Doctor Forester

SOLOMON, the wisest of men, has expressed his conviction that there is nothing new under the sun. If our great-grandparents were to come out of their graves, they might feel inclined to reverse this well-known saying, and might exclaim, in amazement and in somewhat a regretful tone, that there is nothing old under the sun. For in these times of invention and discovery, of increasingly rapid motion, and of life at the highest tension, they would find it difficult to come across any reminiscence of their own slow-going, leisurely days, and would be inclined to pity us, their descendants, and to deplore the racket and hurry in which we are compelled to spend our short span of earthly life. They might roam in spirit form disconsolately up and down our island, like the wandering demons of old, seeking rest and finding none, trying to discover some vestige of the peaceful times in which they used to live, and striving to find a spot from which the rush of life is excluded, and in which they might once more feel at home.

Should any of these ghosts of our ancestors return to earth, and consult us with regard to the locality in which they would still be reminded of the peaceful Britain of their days, we should most certainly advise them to turn their attention to the promontory known by the name of the Garroch, which stretches into the sea for several miles, and forms one of the most beautiful parts of our picturesque western coast. There our ancestors might still come across village after village, each so remote from the noise and the bustle of the railway, so primitive in its customs, so unconventional in its mode of life, so thoroughly peaceful in its surroundings, that they might feel that they were brought once more into touch with life, and might enjoy to the full many quiet and peaceful memories of the well-known days of old.

The large and busy town of Llantrug is the only link that the people of the Garroch possess with the busy world, and many of them live fourteen, sixteen, or even twenty miles away from it, and barely ever visit it. Indeed, many of the older people pass year after year without hearing the whistle of an engine or the noisy rattle of an approaching train; and they count themselves most fortunate that their lot is cast in calm and still waters, far removed from the stormy waves of modern life. They do not, for even a moment, envy the young people who are able to go to town, and to whom an occasional visit to its busy streets and shops is a welcome break in the dull monotony of country life.

Outside the railway station at Llantrug the Garroch coach was standing, waiting for the arrival of the evening train. It was only twice a week that this coach came to town, and gave the inhabitants of those far-off regions an opportunity of reaching the world beyond the promontory, and a certain number of them always availed themselves of it. They came in by the early coach, called irreverently on the Garroch the ‘bus, did their marketing and other business in Llantrug, and returned by it in the evening, arriving at the end of their long drive between nine and ten o’clock at night.

As it stood in the station yard, the inside of the coach was filled with these country people—women with large market-baskets, farmers with good-natured, sunburnt faces, girls who had been to see the fashions and to buy their new hats, and children taken into town by their parents as a wonderful treat, that they might see the shops, and the trams, and the bustle of Llantrug.

But the coach never started till the evening train was in, and the Garroch people had to wait, patiently or impatiently as the case might be, for the train was an hour late. The driver stood by the horses and looked anxiously from time to time in the direction of the expected train. Again and again he had turned round with a disappointed air, but at length, with satisfaction beaming on his countenance, he put his head inside the coach and announced: ‘She’s coming.’

Many a sigh of relief escaped from the long-suffering passengers when they heard this welcome news, and now all looked out to discover whether anyone bound for the Garroch had arrived by the train. In a few minutes a porter appeared with a heavily laden truck of luggage.

‘All that!’ exclaimed the driver.

‘Yes, and more to follow,’ said the man; ‘and four passengers!’

At this moment two of the passengers appeared, and the country people inside eyed them curiously. They saw an elderly gentleman in spectacles and a long grey overcoat, and with him a young lady who they concluded was his daughter. Most of the luggage appeared to belong to them, for the gentleman was scanning it anxiously, and was counting each package as it was taken off the truck.

‘Five, six, seven; I thought there were eight, Doris,’ he said.

‘Yes, there were eight; it’s your portmanteau that’s missing, father.’

The elderly gentleman went off in search of it, followed by the porter, and whilst they were away the two other passengers came up. One was a short, sickly looking man with thin lips and sharp features, a man of thirty-five or thereabouts, who looked as if he had seen the shady side of life and had not much chance of seeing any other. He had evidently been into the Garroch before, for he greeted the driver as an old friend, and nodded familiarly to several of those inside the coach. The fourth passenger was a tall, young man, more than six feet high, in a long, light overcoat. His luggage consisted of several extraordinary packages sewn up in canvas, and two portmanteaus, evidently quite new and unused before, on which were inscribed the initials, N. S. F. He had light brown hair, grey eyes, regular features, and a distinctly handsome face; but as the young lady, who was standing near the coach and waiting for her father, glanced at him, she thought she had never in her life seen a more melancholy expression on any human face. And yet the next moment, when he was speaking to the driver and helping him to adjust some of the packages on the, top of the coach, he smiled at some remark that was made, and she immediately wondered at herself for having thought him melancholy, and decided that his was the merriest face she had ever seen. But the brightness was only a passing gleam, like a ray of sunshine streaming through a rent in a storm cloud. For the melancholy returned immediately and seemed more settled than before.

It took some time to pack the luggage and to find places for the four passengers. None of them wished to go inside, for which the Garroch people were devoutly thankful, as they were already tightly wedged into their places. The two younger men climbed on to the box, and the father and daughter were helped by the driver to mount to the seat behind.

It was a relief to everyone when all was ready and they were actually off. Then the tongues inside the coach were busy, for the Garroch people all knew each other and had plenty of interests in common; but there was not much conversation amongst the outside passengers. The driver was a taciturn man, and was depressed by the long delay in Llantrug, so that, beyond answering an occasional question from the middle-aged man who sat next him, he took no notice of the passengers.

The old gentleman on the back seat brought a newspaper from his pocket, and began to read it as soon as they had left the streets of the town behind, whilst the girl amused herself by looking at the scenery through which they were passing, and occasionally glancing at her fellow-passengers. As for the young man, he spoke to no one, but lighted a cigar and smoked in silence.

They had been driving for some miles when they came to an extensive common, covered with bracken and gorse, and now and again with patches of purple heather; a breezy, pleasant place, far removed from the germ-laden smoke of the town. The sun was getting low in the sky as they crossed it, and the light was becoming mellow and golden.

The common seemed full of life: flocks of geese were wandering over the heather; crows and jackdaws were strutting about on the short grass; countless small birds were sitting on the furze bushes, and larks were singing their lullaby overhead.

The girl, whom her father had called Doris, had come from Birmingham, and the freshness and beauty of the scene charmed her beyond measure. The very stillness of the place—a silence broken only by the cries of the birds and the rumbling of the coach wheels —was a delightful change from the din and the racket of town life. The clear sky, the lovely tints of tree and fern and hedgerow were wonderfully refreshing to her, after gazing for months on the smoky atmosphere and begrimed vegetation of the Black Country. It would be a pleasure to live, even for a time, she thought, in such a beautiful, peaceful world as this.

It was when they were getting to the far side of the common, and were leaving its wildness behind, that the long silence was broken by another voice than that of the birds. It was the young man in the light overcoat who broke it. He took his cigar from his mouth and, turning to the driver, said:

‘What sort of hotel is there at Hildick?’

The driver and the man next him exchanged glances and laughed.

‘Hotel!—Hildick!’ said the driver; ‘you’ll have to look far enough, and long enough, before you find a hotel there. There isn’t such a thing, sir!’

‘Well, inn, public house, anything you like,’ said the young man.

‘There isn’t such a thing,’ echoed the thin-lipped passenger; ‘it’s plain to see you haven’t been to Hildick.’

‘Well, it’s to be hoped I can get a bed somewhere,’ answered the young man, as he put his cigar in his mouth again and relapsed into silence.

After some minutes the man next him looked at the driver, and said, ‘What about the Bank?’

‘Then there is a bank!’ said the young man in surprise.

The driver seemed, to think this an excellent joke, for he chuckled to himself as he answered, ‘A bank! Yes, sir, but never any money in it!’

‘Any room?’ asked the middle-aged man.

‘No, full up,’ answered the driver.

The sun had now set, and the sunset tints were coloring the sky in front of them. To the left they could see the grey sea, dull and cheerless; to the right, wooded hills, and quiet valleys in which the evening mists were gathering.

They passed through several villages, and by many lone cottages and solitary farmhouses, and as the night came on the load behind the horses became lighter, for one by one the Garroch people inside the coach reached their destination and departed, shouting goodnight to those left behind.

The road was a good one, well made and maintained, but Doris thought she had never seen one more hilly. It was like a switchback in its construction. At one moment the tired horses were toiling with their load up a terribly steep ascent, at the next they were going steeply downhill with the Leavy coach almost on their backs. Every now and then these hills were so long and difficult that everyone turned out of the coach to walk to the top.

It was on one of these occasions that Doris spoke to her tall fellow-passenger for the first time. The old gentleman had found such difficulty in getting down from his high seat and afterwards in climbing up to it again, that the driver advised him to stay where he was; but Doris was eager to walk, not only for the sake of the tired horses, but also because she was weary of sitting still on her high seat and longed for a little exercise. It was then that the young man came forward to help her to dismount, and gave her his strong hand as she made the final leap from the wheel. Doris thanked him, and for some time they walked on together in silence a little ahead of the coach. It was almost dark, and a heavy black cloud was driving up from the sea. Then suddenly the rain came, driving across the open country in a heavy pelting shower.

‘Let me get your coat,’ he said; and without waiting for an answer he ran back to the coach for it.

On his return Doris felt that, after his kindness to her, she ought not to let the silence continue; but he seemed little inclined for conversation. His answers were short and abrupt, and he spoke sometimes as if he were hardly conscious that he was speaking at all. Behind them came the horses, toiling patiently up the long hill. It was just as they drew near the top of it that he suddenly turned to her and asked, ‘Are you going to Hildick?’

‘Yes, we are going there for about six weeks,’ she answered.

Nothing more passed between them, and when they once more had to walk, downhill this time, and over a muddy, heavy road, he strode on alone and spoke to no one.

Doris thought she had seldom come across so unsociable a man. ‘And yet he looks as if he ought to be so different,’ she said to herself.

The laconic driver announced, when they were once more taking their seats at the bottom of the hilly that they were in Hildick Bay, and that they would soon be there—meaning by ‘there’ at the end of their long drive.

What the road was like it was impossible to see, for it was too dark to distinguish anything, and the rain still continued to fall heavily.

The thin-lipped man remarked that it would be a wild night at sea, but beyond a grunt from the driver no one took any notice of what he said. They were cold and wet, tired and hungry, and were longing above all things for the coach to reach its destination.

But even the longest drive comes to an end at last, and about a quarter of an hour after this the coach drew up at the door of the little post office at Hildick.

A crowd of villagers had collected, in spite of the wind and the rain, to await the arrival of the well-known ‘bus. Some of them were expecting parcels from Llantrug, others had come to meet friends who had been to the town, some were there merely to keep in touch with the outside world.

Doris and her father were going to a lodging at some little distance up the street, and the coach was going also to take their luggage.

‘Where can I get a bed?’ said the tall young man to the driver, as his packages were lifted down from the roof of the coach.

