When Saturday morning arrived and the Skylark had not been sighted, Sir Charles began to grow suspicious. An hour or two later his worst fears were confirmed. A letter was handed to him in Madeline's handwriting. The postmark, he noticed, was Genoa. He could hardly keep his hand steady while he tore open the envelope, and when he began to read his face grew ashen.

The letter was brief and quite explicit. She had no intention, she said, of returning again to Nice or to Cornwall. She was going back to America with the Harveys. For many things she was sorry she ever left it. She had been unhappy for months past—ever since the return of Gervase, in fact. To become his wife was simply impossible. She expressed her regret for any pain or annoyance she had caused, and her thanks for all kindnesses she had received. She regarded the appearance of the Harveys on the scene as an interposition of Providence, and her escape from an intolerable position as a direct answer to prayer.

Sir Charles had not got over the anger and disgust produced by this frank epistle when Gervase came hurriedly into the room, with blanched cheeks and a wild light in his eyes.

"Do you know that Madeline has given us the slip?" he said, in a hoarse whisper.

"Have you heard from her also?"

"Then you know?" he questioned, with a gasp. "What has she said to you? Let me see her letter."

Sir Charles handed him Madeline's letter without a word. Gervase read it carefully, and then handed it back with a little sigh of relief. She had not told his father what she had told him, and for that mercy he was supremely grateful.

For several moments the two men looked at each other in silence. Neither had the courage to blame the other, and yet neither was disposed to take the blame himself. Gervase was convinced that his father played the game badly at the beginning, but he had played it worse at the end. Hence it was bad policy to fling stones while he lived in a glass-house himself. A similar train of thought wound its way slowly through Sir Charles's brain. From his point of view Gervase had played the fool again and again, though he saw now that the waiting policy he had advocated was a huge mistake. So while he was inclined to throw the principal share of blame on to Gervase's shoulders, he was bound to take a share himself.

"I suppose we may conclude," Gervase said, at length, in a lugubrious tone, "that the game is up."

"I'm afraid it is," Sir Charles answered, with suppressed emotion.

"It's a beastly shame, for I've been counting on her fortune for years past."

"It's an awful miss. Her fortune would have set the Tregonys on their feet."

"It's no use trying to get her back, I suppose?"

"Do you think you could yet persuade her to marry you?"

Gervase blushed, and walked to the window and looked out into the courtyard.

"Girls are such curious things," he muttered, evasively. "You never know when you have them."

"I can't help thinking you played your cards badly, Gervase. She seemed to idolise you when she came to Trewinion, and looked forward so eagerly to your return."

"The mistake was in not marrying her right off when we met at Washington. She would have said 'yes' like a shot, for she was awfully gone on me. She adored soldiers at that time, and regarded me as a hero."

Sir Charles heaved a sigh and remained silent for several moments.

"Would you mind letting me see her letter to you?" he questioned, at length.

"Sorry, father, but—but—I've destroyed it," he blurted out, awkwardly. This was not the truth, but he wouldn't for the world that his father should read what she said to him.

"Destroyed it? What did you do that for?" Sir Charles asked, suspiciously.

"I was just mad and hardly knew what I was doing. It seemed the only way I could give vent to my anger. I tore it into millions of bits."

"What reasons did she give for her outrageous conduct?"

"Well, in some respects it was an awfully nice letter she wrote. She said she admired me as a friend immensely. But she didn't love me as she felt she ought to do, which made her unhappy, and so she thought it best to go away without any fuss, and all that, don't you know."

"And do you believe she still admires you?"

"Why, of course I do. She said so, in fact. I wish I hadn't destroyed her letter. There were some awfully nice sentiments in it, I can assure you."

"Then why were you so angry?"

"Why, because I saw I was up a tree. When a girl you want to marry talks about being a sister to you, and all that, don't you know, it makes one angrier than anything."

"Well, yes, I suppose it does. I'm terribly disappointed, Madeline was a chance in a lifetime."

"But rather smacked of trade, don't you think? You know very well if she'd been an English girl, you wouldn't have considered her for a moment."

"That may be. But since even dukes marry tradesmen's daughters—provided, of course, they hail from across the water—there was no reason why we should turn up our noses."

"I'm too poverty-stricken to turn up my nose at anything. I'd marry a barmaid if she only had sufficient of the needful."

"Don't talk nonsense, Gervase, I thought you were really fond of Madeline, apart from her money."

"So I am. She's awfully pretty, there's no denying that. But I'm too old to break my heart over any woman. It's the tin—or the lack of it—that is troubling me."

