
off, both lads lounging contentedly upon the
hearthrug, which they share with a fine
deerhound and Pat the terrier.

"You should have seen Julius win the hundred
yards' race, father," said Robin.  "It was simply
splendid.  All the other fellows were bigger than
he was, but he led from start to finish."

"That's nothing to Robin at the high jump,"
put in Julius.  "The people just roared when
he cleared the bar time after time.  He broke the
record for boys under twelve, you know."

"So you like school," remarked Gerald, "and
have had a good term on the whole?"

"Rather!" replied both boys simultaneously.
"Though it's jolly to be home again," added
Julius, as he looked up trustfully into Madelaine's
face.

"Why, mother, you have actually got that
old text of mine framed!" exclaimed Robin
suddenly, as he sat up and looked at the table
opposite.  "I thought it was washed away the
night of the storm, when our hut was destroyed."

"I must apologize to you, Robin," said his
father, "for having so coolly walked off with
your property.  I went back on purpose to take
it that night when the tempest broke, and I
got so ill.  Your mother found a nice corner
for it beside her writing materials, so we put
it up there."

"It reminds me of so many things," said
Madelaine.  "I like to look at it."

"I've often thought of it at school," remarked
Robin, "when things weren't going quite straight.
It somehow seems to put them right.  You see
if 'the eyes of the LORD are in every place,
beholding the evil and the good,' it's bound to make
one more careful."

"Yes," said Julius, "and if one is down or
sorry, it's a help to think of it too--that is, of
course, after you've found out that He's the best
Friend of all."

.. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center small

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.. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

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.. vspace:: 4

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.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

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.. class:: center

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