‘Can’t say,’ he answered; ‘every place almost is full up. P’r’aps they can tell you in there.’

He pointed with his whip in the direction of the post office. It was a little general shop with a tiny square window in which some of its wares were exhibited, and with a small counter at one end of it, where the post office business was transacted.

The young man went inside, but quickly came out again. ‘They can’t tell me of any place,’ he said. ‘Can none of you help me?’ he asked, turning to the crowd. ‘I’ve got my tent here,’ pointing to the large packages lying on the ground, ‘but I can’t get it up till morning.’

‘Here, Rupert, can’t you put him up at your place?’ said an old man who was standing by the horses. ‘Your folks haven’t come yet; have they?’

A tall, good-looking man stepped forward. He had dark hair and eyes, and a healthy sunburnt face. His voice and manner were very superior to those of the village people round him.

‘If you like to come with me, sir,’ he said, ‘I’ll see what we can do for you. I’ll get them to take your traps in here for the night.’

After a little confabulation inside the shop he returned, and helped the driver to carry in the canvas bundles and the tent pole. Then as the coach drove away he took up one of the new portmanteaus and led the way, whilst, with a short word of thanks, the tall young man took up the other portmanteau and followed him into the darkness.

As they passed under the light of the post office window, the first man looked at the luggage label which was tied to the handle of the portmanteau he was carrying, and this is what he saw there:

‘FORESTER,

Llantrug, via G.W.R.’

‘Forester; a good name that,’ he said to himself as he walked in front of the stranger up the steep hill; ‘I wonder if it belongs to a good sort of man?’

His companion did not say much to enlighten him on the subject, and Rupert glanced behind him from time to time, trying to discover what he was like, and wondering, somewhat anxiously, what his father would say when he told him he had brought a stranger to stay with them for the night.

At length, after climbing the hill for some way, Rupert stopped before a white gate, and put down the portmanteau for a moment whilst he opened it.

‘Where are we going?’ asked the stranger.

‘To the Castle, sir,’ said his guide.

‘The Castle; whose castle?’

‘Our castle’ —(this with a touch of justifiable pride in his voice)— ‘we’ve lived in it about four hundred years.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘We have, sir. I’m speaking the truth; father and son—father and son for four hundred years. There has always been a Norris at the Castle since Henry VIII. was king.’

‘Does it belong to you?’

‘No, not to own it; but we’ve rented it all the time. All the land, right away along the top of the hill on to the sea, is ours. You can see the old tombs of the Norris family in the church if you like. I often wonder what they were like, those old chaps whose names are there. See, that’s the Castle, sir, among the trees on the hill.’

The rain had stopped, and at this moment the full moon came out from behind a cloud. Forester looked up and saw in the moonlight one of the finest ruins he had ever beheld. High castle walls towered into the sky; a square keep stood out before him in which he could count the windows of six different stories; the whole place looked solemn and weird in the moonlight.

‘This is the back way in,’ said Rupert; ‘but it’s the shortest.’

They climbed a narrow stone stile and passed through the mysterious-looking ruins. A shrill cry made Forester start as he followed his guide. But it was only an owl, flying out of the ivy hanging from the high ruined wall which they were passing on their right. Several bats were whirling round overhead, doing their business by night as we men do it by day. They seemed in keeping with the place in which they lived, for the day of the old castle was over and its night had begun.

In a few moments, however, the scene was changed. They came to a part of the Castle still inhabited and which had never been allowed to fall into ruin, and from a large window the bright light of fire and lamp was illuminating the darkness outside. Forester was almost dazzled by the light as he came in from the gloom of the ruins.

Rupert led the way into the large farm kitchen, which was the very picture of cleanliness and comfort. If Forester had been an artist he would have liked to paint that old room, for it would have made a splendid subject for a picture; but he was no artist, and he was too tired and depressed to do more than glance at it and wait for his newfound friend. to introduce him to its occupants.

These were three in number. Sitting on a dark oak settle by the great open fire was an old man, spreading his hands to the warm blaze of the logs burning in the wide fireplace. In an ancient high-backed chair opposite him was a boy of ten, bending over a book which he was reading by the light of the fire, whilst his mother, a woman of about thirty, with light hair and a gentle refined face, was busily engaged in laying the supper table.

‘You’re late, Rupert!’ said the old man as he entered.

‘Yes, father; the bus was late, left Llantrug late; the London train was an hour behind time. I’ve got the parcel you wanted, and I’ve brought a gentleman with me.’

They all looked up at these words, and glanced at Forester, who was standing in the doorway, and whom they had not noticed before.

‘He has come to camp out, and has brought his tent with him.’ Rupert explained; but, of course, he can’t put it up tonight, and he can’t find a bed in the village anywhere; they’re all full up. So I thought perhaps we could put him up tonight; it’s a wild kind of night to be wandering about in a strange place.’

‘I’m sure if you can give me a bed I shall be most grateful,’ said the young man, coming forward into the light. ‘I had no idea there was no inn here; any place will do, the barn if you like; I’m not at all particular.’

The old man and his daughter-in-law exchanged glances. To take in a stranger at that time of night, of whom they knew absolutely nothing, seemed to them to be a somewhat risky proceeding.

The stranger saw their hesitation, and putting his hand in his pocket drew out his card case, and taking, a card from it handed it to Mrs. Norris. She took it to the light and read on it these words:

‘Dr. FORESTER,

The Albynes,

W. Kensington.’

When the old man had also read the card he seemed to dismiss his doubts, and to be quite ready to give the stranger, who had dropped in upon them so unexpectedly, a hearty welcome to the Castle. He invited him to sit upon the oak settle, and to warm himself till supper was ready. Then, with true gentlemanlike tact, he soon put the visitor at ease, and talked to him on all kinds of subjects, showing Forester, by the questions he asked and by the remarks he made, that, although the old man lived in this out-of-the-world place, he was extremely well-informed, and kept himself thoroughly in touch with what was going on in his own and other countries.

Forester was very glad of the meal that followed, for he had tasted nothing since he left London. He had had neither the heart nor the inclination for a meal on his way down; but the entire change of surroundings, and the strange place in which he found himself, had turned his thoughts in a fresh direction at least for a time, and the fresh sea air which he had been breathing all the way from Llantrug had given him an appetite. He did full justice to the savory rabbit stew, the homemade bread and butter, and the little round cakes, crisp and hot from the oven.

Then, whilst the supper was being cleared away, Forester went back to the cozy corner on the settle and looked round the old-fashioned kitchen. It was worth looking at, for it was filled with relics of bygone days. Behind the chimney-corner in which he was sitting was a cupboard, which the old man told him used to be the bed-place in the old time; and in the woodwork at the back of the dark settle were two round holes, through which the master and mistress used to peer from their bed to discover whether the servants in the kitchen were doing their work properly and diligently. Along one side of the room was a high oak dresser on which were standing two long rows of brightly polished ancient pewter dishes— worth untold money in these antiquarian days — whilst below were willow-pattern china plates, antique jugs, old-fashioned teapots, and other treasures of the past, which had been handed down from father to son through many generations.

When at last he went up to bed, with Rupert carrying a candle before him, Norman Forester felt as if he were walking in a dream. Rupert led the way up a rickety oak staircase with dark paneling on either side, and, passing an old chest where the household linen was stored, turned into a long narrow corridor which ran the whole length of the farmhouse.

Forester felt as if he were in some foreign monastery. He went back in thought to a night he had spent, some years before, in the convent at Ramleh, on his way from Jaffa to Jerusalem. On his right he saw the deep narrow Castle windows in walls four feet in thickness, windows which had been beautifully mullioned in their day, but the greater part of which had been filled up at the time of the window tax. Overhead were rough beams and rafters, and on the left were the various bedroom doors, of dark oak, and opening by means of primitive latches. The deep window seats, the long narrow ceiling, and the high walls of the corridor were all whitewashed, and looked bare and monastic in their simplicity.

‘Any ghosts here?’ asked the Doctor.

‘I never met one,’ Rupert replied. ‘Every castle has its ghost; and ours is no exception. A murder was committed in the courtyard below in the olden time. There was a shipwreck in Hildick Bay on the shore near the old church. It was in the time of Henry VII., and before we Norrises came to the Castle. A French ship was driven ashore; it was on its way to Scotland, I believe, but it went to pieces on the rocks, and the beach below here was strewn with gold and jewels.

‘The lord of Hildick Castle seized the plunder; he searched the shore carefully, and collected all that the tide brought in, and carried it up here to the Castle, But Sir Harry D’Arcy, who owned the property on the other side of the bay, came in a great rage and demanded his share of the spoil. Then when the Castle folks declined to part with any of it, Sir Harry brought his armed retainers to the gate to take the treasure by force.

‘The lord of the Castle, Sir John Mandeville, was from home when they arrived, but his sister came out of the Castle, and standing just below these windows ordered the soldiers to depart; and one of them, taking a stone from the ground, hurled it at her and killed her on the spot. Yes, there’s a ghost, or said to be one,’ he added with a laugh; ‘but all I can say is, I have never caught sight of it.’ ‘What became of the treasure?’

‘No one knows, sir,’ said Rupert. ‘Some say it was buried in the Castle yard, or hidden behind the paneling somewhere, but none of us Norrises have ever come across it. I only wish we had.’

As he said this he lifted the latch of one of the doors, and led the way into a large bedroom where a bed had been prepared for the visitor. Then putting the candlestick down on a handsome mahogany chest of drawers, he wished the doctor goodnight and left him.

Chapter 2: Amongst the Ruins

WHEN Norman Forester looked round the ancient room in which he was to spend the night, he felt as if he were in a dream. The great bed with its four elaborately carved posts, the old engravings in their antique frames, the deep window showing the thickness and massive strength of the Castle walls, the great oaken beams overhead—all reminded him of stories he had read of bygone ages. Surely here he would find what he wanted—what he had come from his busy life in London to seek—oblivion, as far as his own past was concerned. Surely the chapter of his life, which was closed for ever, would become a forgotten chapter here.

He was tired and needed rest, and he went to bed determined to sleep. But sleep seemed far away from him. A noisy clock in the corridor outside struck the hours in a fussy, imperious way, as if it demanded attention from all who were within hearing distance. But it needed no clock to keep the young doctor awake. Ghosts of the past kept flitting through his brain; dark shadows which he tried to chase away seemed to pursue him. Here these ghosts were to be laid; here those shadows were to be dispelled; here that closed chapter was to be buried for ever. So he fought manfully with the phantoms of the past until the assertive clock near his door announced that it was two o’clock.

It was soon after this that Forester’s thoughts were diverted by the sound of quiet footsteps overhead. Someone seemed to be stealthily moving about just over his bed. He wondered who slept there—the farm servants, perhaps. He had seen no staircase going higher than the one he had ascended the night before, but perhaps it was hidden by the curtain. which hung across the end of the corridor.

The footsteps ceased after a time, and he became more drowsy. But in his short intervals of sleep, and in his longer periods of wakefulness, he was conscious, both in his dreams and in his restless tossing on his pillow, of the sound of a slight cough. He heard it from time to time, and he fancied, when he was sufficiently roused to think about it at all, that it sounded from somewhere overhead.