"You'll have to curtail your expenses, Gervase; there's nothing else for it. I cannot possibly increase your allowance. The fact is, we shall have to economise all round."

"I'm always economising," was the angry retort. "It's been pinch and grind ever since I was born."

"That's not my fault, my boy. I'm getting the biggest rents I can possibly squeeze out of the tenants as it is, and there's no chance of things mending unless we can get Protection."

"And that we may whistle for."

"Why so?"

"Because the people have got educated. An awful mistake, I say, to educate the working classes. An ignorant proletariat you may hoodwink and bamboozle to your heart's content; but no enlightened community is going to consent to have its bread taxed for the benefit of the landowners."

"The people will have to be shown it's for their benefit. That's the game to play."

"No doubt. But it will take a mighty clever man to prove even to a public-house loafer that the dearer things are made, the better off he will be."

"But you must not forget that there are some very clever men at work."

"They are not clever enough for that."

"You don't know. They have undertaken more difficult tasks and succeeded. Think of South Africa!"

"I'd rather not. It won't bear thinking about."

"Nevertheless, it shows what can be done. The masses of the people are more easily persuaded than you think. Education, you must remember, is not sense. Hit upon a popular cry, and the rest is easy."

"But no country can be gulled twice in so short a period. No, dad, our fortunes are not to be mended along those lines."

"I am not so sure. A good stirring appeal to patriotism will work wonders still. 'England for the English——'"

"England for the English landlords, you mean, for that's what it comes to in the end."

"No doubt it does. But while a few people own the land it is well that the masses should think that England belongs to them."

"But do they think that England belongs to them?"

"Of course they do. There isn't a man-jack among them that will not talk big about defending his country and dying for his country, when he doesn't possess a foot of it, and hasn't money enough to buy a grave to be buried in."

"Well, dad, I sincerely trust that your hopes will be realised, and that England will consent to be gulled again for the benefit of a few. Good heavens! if I'd only been an army contractor instead of a soldier, I should have made my fortune."

"Your only hope of a fortune, Gervase, is by marrying one," and Sir Charles put Madeline's letter into his pocket and walked out of the room.

For the rest of the day Gervase loitered about alone. He was much more troubled than he let his father see. Madeline had accused him of treachery to Rufus Sterne, and had hinted in words too plain to be misunderstood that she had proof that he bribed Tim Polgarrow to commit perjury. If Madeline, therefore, had discovered this, how did he know that other people had not made the same discovery? He felt that he could not return to St. Gaved again until he knew. If Tim had let the secret out, his best course would be to keep out of sight until the storm had blown over, and people had forgotten the incident.

So it came about that Sir Charles and the others returned without him. Gervase promised to follow in a week or two at the outside. But a run of luck at Monte Carlo kept him a slave at the Casino. This was followed by a run of bad luck during which he lost all he had won. Then he remained on, trying to recover his lost position, and in the end he had to cable to his father for a remittance to bring him home.

Gervase had not been at Trewinion many days before the truth about Madeline began to leak out. Sir Charles had been too chagrined to give the smallest hint as to her whereabouts, or even to mention her name if it could be avoided, and Beryl and Lady Tregony took their cue from him. But Gervase, discovering that he was still in good odour among the people, and that the secret Madeline had discovered appeared to be known to no one else, concluded that nothing was to be gained by a policy of silence. He need not tell all the truth; in fact, he could put his own gloss on the facts as they stood, and so it began to be whispered about that Miss Grover had decided on visiting her friends in America before finally settling in England.

Rufus Sterne heard the story from Mrs. Tuke with apparent unconcern. He argued quite naturally that it was a matter of supreme indifference to him whether she went to America or remained in England. His life—by fair means or by foul—was drawing to its inevitable close. There was some sense of satisfaction in the thought that she was not Gervase Tregony's wife. She deserved a better fate than that. He hoped she had discovered his true character and that among her own people in her own country she would find all the happiness she deserved; and with these reflections he tried to put her out of his mind.

His thoughts in the main were intent upon the tragedy that was daily drawing nearer. His daily hope and prayer was that God would release him from the burden of life, and so save him from the guilt and shame of dying by his own hand.

Failing this, he had no doubt as to how the final act would be brought about. Much as he shrank from the disgrace of dying in the manner contemplated, he shrank more from the disgrace of living, should his courage fail him. To face his ruined friend, his broken pledge, his tarnished honour, would be death repeated every day, and every hour of the day.

