Part 8

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*CHAPTER XV*

*Alive from the Dead*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*CHAPTER XVI*

*For Conscience' Sake*

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

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

Madelaine gave a little gasp of horror.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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