By degrees the long night wore away, and with earliest dawn the whole place seemed astir. Pigs grunted under his window; cocks crowed on the wall close by; the lowing of cows, the bleating of sheep, the barking of dogs, all the countless noises of the farmyard fell on his ear. As the sunshine streamed in at his window, he jumped out of bed, feeling that the ghosts of the night had departed, and that the new chapter of his life had begun.

Breakfast was ready in the old kitchen when the doctor went down. The fragrant odor of the freshly made coffee, and the appetizing sound of ham frizzling on the fire made him feel quite disposed for it. The old man was sitting on the settle, and holding his hands to the fire just as he had done the evening before. He looked, Forster thought, as if he might have sat there all night without moving.

Rupert and his wife had been up almost as soon as the sun; the cows had been milked; and the chickens, geese, and ducks fed; the farm servants had had their breakfast, and had gone out to feed the pigs and the cattle, and to take the cows back to the pasture. Now the children, three in number, were sitting patiently round the table, waiting for the meal to begin. Leonard, the boy Forester had seen the night before, was the eldest, and there were twin girls, six years old, born on May Day, and named, in consequence, Hawthorn and May.

The old man came to the table, invited the doctor to take a seat beside him, and asked a blessing on their food. But, just as the coffee was being poured out, there came an interruption. It took the form of a sharp rap on the outer door. Leonard at once got up, at a word from his mother, and opened the door. Without waiting for an invitation, the man who had knocked walked straight into the kitchen, as if he were an expected guest. To Forester’s great surprise, he saw that it was the man who had travelled with him from Llantrug the day before, and who had sat between the driver and himself on the box.

The visitor shook the father and son warmly by the hand, kissed the little girls, and laid his hand affectionately on Leonard’s shoulder, whilst he spoke to his mother and tendered his apologies to her for the intrusion at that early hour. Then, suddenly recognizing the doctor, he claimed him also as an old acquaintance, and seemed determined to be on the best and most friendly terms with the whole party.

The old man, in his usual courteous manner, invited him to join them at their morning meal, and the stranger, evidently gratified by the attention, accepted the offer readily, and sat down at the table between the two little girls. As he helped himself from the dish of smoking ham and poured some of the thick cream into his cup, he seemed, Forester thought, to make himself very much at home; and yet he could not help fancying that old Mr. Norris regarded him with a certain amount of distrust.

‘What brings you to these parts again?’ he asked him presently.

‘What brings me?’ said the man. ‘I wonder you ask that, Mr. Norris! What brings the many others who visit Hildick from time to time? What will bring our friend here, now that he has found out the beauties of the place? Why, sir, you may not know it, but this bay of yours is a perfect gem of beauty! Can you wonder that we poor citizens of smoky towns return to it as often as we can?’

Apparently the old man had no answer to give to this very natural explanation of his visitor’s reappearance, and he relapsed into silence, leaving the conversation to his son and to the man who had just joined them.

Forester, being little inclined to take part in the talk that was going on, had ample leisure to notice his fellow-traveler. He was sitting opposite to him, and he could see him much better than he had been able to do when he was close to him on the box-seat of the coach. He noticed, as Doris had done, the thin lips and long pale face, which gave the man a sickly appearance; but it was another feature, which Doris had not observed, which made the most impression on the doctor. He thought he had never seen such restless, inquisitive eyes as those of the stranger. There was an eager, grasping expression in them which struck Forester as most peculiar.

Whether he was talking to Rupert, or listening to the conversation of the children, or eating the good farm fare, at all times and in all places those eyes were busy. Sometimes he was gazing at the oaken beams overhead, sometimes at the dresser with its pewter dishes; sometimes he was glancing up the oak staircase, or looking inquisitively behind him as Mrs. Norris went to the old bed-place to bring something from the spacious cupboard. He caught Forester’s eye on one of these peering expeditions of his own eyes, and at once made some kind of apology.

‘I am afraid your friend here thinks I am Paul Pry,’ he said, turning to the old man; ‘but I do so dearly love old places and old things. I feel that I haven’t half seen your old castle yet. Does any of that wainscoting slide back, I wonder?’

‘No, sir, nothing of the kind. I’ve tried it many a time—ay, and my father before me, and my grandfather and great-grandfather before him. It’s all solid woodwork, and has no secret cupboard or hidden chambers. They would have been found, long before I was born, had they been there.’

Soon after this, Rupert rose from the table to go to his work on the farm, and the visitor, after finding out in which direction he was going, asked if he might have the pleasure of accompanying him, as he also was going that way. He wished them good morning and walked as far as the outer door, when, as if it were an afterthought, he turned back to ask a question.

‘Mrs. Norris,’ he said, ‘I had no idea you had so much room to spare in the Castle. I see you have been able to give this gentleman a bed. I wonder if you could do the same for a friend of mine who is coming by the ‘bus tonight.’

‘No, sir,’ said the old man; ‘we shall have no room at all. Mary will tell you so; we shall be full up tomorrow; we’ve a large party coming in.’

‘But,’ said the man, ‘I never expected you to take my friend in here, I mean in this part of the Castle I know all your best rooms are let through the summer, but he’s only a rough-and-ready fellow; any shakedown will do for him. Why, in some of these outbuildings, in one of these rooms over the gateway, surely you could stow him away! He intended to camp out, and got the loan of a tent, but it has never turned up; the friend who was going to lend it wanted it at the last moment, for something or other, I forget what. But he has got his camp bedstead, and mattress, and all that sort of thing; he would be in clover in one of those old rooms up there.’

‘Up where sir?’ asked the old man quickly. ‘Why, where I see windows at the side of the gateway, and up in the roof over these rooms you live in. There must be some place up there.’

‘Rupert,’ called the old man to his son, who was Waiting in the Castle courtyard, ‘come here, I want you. Here’s this gentleman wants us to let a friend of his have a room, somewhere in the old ruins. There is no place, Rupert, I say, where it would be convenient for him to go.’

Rupert took his cue from his father, and answered, rather reluctantly, Forester thought, that there was no place where the friend could be accommodated.

The two men went out together. The Old gentleman gave a sigh of relief as the door closed behind them, and then invited the doctor to sit in the chimney-corner and to have a chat with him before going out.

A good cigar from Forester’s case having rejoiced the old gentleman’s heart, the doctor lighted his own, and they sat together over the cheerful fire. The month was August, but the air was chilly after the rain of the night before, and a wind was blowing from over the sea.

‘Who is that man?’ asked Forester.

‘That’s more than I can tell you, sir,’ said the old man. ‘He calls himself an antiquarian; not a very paying business, I should imagine, by the look of his coat; but perhaps he wears it out poking about amongst rubbish in old places.’

‘Where does he come from?’

‘Birmingham, he says. I shouldn’t think there was much work for an antiquarian there. We saw him first in the Easter holidays. He lodged at the post office, and he came poking about the old Castle all the time he was here. I went round the ruins with him once, and showed him all about, but he was too inquisitive for me. He wanted to be here, there, and everywhere. He poked and peered about, and kept on telling me he was an antiquarian, till I was sick of the very word. He got round Rupert somehow; he thought I had no right to be suspicious of him, and he let him see a lot more than I had patience to show him. Did he take him to the loft, Mary, do you know?’

‘No, father, I don’t think so; they went inside that part of the Castle, into your tool-house, I believe, but I don’t think Rupert took him upstairs to the loft.’

‘Where is the loft?’ Forester asked.

‘Why, it’s over where you slept last night, sir; it’s a long room, as long as the corridor you walked down, and as wide as our bedrooms and the corridor put together, but with nothing but rafters and tiles overhead. It is very hot in the summer and very cold in the winter. We keep the apples up there when we strip the orchard in the autumn; we shall be getting some of them stored soon; they’re fast ripening on the south side of the trees.’

‘Who sleeps up there now?’

‘No one,’ said the old man, ‘nor no one ever has in my time, no, nor in my father’s either; it’s too hot or too cold according to the time of year, and it’s an awful place to be in on a windy night. You’d almost be blown out of bed if you slept up there.’

‘I thought I heard footsteps overhead last night,’ Forester explained.

‘Impossible, sir; it couldn’t be footsteps,—rats, maybe, or mice.’

‘But there was a cough too,’ said the doctor; ‘rats don’t cough—at least I never heard them.’

‘But pigs do,’ said Mr. Norris; ‘and the old sow has a terrible bad cough.’

‘But she wasn’t in the loft over my head,’ suggested Forester.

‘In the loft, bless you, no, sir! But noises are very deceptive in a strange place, and the stys are not far away. I heard her myself last night. Rupert will have to see to her when he comes in.’

Forester did not press the subject, although he was not at all convinced by what the old man said. He went on to make enquiries as to the best place for him to pitch his tent. He found that the shore was quite out of the question, for the lord of the manor allowed no tents to be erected there; but Mr. Norris told him that he was quite welcome to put up his tent in any place he liked to choose on the Castle farm.

‘Go as far as you like along the top of the promontory, it all belongs to the Castle, right away down to the rocks on the shore; you can’t go wrong, anyhow, if you go in that direction.’

Then the doctor enquired how he could get help in bringing the tent up the hill, and in setting it in its place.

‘Why, Maxie will help you, to be sure,’ old Mr. Norris replied; ‘and be glad of the job too. He has got a bit of a donkey and an old cart; he’ll bring your tent up all right. Folks say Maxie’s a little gone in the upper storey; maybe he is. But he’s strong enough and capable enough if you don’t drive him too fast. Give him his time, and he’s all right. We often put him on in hay-time or harvest-time. Oh yes, Maxie will do it right enough. But there’s no need to hurry, sir, and Mary, I’m sure, will say the same. If you can put up with us for another night, why, we can put up with you. Our folks don’t come till tomorrow evening, and so, if you’ll stop here till then, you and Maxie can get the tent up at your leisure.’

Mary heartily seconded her father-in-law’s invitation, and Forester, when he saw that they really wished it, very readily assented.

Seeing that there was now no hurry about pitching the tent, the doctor determined to spend the morning in getting some idea of his new surroundings. He opened the door leading into the Castle courtyard, and started at once on his voyage of discovery.

The mysterious gloom of the night before had vanished with the owls and the bats. The sun was shining in a cloudless sky. For the first time Norman Forester was able to see distinctly the ruins of the old Castle. He found himself in a square courtyard, over the stones of which the grass of ages had grown so thickly that very little of the original pavement could be seen. On his right was a high ruined wall, in which were quaint mullioned windows, hung with festoons of ivy. On his left was the ancient gateway with the stone escutcheon over it, emblazoned with the coat of arms of old Sir John Mandeville, the lord of Hildick Castle. In front of him the courtyard wall had been entirely demolished, and he looked upon a glorious view of hill and dale and wood, whilst, down in the valley, he could just distinguish the little village nestling amongst the trees.