He was not a little surprised to find, as the days and weeks passed swiftly away, how without effort and without volition his mind fastened itself upon the dominant truths of Christianity. He gave up reading. He still absented himself from church and chapel. But bit by bit the rags of his materialistic philosophy dropped from him, while the simple truths of the gospel possessed him and obsessed him, until he felt that only here was life in any true sense to be found.

The philosophisings and hair-splittings of theologians did not concern him. The elaborate edifices built up by the creed-makers possessed for him no interest at all. But the warm sympathy of the Son of Man, the tender influence of the universal Spirit, the growing consciousness of a supreme Ruler, the clearing vision of a life beyond—these things seemed as parts of his being, the stuff out of which his life was woven.

He wondered now that his youthful revolt from the narrow creed of his grandfather should have carried him so far; wondered that he had not earlier seen that human creeds must of necessity be ever too narrow to represent the Divine idea; wondered that he had not seen the obvious truth that ecclesiasticism may bear but a faint resemblance to Christianity, and that "the Church," so called, may form but a very small portion of the Kingdom of God.

But it was all clear enough to him now. He had cast away what he fancied was only husk, not knowing that the kernel of truth was within. He had tried to wrap his naked spirit in something thinner than a shadow, had sought to choke the soul's deepest instinct in the quagmire of a Godless philosophy, and had prated about happiness, while steeping his senses in the fumes of a deadly narcotic.

What lay beyond he did not know. But he had a fancy that the great universal Heart of Love would give him a chance under better conditions, and that at worst it would be better than the awful torture of the last few months. He was not afraid, and he was becoming again so terribly weary that the thought of rest was infinitely sweet. There was very little he had to give up. No home ties bound him to earth, no arms of wife or children hung about his neck. His ambitions had been nipped by the frosts of disappointment, and were now dead. His love for Madeline Grover—which had been the strongest and purest passion of his life—was hopeless from the first.

It was only existence amid familiar surroundings that he had to part with—only existence! And yet how much that meant to him, even in the darkest hours, no words could tell. The passion for life nothing could kill, and that seemed to him one of the strong arguments in proof of immortality.

One afternoon, in his little office, he fell down in a dead faint, and remained unconscious for several hours. The long summer day was fading into twilight when he opened his eyes, and saw the familiar face of Dr. Pendarvis bending over him.

"Have I been ill?" he asked, looking round the room with wondering eyes.

"You've had a slight heat stroke, I think, but you needn't be alarmed."

"I'm not in the least alarmed," he said, with a pathetic smile; "but I hate giving Mrs. Tuke so much trouble."

"You've been overworking yourself rather. I've seen it for months past. When you are a little recovered, I'll give you a complete overhauling," and he smiled cheerfully.

"Then you think I shall recover?"

"Of course you will recover. But, meanwhile, keep quite still, and don't worry."

Rufus hoped for a day or two that his illness would take a fatal turn. He wanted so much to die quietly at home in bed; it would be such a perfect solution of the whole difficulty. But it was not to be.

In a few days he was up and about again. "You want toning up," the doctor said to him. "There is really nothing the matter with you except that you are run down. Take more exercise, get a sea bath two or three times a week, and be careful what you eat."

Rufus told Mrs. Tuke and Captain Tom Hendy what the doctor had prescribed, and proceeded at once to carry out his orders. But no one knew the thought that was in his mind. Some day he would not return from his short swim in the sea, and then he would be at rest. It would be very easy, and almost as natural as dying at home in bed.

The weather was brilliantly fine. The yellow corn was falling before the sickle in all directions, the sea danced and shimmered in the sunshine, the flowers drooped in the windless heat. To all appearances Rufus was recovering his health and spirits. He told Mrs. Tuke that he enjoyed his morning bath. His appetite seemed better than it had been for weeks past, and once or twice she heard him humming a hymn tune after he had gone upstairs to bed.

"I'm glad I stood by him," Mrs. Tuke reflected, with a smile of self-satisfaction, "for I believe he is coming back to the fold again."

One evening Rufus sat up very late. He had gone through his papers again to see that everything was in order, and now he sat staring at the clock on the mantelpiece, and listening to its solemn and regular tick.

"To-morrow will be just as good as next week," he said to himself. "As it must come, better it should come quickly. I could have done it this morning easily enough, and I don't think it will be at all painful. So let it be then," he added, rising to his feet. "The next time I go into the sea I do not return," and he put the lights out, and climbed slowly and silently to his bedroom.

Before undressing he knelt down and prayed. He asked for strength and pardon, and a just and merciful judgment.

He felt like a child when he rose from his knees, and a few minutes after he laid his head on the pillow he was fast asleep.