But before going down the hill and finding his way to the shore, Forester determined to walk round the ruined Castle. The old man had invited him to go wherever he liked, and had apologized to him for not accompanying him, as he was not feeling well that morning and was unable to walk far.

He found the ruins were much more extensive than he had imagined the night before. The walls of the whole of the principal part of the Castle were standing, but the roof was gone, and the floors of the different rooms had fallen in. He looked up from the heap of rubbish below, which was covered with briers, nettles, and long grass, and he tried to picture to himself what the Castle had been in the days of its glory. The great window of the banqueting hall through which in bygone days the sunlight had streamed on many a festive scene; the wide fireplaces with the cozy seats in the chimney-corner, where on the cold winter evenings the family had gathered round the cheerful blaze of the great wood fire; thy lower floors with their smaller windows where the Castle servants had had their apartments; the small turret whence the lord of the Castle and his guests had gazed upon the beauties of Hildick Bay—all these spoke to him of what had been in the past.

But all these also spoke of the decay of the present. Ichabod was written in dark letters over them all. The mullioned window of the banqueting hall had partly fallen away; the ivy was hanging over the walls; the fireplaces were the homes of birds; the seats in the chimney-corner were covered with ferns and moss; the servants’ hall was turned into a henhouse, where on rough perches the farm fowls reposed at night; the stone steps of the staircase were crumbling away, and could only be climbed for a short distance; the turret was the dwelling-place of bats, and several of these, scared by the intrusion, flew out in Forester’s face as he entered it.

It was the same everywhere; ruin and decay were written on the whole place. The large pigeoncote built at the same time as the Castle itself, had been taken possession of by cackling hens, which had made the deep pigeon-holes into nests where. they might lay their eggs; the great keep, where the armed men of the Castle had been quartered, had become the home of ferrets which were hung in cages on the walls; the guardroom over the gateway, from which, through a wide groove in the floor, large stones might be hurled upon the head of an approaching foe, was shut up and filled with rubbish.

The Castle had been grand in its day, and was beautiful even in its decay; yet, in Forester’s present frame of mind, it affected him with a strange feeling of sadness which he could hardly restrain. He was an imaginative man by nature, and, as he wandered through the deserted ruins, it seemed to him that he heard in them dismal echoes of his own feelings at the moment.

He had been the owner of a castle, too; a fair and beautiful castle, it had appeared to him, busy with life, replete with home comfort, well-guarded from the approach of danger and from the storms of adversity. But he had seen that castle of his fall and crumble away, and, although it was only a castle in the air, great had been the fall of it! And now, after wandering amongst its ruins—bare, unsightly ruins, as yet un-mellowed by the merciful hand of time, as yet unclothed by the ivy and fern and creeper of kindliness and sympathy, which do what they can to hide from us the unsightliness of our ruined castles in the air,—he had come to Hildick to forget it all; to clear away, if possible, the old stones; to sweep out of his life, with the strong hand of firm resolution, the recollection of his daydream; and to begin his life anew,—a wiser though a sadder man. Yet here, at the very outset, the old Castle at Hildick acts as a reminder of what he would fain forget.

Such was his first feeling as he walked through the ruins that morning; but it was followed by a very different one. He felt afterwards as if the old Castle were a companion in adversity, as if the very similarity of their fate drew them irresistibly together; and he conceived a strong affection for the whole place, and rejoiced that, of all parts of the world, he had, at haphazard as it seemed to him then, selected the remote promontory of the Garroch as the place in which to spend his summer holiday.

Chapter 3: An Old Friend

FORESTER had just finished his walk round the ruins, and had noticed how the new farm buildings seemed interwoven with the old fabric, as if they were striving to infuse fresh life into the decaying place, when he found himself approaching the outside of the grand entrance gate. And there, bending on his stick, was the old man. The bright August sunshine had tempted him out, and he was basking in its warmth and leaning upon the old gateposts for support.

‘Well, sir, what do you think of Hildick Castle?’ he asked, as he saw the doctor approaching.

‘It’s a splendid old place,’ said Forester; ‘it must have been grand in its day.’

‘Grand? I should think so,’ said the old man; ‘but it’s coming down fast—bit by bit. I’ve seen a great deal of it go since I was a boy; ay, and Rupert will see more go, and young Leonard will see more still. You were asking about the loft, sir; would you like to go up? You’re welcome, if you would care to see it.’

Forester thanked him, and the old man led the way to a door which opened into the courtyard not far from the large gateway. Several bats flew out of dark corners as they entered, and a great rat ran across the floor. This part of the building had, in bygone days, been the guardroom of the Castle, where the armed men, on watch at the gate, had warmed themselves at the large open fire on the hearth.

Here again were chimney-corners, and close to the fire was another ancient bed-place where the man who had come off guard might stretch himself on a winter’s night in warmth and comfort, as soon as he was relieved by a change of guards, and his long cold outlook was ended.

This old room and another opening out of it were used as lumber rooms, where all manner of things were stored away—an ancient pump, a bicycle, pieces of wood, tools of various kinds, bird cages, trestles, broken chairs, a churn, an old door, mole traps, and a variety of other articles.

The two rooms bore traces of having been used as a dwelling-place at no very remote date; soot was still hanging in the wide chimney; strong hooks for ham and bacon were fastened in the beams overhead, and an oak chest was standing under the narrow window.

‘My old grandmother lived in these rooms,’ said Mr. Norris; ‘many a bit of cake have I eaten sitting in that chimney-corner. I used to like to come in here when I was a youngster. This way, sir, up this old narrow staircase.’

As Forester followed him, he noticed that the stone steps wound round the inside of a high turret which stood close to the gateway, and from which there was a passage leading over the top of the gate. Every here and there were narrow slits in the thick wall, from which the guards could see the approach to the Castle. The steps brought them at last into the large room which went by the name of the loft.

The doctor looked curiously round, to see if he could find anything to confirm him in the impression that there had been footsteps over his head the night before. But the whole place appeared to be empty and to bear no sign of occupation. An ancient bedstead, which probably had not been used for centuries, stood at one end of it; a broken spinning-wheel of antique form was propped against the wall; a pile of musty books and papers lay in a corner: everything seemed to belong to past ages with the exception of the onions spread to dry on the floor.

There was no place where anyone could hide; there was no room for mystery; there was nothing ghostly or weird about the place. As Forester looked round it on that bright August morning, he saw nothing whatever to account for the sounds which had disturbed his slumbers.

When they had descended the narrow staircase, the doctor with light and easy tread, and the old man toiling slowly behind him, and had come out into the sunny courtyard again, they found a tall man with brick-red complexion, rough grizzly hair, and dressed in coarse corduroy and an old sealskin cap, standing near the farmhouse door. He had a basket on his right arm full of young lobsters and crabs, and in his left hand he was holding a plate covered with a clean white cloth.

‘What, Maxie! You here!’ said old Mr. Norris; ‘we were talking about you a while since, and now here you are.’

‘Fine crabs, sir,’ said the tall man; ‘fresh this very morning, sir. I went to the pots before it was light, brought ‘em home and boiled ‘em. Taste like chicken, sir; try ‘em.’

‘Bring them in, Maxie, and let’s have a look at them. I know a good crab when I see one. What’s that you’ve got under your cloth there?’

‘Laver bread—prime!’ said Maxie, smacking his lips; ‘never tasted better. Plucked it myself, sir, off the rocks.’

‘What in the world is laver bread?’ enquired Forester, as he looked at the round black cakes which the crab seller uncovered and held out for Mr. Norris’ inspection.

‘It’s made from seaweed,’ explained the old man; ‘a certain kind of seaweed which grows on the rocks Here. They gather it and boil it down till it’s quite soft, and make it into cakes, and they’re thought a great delicacy. There was nothing my old father liked better than a slice of laver bread. How much do you want for them, Maxie?’

Forester left the old man to choose his crabs and to bargain with Maxie about the coveted cakes; and, after arranging with the crab seller to call for his luggage at the post office and to bring it up to the Castle in the afternoon, he passed through the great gateway and set out to explore the village and the bay.

Outside the gate, and standing patiently waiting for his master, he found Maxie’s donkey, a little brown beast with a black mark across its neck and down the middle of its back. On the cart were plums, apples, gooseberries, and a few potatoes and cabbages which Maxie was evidently hawking round the village; from which the doctor concluded that his crab pots did not form his only means of earning a livelihood.

Forester took the road leading across a field where the farm geese were keeping up a continual argument with each other. He stopped for a moment to notice one of them which kept apart from the flock and seemed to avoid their society. It had a broken leg and could only hobble from place to place. It objected to the noisy chatter of the rest and chose a quiet corner of the field, where it would be undisturbed by their disputes and in which it would be out of their way. Forester thought that he understood its feelings and could sympathize with them. The field is the world, and he had chosen Hildick as its quiet corner. But the lame goose had a companion; one of the flock seemed to pity it in its loneliness, and, leaving the common herd, followed it wherever he went. He had no companion, but had the quiet corner to himself.

Farther along the field he had his first view of the bay. The sea lay far below him, blue as the sky above it. To the right was the promontory, thickly wooded and stretching out far into the water. Beneath it the coast was bold and wild in the extreme, covered with huge boulders and heavy masses of rock. On the left rose high cliffs standing like sentinels guarding the bay, whilst between the two points was a beach of yellow sand covered in places by seaweed. Sandhills fringed this part of the shore, and formed a barrier between the sea and the low marshy ground which stretched for more than a mile inland, and across which, like a white snake, wound the road over which the coach had brought him the night before.

From the field-gate a steep descent led Forester down to the shore. The road was cool and shady, for trees grew thickly on either side and in many places their branches met overhead. The low stone walls were covered with ferns, moss, and trailing ivy and brambles. A pretty little creeper, with tiny leaves and diminutive lilac flowers, and which the country people call ‘Mother of Thousands,’ was hanging gracefully from the grey stones.

The loveliness of the place, the abundant life and beauty on all sides charmed him more and more. He was not an artist, but he had the eye of an artist, and he simply reveled in it all. He felt that after what he had gone through before leaving home, he needed just such peaceful scenes as these to act as a sedative to his overstrained feelings, and to fit him to take up his work again with fresh vigor and renewed zeal. As for human companionship, he craved none of it. He had come to Hildick to get away from people, and he hoped that he had succeeded When once his tent was pitched, somewhere in a remote port of the promontory, there would be no need for him to see anyone or to go anywhere.

Beyond an occasional chat with the old man at the Castle he would shun all intercourse with his fellow men. He would talk no one, and he wanted no one to speak to him. He would enjoy his solitude and revel in his very loneliness. If disturbing thoughts came, he would battle with them alone, and by degrees he would be able to get the mastery over them.

However, for this one day he would chance coming across the Hildick people. The tent was not up yet, so his life as a recluse could not begin. He would therefore make use of the day in finding out what manner of people inhabited the little village, and how many visitors staying in Hildick he would have to avoid in his future rambles in the neighborhood.

A short cut across the fields to the left of the road led him by a narrow lane into the village street. He found himself close to the post office before which the coach had, stopped the night before. He stepped inside to tell the postmistress that Maxie would call for his luggage, and he found a young man there, standing at the counter writing a telegram.

Forester could not see his face, for his back was turned towards him. He stood waiting until the young man had finished, and meanwhile he glanced round the tiny shop, to see what he would be able to buy there if occasion required. Every little hole and corner in the place was filled with odds and ends of all kinds and descriptions—tea, sugar, currants, soap, candles, stockings and haberdashery, writing materials and stationery, a little crockery, a little of everything, in fact, which the villagers might require, whilst on the counter were several large loaves of bread and a few bunches of green watercress.

Forester has just finished his survey when the young man at the counter laid down his pen. The postmistress took up the white telegraphic form and read aloud what was written on it:

‘Mainwaring, Faudry Street, Manchester.

‘Expect you tomorrow by evening ‘bus.’

‘All right,’ said the young man, and turned round to leave the shop. Forester eyed him curiously. He was dressed in grey flannel, and was wearing a straw hat with a Varsity boating ribbon on it. Surely he knew him, —the curly hair, the regular features, the laughing blue eyes—surely he had seen all these before. He had known some Mainwarings once in his schooldays at Repton; the elder one had been his greatest friend there and was about his own age, the other was some years younger. It was of the younger brother that he was reminded now. Could it be the same? It was the same, and young Mainwaring recognized him the next moment.

‘Why, Forester! To think of meeting you of all people in this outlandish place! Why, it’s years since I saw you, and yet I should have known you anywhere. Whatever on earth brought you to Hildick?’

‘I might say the same to you, Don,’ said Forester, laughing. ‘Where’s Jack? Is he here?’

‘Coming tomorrow. I was just sending a wire to him when you came in. Why, I shall fancy we are at Repton again when I see you two fellows together. What are you doing here, Forester?’

‘I’ve come to camp out and to take life easy a bit,’ he answered.

‘Been working too hard, old chap? You look a bit seedy, I think, now I look at you more closely; I didn’t notice it at first. What’s up?’

‘Oh, nothing, never mind me, Don; tell me about yourself. What are you going to do?’

I’m at the ‘Varsity still, grinding away for my degree. I ought to be working now, but it poured nearly all day yesterday, so I did double measure, and it’s so jolly this morning I couldn’t settle down to books. Lucky, wasn’t it, that I just met you here? Won’t Jack open his eyes when I tell him who is in Hildick!’

‘What’s Jack doing?’

‘Oh, Jack? He’s a parson, working all the flesh off his bones in Manchester in some slummy sort of parish there; running in and out of dirty houses all day, and teaching grimy children, and all the rest of it. I wouldn’t have his job for a pot of money; but he’s as happy as the day is long in it all. He’s coming to take the duty here for a few weeks. This parson has gone away for his holiday, and Jack has to look after these few sheep in the wilderness. Very nice-looking old sheep too, if that’s a specimen,’ he added, as they passed a pretty lime-washed cottage where an old woman in a white apron was standing at the door.

The small garden in front of this cottage was full of fuchsias and rose-colored phlox, and a beautiful myrtle tree massed with white blossom was growing over the porch. The old woman had a square Dutch-looking face, was spotlessly clean, and had a very white cap on her head.

‘Good morning,’ said Mainwaring, who had a word for everyone he met. ‘What a jolly myrtle tree! Did you ever see such a fine one, Forester?’

‘My mother planted it, sir,’ said the woman; ‘it was a tiny slip then, no longer than your little finger and just see it now!’

‘Then you’ve lived here all your life?’

‘Yes, sir, and my mother before me; she lived here all her life too. Mr. John Wesley stayed here in our cottage; that would be in my great-grandmother’s time. Come inside, gentlemen, if you like, and I’ll show you something.’

The two young men followed her into a beautifully clean room, with sanded floor and low ceiling. A grandfather’s clock in a handsome oak case stood in one corner, and most lovely old china was arranged on a brightly polished dresser.

But it was none of these that the old woman had brought them to see. Many of these were valuable, but they were not the treasure, the priceless treasure, of that house. The old woman brought it out with pride. It was a small chair with wide wooden arms and seat, a chair which was carefully handled and kept scrupulously clean, and which had been handed down from generation to generation as a precious heirloom.

‘Look at that chair!’ she said, as she stooped down to dust it. ‘In that chair John Wesley sat when he was in Hildick. Ay, he was a good man was John Wesley. Sit in the chair, young gentlemen. if you like, and you can say you’ve sat where John Wesley sat.’

‘We must bring Jack here,’ said Don as they came out. ‘He’ll talk to that old dame by the hour. He’s capital with old women. Fancy Jack at a mothers’ meeting, Forester! Isn’t it funny to think of it?’

‘Where are you staying, Don?’

‘Oh, at the Bank.’

‘The Bank?’

‘Yes, not a branch of Lloyd’s or Barclay’s—the other kind of bank:

“I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,

Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.”

And the house where we are lodging is half way up the bank, and gets its name from it.’

‘Which of you are here?’

‘Oh, all of us except Jack, and he’s coming tomorrow. The girls will be down on the shore presently, Mab and Dolly, you know. Don’t you remember they came over to Repton for Speech Day? Let’s get on the rocks, and they’ll find us there.’

‘Are many people lodging here?’

‘Many? No, there are only four or five houses where they let rooms. Where are you staying?’

‘I’m camping out; at least, I shall be tomorrow; I was at the Castle last night. Do you know any of the other people here?’

‘Only Uncle Dick and Doris; they came yesterday. They’re staying at Bill Jenkins’, higher up the street.’

‘Oh,’ said Forester, ‘I believe I came on the coach with them.’

‘Jolly girl, Doris; isn’t she?’

‘Well, I hardly saw her,’ said Forester.

‘Didn’t you? Well, you’ll see her this morning. She’s not exactly our cousin, you know. Uncle Dick is mother’s second cousin, but we call him uncle, and he likes it, and he’s in that generation, you know. Have you been on the shore yet?’

Forester told him that he had only just come down the hill, and they walked on together.

The more the young doctor saw of Hildick, the more he admired it. The old church stood at the foot of the cliffs, with the woods above it and the rocks and the sea below. The shore was practically deserted, and the tide was a long way out, but the coloring was exquisite. The green foliage of the trees above the rocks, the grey stone, yellow sand, and blue sea—all formed one lovely picture. Three fair-haired children were wading at the edge of the water, white seagulls were strutting over the sand, a coastguard was looking through his telescope at a ship far out at sea, but beyond these there seemed no sign of life.

The two young men sat down on the shingle which was piled in a high bank along the shore, and gazed out to sea. It was a quiet, peaceful scene on which they looked, and Forester and his friend, as they smoked together, chatted of their old schooldays, and watched the tide coming in and swiftly covering the sandy shore. The three children paddling in the shallow water, and letting the advancing waves wash over their feet, were every moment coming nearer, and they could hear their merry voices more distinctly.

Soon other voices were heard behind them, and three girls with bathing-dresses and towels over their arms came down to the shore. Don made short work of the introduction.

‘Here, Mab and Dolly, this is Jack’s friend, Forester. You remember him, don’t you? He read the prize poem that day you came to Repton, you know; and got all the prizes and all the clapping.’

Mab was a merry, good-natured girl of about twenty. She was not pretty, Forester thought, when he looked at her. She had large and rather prominent blue eyes, and a somewhat broad face; but her hair was a lovely shade of brown, and looked as if the sunbeams had somehow become entangled in it. She was the very embodiment of good-nature and merriment, and Forester liked her from the very first.

The younger girl, whom Don had called Dolly, was a little beauty. She had delicate, refined features, a high forehead, lighter hair than her sister, a clear complexion, a very white skin, and a face the expression of which changed every moment. Forester imagined that she must be about seventeen.

The third girl was his travelling companion of the night before. She looked at him with a shy smile as Don introduced him to her; in better form this time.

‘Dr. Forester—Miss Doris Somerville.’

She was a great contrast to the two sisters. Her hair was very dark, almost black; she had a bright color, and her eyes—well, Forester could not make up his mind what color her eyes were. Sometimes he thought they were bright blue, like the forget-me-nots which grew in the brook that ran at the bottom of the garden in his old home. Sometimes they seemed to him more like the Parma violets which he had bought a few weeks ago to send to—. But he was not going to think of that now, or here. He would not look at Miss Doris Somerville’s eyes, if they reminded him of anything of the kind.

As the merry talk went on around him, in which he could not help joining from time to time, he felt inclined to smile at himself. All this was so vastly different from the kind of life he had intended to lead at Hildick. Well, perhaps it was better so, for the first day at least, and the tent would be up tomorrow.

He caught Doris’ eyes looking at him once or twice. There was a puzzled look in them, and he wondered what it meant. Did she fancy she had seen him before?

If he could have read her thoughts, he would have found that, as she looked at him, she was wondering at the change in him from the night before. Then he had seemed so terribly sad that his face of hopeless misery had haunted her all night. Now he looked as if he had not a care in the world, and as if life to him was all pleasure and enjoyment. Which, she wondered, was the real man?

The bay was becoming quite lively now. Doris’ father, Mr. Somerville, two old ladies staying at the post office, and a large party of children who were lodging in a house close to the sands, had all come down to the shore, and the sea birds began to beat a retreat, for the tide was coming in apace.

After a time the party on the shingle broke up. Most of them walked along the shore to the bathing-place, and Forester found himself left behind with Mr. Somerville.

‘Shall we walk along the shore under the church, Dr. Forester,’ he said; ‘and sit there until they return? There are comfortable seats on the rocks this way. I leave the climbing to you young people. Give me a seat with a nice back to it, and I want nothing more.’

Forester readily agreed, and when Mr. Somerville had selected the place he sat down beside him. The elder man then took a copy of the Standard from his pocket, carefully divided it, and gave half of it to his companion, whilst he settled himself comfortably to read the leading articles.

Forester did not read at first. He was watching a very old sailor who appeared to be about eighty years of age, and who had unfastened a boat which was moored to the rocks, and was rowing it slowly out to sea. But after a time he looked down at the newspaper he held in his hand. What did he see there that made the color fade out of his face? What could he have read that made the hand which held the newspaper tremble?

The old gentleman looked up to make some remark on the condition of Turkey, and was astonished to see the extraordinary change in his companion. He stopped in the midst of what he was saying and asked him if he felt ill.

‘Oh, nothing much,’ said Forester hurriedly. ‘I have been rather seedy lately. I shall be all right in a moment. I’ll just be going slowly up the hill, I think. Dinner will be ready at the Castle, and they’ve asked me to come to it.’

‘Better wait a bit,’ said Mr. Somerville.

‘Oh no, thank you; I’m quite all right now, perfectly right. Good morning. Just tell them, please, when they come back, that I was afraid of being late, so had to go.’

Mr. Somerville looked after him, and watched him climbing the shingle and taking the path towards the village.

‘He seems to walk steadily,’ he said; ‘but he certainly looked faint. I wonder what was the matter with him. Could it be anything he saw in this paper that upset him?’

He picked up the sheet which Forester had laid beside him, but found nothing to account for the change in his companion. There was the history of a murder in the east of London, and of a burglar carrying off a countess’ jewels; but the rest of the paper seemed filled with advertisements.

‘Perhaps he is given to faint turns,’ he said. ‘Well, this Hildick air will soon do him good.’

Chapter 4: Were They Footsteps?

WHEN the doctor returned to the Castle he found old Mr. Norris sitting on a wooden seat in the Castle yard.

‘Come along, sir, and rest yourself,’ he said.

‘You’ve come a bit too quick up the hill. You are not used to hills like ours, I expect. It’s made you a bit white-looking, I think.’

Forester sat down beside him, and the old man was anxious to know what he thought of Hildick. The doctor praised it warmly, and said he had been struck by the number of old people he had seen as he passed through the village; he concluded from this that it must be a very healthy place.

‘You’re right there, sir; we don’t have many funerals here, and those we have are mostly of old people. Auntie Betty, as we call her, on the hill there, is over ninety, and so is Auntie Emma down in the village, and you’ll find many that are over eighty. We don’t live fast here like you do in towns, and so we live longer; my old grandmother was nearly a hundred when we laid her in the churchyard.’

‘There is another thing which struck me in the village,’ said Forester, ‘and that is the cleanliness of the whole place: there is not a sign of dirt in the cottagers or in their houses; everything is spick and span.’

‘That’s the Dutch blood in them,’ said old Mr. Norris.

‘Hundreds of years ago a colony of Flemings settled here under the protection of the king, and the Garroch is full of their descendants. They do say that the Dutch are the cleanest people in the world, and I should say the Garroch has fewer dirty houses than any village in England or in Wales. You can see the Dutch features in some of the people too, especially some of the old ones.’

The twin girls now came through the courtyard gate followed by a pet lamb, which came after them like a dog, and went with them into the house.

‘His mother died when he was born,’ Mr. Norris explained; ‘and we’ve given him the bottle ever since. The children make no end of a fuss with him, and he wants to go wherever they go. He’s a great pet with everybody is Jemmy, and he comes running whenever we call his name.’

‘Dinner isn’t ready, grandpa,’ said Hawthorn, as she ran out again, still followed by the lamb; ‘I do want it, I’m so hungry.’

‘Have patience,’ said the old man, ‘have patience, child. My old granny used to say to me when I sat in her chimney-corner:

“Patience is a virtue,

Never will it hurt you.”’

Forester laughed. ‘My mother gave me a different version,’ he said. ‘When I was in too great a hurry for anything; she said:

“Patience is a virtue,

Catch it if you can I

Seldom in a woman,

Never in a man!”’

‘Run and look if your father’s coming, Hawthorn; go to the gate and look across the field,’ said her grandfather.

He was coming, and so was dinner, and soon they were all in their places round the table, and the pet lamb lying on the rug before the fire.

‘Well, and what did that antiquarian say to you, Rupert?’ asked his father.

‘Not much; he was full of that friend of his who is coming tonight. It seems he’s an artist, and is going to paint a fine picture that’s to make his fortune. He wants to be allowed to make sketches for it of one or two parts of the Castle. I told him I didn’t think there could be any objection to his doing that.’

‘It’s more than he would have got out of me,’ said the old man. ‘Do you think the Sinclairs, when they come, will want this artist chap fussing round the place, followed about by his prying friend the antiquarian?’

‘Oh, he doesn’t want to be in this part of the Castle, father. He won’t interfere with the Sinclairs. It’s an interior he’s going to paint, and he wants to sketch bits inside the turret, the old staircase, and some of the broken stonework of the windows. He’ll bring a small sketchbook and just make rough copies of these, and then, when he gets back to London, he’ll put them all together and make his big picture from them. I’m sorry you’re vexed about it, father.’

‘Well, what’s done is done,’ said the old man. ‘I don’t so much mind if he doesn’t have the antiquarian always at his heels.’

‘What is an antiquarian, grandpa?’ asked Leonard.

‘It’s a man that pokes about after old things and comes where he isn’t wanted,’ said the old man.

‘Does anyone know anything about him, Rupert? What’s his name, do you know?’

‘He gave me his card, father; here it is:

“MR. N. CLEGG,

44 Blossom Street, Birmingham.

Dealer in antiques, curios, old china and glass, oak

furniture, etc.”’

‘Oh, that’s what he is,’ said old Mr. Norris; ‘I see. He keeps a sort of secondhand shop, and goes and gives himself the airs of a lord, and says, “I’m an antiquarian.” Antiquarian indeed!’

‘He bought one or two things from the cottages and farms when he was here last,’ Rupert went on. ‘He’s very keen on anything like an oak chest, especially if it’s carved a bit, and he’ll give a lot of money for a bureau, as he calls it, a desk with a number of little drawers in it, like yours, father, in the corner there. He’ll be after that one soon, you see if he isn’t; he’d give a good price for that, I should say!’

‘He’ll be after it a long time before he gets it,’ said the old man with a chuckle; ‘let him try, Rupert, let him try.’

That afternoon the doctor, with Maxie’s help, pitched his tent on the Castle farm. The place he chose was about half a mile from the Castle itself, out on a breezy moorland on which hundreds of sheep were grazing, and which covered the plateau on the top of the promontory.

Here, with the sea on both sides of him, and with only the quiet sheep as companions, Forester felt he would have the stillness and solitude for which he longed. Even the few visitors at Hildick would hardly find the road to this out-of-the-way place, which could only be reached by passing through the Castle farm. Then if he wanted to bathe he could get down to a quiet little cove, on the opposite side of the promontory from Hildick Bay, where he would meet none of the others, and which Mr. Norris assured him he would have all to himself.

That evening after tea the doctor set out to walk Beyond his tent to the end of the promontory, that he might watch the sunset, which promised to be a fine one. He made his way across the grass, cropped short by the large flock, and walked briskly over the moorland beyond. The coloring in the golden evening, light was superb. There were patches of yellow gorse, tufts of bright purple heather, blue hare-bells that trembled in the breeze, clumps of bracken on which the autumnal tints were just appearing, stretches of green moss—interspersed with red sundew and white cotton grass; it was a perfect feast to the eye, of every shade and variety of color.

Forester noticed that the sea was practically all round him; to right, to left, and in front of him he could see the blue water with hardly a ripple upon it. He was making his way through the gorse bushes, that he might be able to stand upon the very end of the promontory, when at the foot of one of them something caught his eye. Involuntarily he stooped down and gathered it. It was a sprig of pure white heather. A short time ago he would have been delighted to find it, but what good was white heather to a man who had no one to whom he could give it? Still, he held it in his hand, until he had climbed down the steep descent at the end of the point, and was sitting on a rock which jutted out into the water. The sun had set now; the golden light was gone, and the sea looked dark and leaden. He took his sprig of white heather and threw it into the water, and the receding tide carried it far out to sea.

Then Forester retraced his steps and made his way back to the Castle. It was growing dark and chilly when he got in, and he was glad to go to his snug place in the chimney-corner. The old man gave him a kindly welcome. The little girls had gone to bed, and Leonard Was sitting at the table doing his lessons by the light of the lamp. Rupert was out, going round the farm buildings to see that his live stock were all right for the night. About nine o’clock they heard the click of the courtyard gate and knew that he was returning. In a few minutes he came in, and Mary began to lay the supper.

‘Father,’ said Rupert presently, ‘what have you done with the outhouse key?’

‘Nothing,’ said the old man; ‘I went in there this morning with the doctor; he wanted to see the loft; but I found the door open.’

‘Well, the key’s gone! I can’t find it anywhere. I did a stupid thing last night. What with the rain, and then going to meet the ‘bus and getting back home so late, I quite forgot to lock up outside; so whether the key was there then I don’t know; anyhow it’s gone now.’

‘Never mind,’ said the old man. What’s the use of bothering about it? There’s nothing of value in there, a few old tools and nails, and a heap of rubbish! There’s your bike; bring that inside: but there’s nothing else worth taking, and if there was we’re safe enough here. If you’ll believe me, sir,’ he added, turning to Forester, ‘there’s never been such a thing heard of as a burglary at Hildick. All the old ladies in the village go to bed and never trouble to lock their doors. Everybody knows everybody else, and we’re like one family, as you may say.’

Soon after this the doctor said he was tired and would be glad to go to bed. The corridor looked less weird to him, now that he had become familiar with it, and he felt sleepy with the sea air and quite inclined to rest, undisturbed by ghosts of any kind whatever.

It was not until the noisy clock in the corridor had insisted on its being three o’clock that he was roused from his first sound sleep, and then he woke with a start, as though some noise had disturbed him. He sat up in bed and listened, but heard nothing, and he came to the conclusion that it was only the striking of the clock which had waked him. He lay down and had almost fallen asleep, when he again became conscious of a noise, and he sat up once more.

The sound was not overhead this time, but seemed to come from the wall in one corner of his room, and just behind the washing stand. He crept out of and very quietly, put his ear to that part of the wall, and listened.

Again it was the sound of footsteps, at least he thought so, and they seemed to be descending a flight of stairs, for the noise grew gradually fainter, Every now and then the steps paused, and after a moment or two went on again. Then he fancied he heard a door below gently closed, and after that all was still.

Forester’s curiosity was considerably roused by what he had heard. There seemed to him to be some mystery in the Castle, of which the family who lived in it were not aware. If he had been staying there longer he would have tried to discover what it was; but, as this was his last night in the Castle, he did not see much chance of finding out the cause of the sounds he had heard. He contented himself with asking the old man; at breakfast the next morning, whether there was any other staircase leading into the loft besides the one up which he had taken him the day before.

‘No, sir,’ said Mr. Norris; ‘that’s the only way up, and there never was another that I know of.’

‘And that turret is close to the great entrance gate, is it not?’

‘Yes, sir, it touches it almost. It’s the way the guards went up in the olden time.’

‘Then there’s no staircase anywhere near the room I slept in last night?’

‘None at all, sir.’

‘What is there near that room? If I could make A hole, say behind the washing stand, what should I come to?’

‘You’d come to one of the old turrets of the Castle, which has been built into the farmhouse. My father had a large family and wanted more room, so he built a small bedroom out at the back, and the turret comes in the corner of it. Come upstairs and I’ll show you.’

The old man led the way into the little back bedroom, and Forester saw the round outer wall of the turret just as he had described it.

‘Then my room joins this room just here,’ he said, pointing to the corner where the turret stood.

‘Yes; behind your washing stand is a curious kind of wainscoting, not like the paneling downstairs it is not wood, but more like strong basketwork, and behind that is the outer wall of the Castle with this turret in it.’

‘Are there any steps inside this turret, as there are in the one by the gate?’

‘None, sir, it’s all solid masonry.’

‘You are sure of that?’

‘Quite sure.’

Forester was very much puzzled. He had felt convinced that he had heard footsteps the night before, and they had sounded to him as if they were in that very corner. Yet surely old Mr. Norris ought to know. Could he have been mistaken in the noise he thought he had heard? Were there really footsteps after all? If there were no steps in that corner, surely he was wrong.

As soon as breakfast was over the doctor removed to his tent, for he knew his friends at the Castle would be busy preparing for the visitors they expected that evening. He felt sorry to leave his comfortable quarters, but he would still see a good deal of the Castle and its occupants, for he would have to fetch water from the tap in the Castle yard every day. There was a pond on the moorland, but the water was not pure enough for drinking, though he might be able to use it for other purposes. They all begged him to come in whenever the weather was bad or he felt at all lonely, and the old man assured him that a seat in the chimney-corner would ever await him.

Now the life of solitude of which he had dreamed was to begin; but somehow or other he did not enter upon it with alacrity. He even felt a pang of regret, as the courtyard gate closed behind him; and he went out to begin his hermit life. Camping out is pleasant enough when the weather is fine and when a number of friends are together, but it is a different matter altogether when you are alone. The cooking is irksome, the washing-up intolerable, the silent meals are a weariness to the flesh.

All this Forester found out before that first day was over. The loneliness of the place oppressed him; the voices of the sheep grew more and more monotonous. He wandered over the moorland, and gazed at the sea, and watched the clouds, and listened to the cries of the sea-birds, until all these palled upon him. Then, like the Arab in the desert, he sat smoking at the door of his tent, and simply yearned for the sound of a human voice.

Once he made up his mind to change his program altogether. He determined to go down to the bay, look for his old schoolfellow, join the merry party on the sands, and endeavor to drive away the awful depression which was settling upon him. He got up from his camp chair, walked down the hill to the village, and climbed one of the sandhills that he might see where they were. He saw Mab and Dolly sitting on the rocks reading, whilst Don and Doris were wandering along by the sea.

Presently they stopped, and he watched them playing at ducks and drakes in the quiet water. He could hear Doris’ merry laugh, as her stone made five, six, seven hops. He could hear Don say, ‘Well done, Doris! but I’ll be even with you yet.’

Somehow or other, Forester felt that he had not the heart to go down and join them. Who was he, that he should bring a shadow on that merry party? He would go back to his tent and to his solitude.

As he passed the Castle on his return he saw the coach laden with luggage standing outside; the Sinclairs were evidently arriving. He wondered how many there were of them, and whether they would be likely to find their way to the moorland, which he was inclined to look upon as his private property.

If the tent was lonely by day, it was infinitely more so by night. His small oil lamp flickered in the breeze; the moths came whirling round it and committed suicide down the narrow chimney; the dim light tried his eyes, and after a time he closed the book he was reading. As he did so, two lines of a hymn, which his mother had taught him when he was a tiny boy, flashed into his mind. As clearly as if her voice had repeated them to him he seemed to hear her saying:

‘While place we seek or place we shun,

The soul finds happiness in none.’

What was the end of the verse? He could not remember. He would think of something else; he would get his supper and go to bed.

But as he lay on his narrow camp bedstead, and listened to the flapping of the tent curtains, to the cries of the owls, and to the croaking of the frogs in the pond on the moor, still over and over the words kept repeating:

‘While place we seek or place we shun,

The soul finds happiness in none.’

And still he puzzled himself as to the ending of the verse.

But at last the sleep for which he had been longing blotted out even this remembrance.

Chapter 5: The Old Watch-Tower

THE doctor woke the next morning to find the rain coming down in torrents. The canvas of the tent was soaked, and the whole place felt damp and chilly. He opened his tent door to get a little fresh air, but the rain came driving in, and he had to close it again.

It was dull work preparing his lonely breakfast, the paraffin stove was giving forth a horrible smell, which filled the tent long before the kettle had boiled. Then he found he had forgotten to bring any milk from the farm the night before, and he thought with longing of the steaming, fragrant coffee which Mary would be pouring out in the cozy Castle kitchen. However, he made the best meal he could under the circumstances, did his washing-up with as few groans as possible, and then prepared to face his second day of solitude.

He looked out once more from the tent door, but thick mists prevented his seeing anything. No sound was to be heard except that of the pouring rain; even the sheep had moved away, and had crept for shelter under the wall of a ruined cottage which stood in the midst of the moorland.

Forester sighed to himself, as he thought what a long day it would be, for he saw no prospect of the weather improving. He had filled one of the new portmanteaus with books, that, by means of them, he might wile away the long hours of solitude, and he took one out and began to read. But the story was not exciting, and he found little in it to interest him. He repeatedly looked at his watch, but this only seemed to make the time pass more slowly.

At length when it was about eleven o’clock, and when he felt as if he had lived a lifetime since he got up that morning, he suddenly jumped up from his chair, saying to himself that he could stand it no longer. He made up his mind to put on his mackintosh and to walk down to the village; it would kill a little time at any rate.

Forester turned in at the Castle gate in order to leave his can in the courtyard, so that he might fill it with water on his return. He crept quietly in, shutting the gate softly behind him, for he felt sure that if they saw him they would press him to go into the house, and he was afraid that the thought of a seat on the settle, in that warm chimney-corner, might be too great a temptation for him to resist. He knew that they would be busy with their new lodgers, and he did not like to intrude.

Forester was a highly sensitive man when the feelings of others were concerned, and had a wise dread of being a tax upon anyone. So he went past the kitchen window without so much as glancing at the bright firelight within, and hurriedly returned to the gate. Then he made his way, in driving rain and through plenty of mud, to the road which led down the hill. What he was going to do in the village he had no idea. He had enough food to last him till the next day, so there was no shopping to be done, and, beyond the bare necessaries of life, there was nothing whatever to be bought in the tiny Hildick shops.

But the yearning to hear a human voice was so strong upon the doctor that he determined to turn into the post office and to buy some stamps. He did not want any; there was no one to whom he wished to write, but stamps would always keep until they were wanted. He stayed in the shelter of the little shop as long as possible, but the postmistress was not of a talkative disposition, and, beyond a certain point, he found it impossible to prolong the conversation. A few remarks on the weather and the number of visitors in Hildick were all that he could extract from her, and, after these topics were exhausted, he had no excuse for remaining longer.

When Forester came out into the rain again, he thought he would walk up the village street in the opposite direction to that in which he had gone the day before. He found that the houses were very few in number, but were neat and pretty, with little gardens in front of them gay with sunflowers, dahlias, and fuchsias, and enclosed by low walls, covered with white lime-wash, which gave the whole village an exceedingly clean appearance.

He had not walked very far before he met a man in a long white mackintosh and grey cap, who was fighting his way against the wind and rain, and coming in the direction of the post office. Before he came up to him the doctor recognized him. It was his old schoolfellow and friend, Jack Mainwaring. He would have known him anywhere by his tall upright figure, his curly brown hair, his handsome features, and the merry twinkle in his clear blue eyes.

Jack Mainwaring was a man at whom, if you once looked, you would be sure to look again. He had been the life and the soul of all the fun and merriment and sport at Repton, the captain at cricket and football, the best athlete in the school. Forester had been more successful in examinations than his friend, but Jack was the hero of the sports, and carried off a perfect armful of prizes at the end of them.

And now Jack was a parson! It was almost more than Forester could believe. But there was nothing parsonic in his appearance or manner as he came forward with glad words of greeting.

‘Well, dear old chap, I was just going in search of you. Isn’t it jolly our meeting here after all these years? I was coming with a message from my mother, to insist on your spending the day with us. Now come; we shall take no refusal’ (as Forester, in his shrinking from being a nuisance to anyone, was beginning to make excuses); ‘just think what we’ve got to talk about! Now you really must take pity upon us. The girls are in the blues because it’s a wet day, but, if you come, we’ll have a real good old time. Doris and uncle are coming to tea, and we want you to help us to draw up a program of games and music, to keep us all in a good temper this wet day.’

Forester felt he could not refuse this hearty invitation, and the two friends walked on to the Bank, thoroughly happy in each other’s society.

The day, which had begun so dismally for the doctor, ended in being one of the most pleasant days he had ever spent. Mrs. Mainwaring was kindness itself, and made him feel at his ease at once; the young men found that the lapse of years had by no means cooled their friendship; and Mab and Dolly were as lively as their brothers, and quite prepared to join in all the fun. There was nothing stiff or formal about any of them, and Forester soon forgot his depression, thoroughly enjoying the merry, friendly talk going on around him.

In the afternoon Mr. Somerville and his daughter came in, and after tea the program, which they had prepared in the morning, was carried out.

As the doctor took part in the various games he felt years younger, and his laugh was soon as hearty and frequent as that of his light-hearted companions. Then, when they had come to the end of the games, they finished the evening with music. There was a piano in the room, small in size but sweet in tone, and as all the Mainwarings and also their Cousin Doris were musical, they gave a varied selection of instrumental music, songs, duets, and trios.

Norman Forester could not sing or play, but he thoroughly enjoyed music, and the evening seemed to fly on the wings of the wind. Doris Somerville had a lovely voice; it was not so powerful as Mab’s, but it was clear as a bell, and had a pathetic sweetness in it which went straight to the doctor’s heart as he listened to it. Her last song haunted him for days afterwards:

‘Where are the swallows fled?

Frozen and dead,

Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore.

O doubting heart!

Far over purple seas

They wait, in sunny ease,

The balmy southern breeze,

To bring them to their northern homes once more.

Why must the flowers die?

Prisoned they lie

In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.

O doubting heart!

They only sleep below

The soft white ermine snow,

While winter winds shall blow,

To breathe and smile upon you soon again.

The sun has hid his rays

These many days;

Will dreary hours never leave the earth?

O doubting heart!

The stormy clouds on high

Veil the same sunny sky,

That soon (for spring is nigh)

Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.

Fair hope is dead, and light

Is quenched in night.

What sound can break the silence of despair?

O doubting heart!

Thy sky is overcast,

Yet stars shall rise at last

And angels’ silver voices stir the air.’

These beautiful words were set to a lovely air, by which they were exactly suited. The first part of each verse was sad and slow, the wail of a soul on the brink of despair; the latter part broke forth into the joyful, invigorating, reassuring notes of calm confidence and triumphant hope.

As Forester climbed the hill that evening, the sweet face of the singer, her clear, trustful eyes, the soft tones of her voice, and, not least, the touching and beautiful words of her song—seemed to follow him all the way. Again, and yet again, he heard her singing the notes of comfort. The refrain of the last verse rang in his ears, and he felt as if she were bringing him a message of hope:

‘O doubting heart!

Thy sky is overcast,

Yet stars shall rise at last,

And angels’ silver voices stir the air.’

The literal stars were shining brightly as he neared the Castle. The rain had stopped, and the moon, now beginning to lose some of her rotundity, was rising behind the hill. He went by the short cut across the fields, which he had taken with Rupert on the night of his arrival. On the side of the hill were the ruins of the old watch-tower of the Castle, standing some hundred yards away from it. Here, in olden time, the men on guard could obtain a view of all the country round, and were thus able to give the alarm in case of danger.

As Forester came up the field, climbing slowly, for the ascent was a very steep one, he thought he saw two figures standing on this lonely watch-tower, and leaning over the low broken wall which ran round the top of it. It was getting late, about eleven o’clock, and he wondered who could be about at that time. The tower lay a little to the left of the path.

As he drew nearer he could distinguish the figures more distinctly, and he was disposed to cross the field and see who they were who were standing there; but on second thoughts he concluded that they were probably two of the visitors who had arrived at the Castle the day before, and he felt that they might not care for him to go out of his way to speak to them.

Presently, however, as Forester looked behind him, he noticed that the two figures were following Hit, or, at any rate, whether they had seen him or not, they were coming in the same direction, and climbing up the hill towards the Castle. When he came to the stile near the keep, he waited there for them to come up; but he waited in vain. They were evidently not making for the Castle, so after some minutes he crossed the stile, and went into the courtyard. His can was standing there by the tap, just where he had put it in the morning, and he had filled it and was going out, when Rupert, who had heard the sound of footsteps, came to the door to see who was there.

‘All right,’ shouted Forester cheerily; ‘I’m only getting water. I hope I haven’t disturbed anybody.’

‘Not a bit, sir; we haven’t gone to bed, come in and warm yourself; it’s chilly after the rain.’

‘Not tonight, thank you; it’s too late. I’ll come in another time, if I may. Goodnight.’

Forester went out the same way he had come in, leaving the courtyard by the stile, for he wished to discover if the two figures he had seen were still in the field, but they seemed to have completely disappeared. He went inside the keep, which looked weird and ghostly in the pale moonlight. The ferrets on the wall stirred in their cages; the bats were flying across it; an owl came out from the ivy growing over an ancient fireplace far overhead, but nothing else was to be seen there. So he went in the direction of his tent, carrying with him his heavy can of water.

He felt rather an outcast from the haunts of man when he came to the lonely moor. All his ambition to be a hermit and a recluse had completely died out. He decided that he was not intended by nature to lead a solitary life, and he comforted himself with the recollection that in the morning he would once more be in the midst of the merry party he had just left, and would be enjoying their companionship and cheerful society.

As he drew near his tent he noticed something moving in front of it; it was a white object, and it seemed to be going along the path leading to the tent door. It was standing close to the tent when he came up to it, and now he could see what it was. It was Jemmy, May and Hawthorn’s pet lamb. Very wet and cold it looked as it came up to the doctor, and, as soon as he had unfastened the canvas door, it ran inside the tent. Forester had not the heart to turn it out. It nestled close to his bed, and never stirred the whole night.

Even the company of a lamb was better than utter solitude, and, when Forester woke in the night, he was glad to know that Jemmy was there, and to be able to put his hand upon his woolly head.

Chapter 6: The Artist

THE next morning Forester was awakened, not by the rain beating mercilessly on his tent, but by a merry voice outside it.

‘Get up, you lazy beggar! What are you doing, snoring away this jolly morning?’

He jumped up, opened the tent door, and found Jack and Don outside.

‘We’re going to bathe,’ said Jack. ‘Come along; the tide is just right, and it will be glorious this morning.’

‘Hurry up,’ said Don, ‘for the tide is just on the turn.’

‘Well, give a fellow time to dress,’ said Forester, laughing. ‘Come in and sit down. I’ve only one chair, but I’ll allow the other chap to sit on the bed.’

‘Hullo! what in the world have you got here?’ said Don, as he caught sight of Jemmy’s woolly back. ‘Why, I declare it’s a lamb!

“Norman had a little lamb,

Its fleece was white as snow.”’

‘Get up, you lamb, and give me room to stretch my legs!’

Jemmy got up and ran to the tent door, alarmed at the arrival of strangers, and in a few moments he was bounding over the moorland to find his companions.

Forester was soon ready, and with bathing towels thrown over their shoulders the three young men set off for the shore. They had not gone far when Forester stopped.

‘Wait a minute,’ he said; ‘I’ve forgotten my cans. I must leave them at the Castle, and get water and milk on my way back.’

‘Rubbish and nonsense!’ said Don; ‘you’re not going to do any such thing. Fancy climbing this hill after bathing, and before you’ve had any breakfast. Mother is expecting you at the Bank. She told us to bring you.’

Forester, as usual, protested strongly, but it was a case of two against one, and the brothers got their way at last.

When they arrived at the Castle they saw a curious looking man standing near it, and gazing at the back windows of the farmhouse. He was a tall, powerfully built man with a red face, coarse features, a heavy moustache, and a sinister and most unpleasant expression on his face. He was dressed in a flannel shirt, an old brown suit which seemed too small for him, for it was short in the sleeves and the trousers did not reach his boots, a brilliant red tie, and a Panama hat. But the most remarkable thing about this man was his hair, which was red in color, and was hanging over his neck and almost touched his shoulders. He was carrying a large flat book in one hand and a camp stool in the other.

‘Whoever in the world is that?’ said Jack, as they caught sight of him.

The man started on hearing footsteps coming along the road, and immediately walked on. But they came upon him again, staring up at the great gateway and examining the coat of arms emblazoned above it. He turned round as they came up.

‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Fine old castle this?’

They gave him a civil answer and passed on.

‘Depend upon it, that’s the artist!’ said Forester; ‘and he wears his hair long, to make him look professional.’

He then told his friends about the antiquarian, and how he had announced that an artist friend of his was coming to take sketches of Hildick Castle.

As they went down the hill into the village they saw three lads in front of them, evidently bent on the same errand, for they were carrying towels and bathing gear.

‘The Sinclairs, I expect,’ said Forester.

Don proposed that they should speak to them at once, as they would be always coming across them on the shore. So they hurried on, and soon overtook them. They told them that they also were going to bathe and asked them to join them. The eldest Sinclair appeared to Forester to be almost twenty; he had fair hair, blue eyes, and a pleasant open countenance; the second brother, who was about a year younger, had curly black hair and very rosy cheeks; whilst the third was a manly, square-built lad of seventeen.

The six young men became the best of friends before the bathe was over, and agreed to repeat the early morning dip every fine day when the tide was favorable. They also unanimously decided to waive all ceremony, and to call each other by their Christian names. From this time forward they all formed one party on the shore, and wherever the Mainwarings and Forester went, Val, Dick, and Billy Sinclair went with them.

After breakfast at the Bank, Forester returned with his friends to the shore, and spent the day lounging on the, sands, climbing over the rocks, exploring the many winding paths in the woods which came down to the water’s edge, and sitting, in the heat of the day, chatting with the girls, or reading aloud to them as they worked.

Then in the evening, when it was growing cooler, they had a long walk inland. They went to an old castle about two miles away, standing close to the Llantrug road, which they had passed as they came to Hildick in the coach.

As they came back they made their way through the sandhills to the shore, and walked home across the firm, hard sand. The tide was just going out, and the shore was strewn with fairy-like sea-urchins. Some of the white shells were empty and tenantless, and they picked them up and threw them into the waves, and watched them float away with the tide.

Mab and Dolly were the life of the party, and as they walked along, started the idea that some night they should light a fire on the shore, cook their own supper there, and eat it by the light of the flames. The Sinclairs fell in with the plan at once, and they settled to have this al fresco picnic some night in the following week.

Doris was more quiet than her cousins, although she enjoyed a joke quite as much as they did. But they were just at the age when girls are simply brimming over with animal spirits. Every hill they saw they wanted to climb, every stream that ran down to the sea they must jump; there seemed to be no end to their energy or to their strength.

Doris was older, and she had known trouble. Life is never quite the same after a very heavy sorrow; the loving, merciful hand of Time is laid on the wound which we thought would never be healed, and the sore gradually closes. But the scar left by that wound is still there, and will remain as long as life itself.

Doris’ mother had died two years before, and ever since then, though she was once more merry and bright, yet still she was amongst the number of those who bear the marks of sorrow, and who therefore are full of sympathy with others.

Ever since she had travelled with him on the coach Doris had felt sure, by a kind of Freemasonry which those who suffer have with one another, that Forester, as well as herself, had seen the shadow as well as the sunshine of life.

All through the day he had been as full of fun and jokes as his companions, but now, when the younger ones had run to climb the fourth sandhill that they had come upon, she and Forester fell behind on the shore, and agreed that they were tired, and would sit down until the others came back.

Then it was that Doris noticed the melancholy expression returning to his face, which seemed to say that life had little brightness in store for him. She glanced at him once or twice as he picked up a pebble and threw it carelessly into the water, but she did not like to be the first to break the silence. Of what was he thinking, as he gazed across the sea, with that moody expression upon his face? His first words gave her no clue to his thoughts.

‘Where’s Jack?’ he asked. ‘He hasn’t come with us this evening.’

‘No, he’s looking at his sermon. You know he is to preach here tomorrow.’

The merry smile broke out again on Forester’s face as he answered her.

‘Fancy Jack a parson!’ he said. ‘Here he is in flannels and tennis shirt, looking exactly as he did when we all worshipped him on the cricket ground. And now I am to believe that he is a full-fledged parson, and is going to get up in a pulpit tomorrow to talk to us about our sins.’

‘Have you ever heard Jack preach?’ asked Doris.

‘No, never; what sort of preacher is he?’

Doris did not answer this question at once. Then she said, ‘I think when you do hear him, you will forget all about Jack, and only think about his message.’

‘His message?’

‘Yes, from God,’ she said reverently.

Then she changed the subject, and said, ‘You look better already for coming to Hildick, Dr. Forester; isn’t it a glorious little place?’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it is indeed! But’ (with a laugh)— ‘I’m not leading the kind of life I meant to live here.’

‘What sort of life was that?’

‘Why, I brought my tent, and I was going to camp out far away from everybody, and I did not mean to speak to a soul all the time I was here.’

‘Why?—Oh, don’t tell me, if you had rather not,’ as Forester colored at the question.

‘But I will tell you,’ he said— ‘because I had been a fool; not a very nice admission for a man to have to make, is it? I was utterly disgusted with the world and with everybody in it, and I meant to have done with it all, at least for a time.’

‘Wasn’t that rather a sweeping condemnation?’ said Doris.

‘Well, perhaps it was; but when you’ve trusted anybody, and that person deceives you, and you find out you’ve made a big mistake, what then? Why, then it’s best to run away from everybody, that’s what I think. What’s the good of making other people miserable by your company?’

Forester thought he would never forget, to his dying day, the look of sympathy in the clear, honest eyes that were turned to him for a moment. But just then the others were seen coming back, and she said nothing but, ‘Thank you.’

Forester wondered what she meant by that. What had he done for her, or given to her, that she should thank him? He had given her a tiny bit of his confidence, that was all Could it be that, for which she was grateful?

Rupert was standing at the door of the Castle when Forester went into the courtyard that night to get his can. He had picnicked alone on the shore at midday, the Mainwarings had brought tea down to the rocks, and now he was going to get supper in his tent.

‘My father does want you to come in, sir,’ said Rupert; ‘he has been asking all day why you never come near us, and supper is just ready. You enjoy Mary’s rabbit stew.’

Forester did not like to refuse, nor indeed could he withstand the attraction of the savory smell that greeted him in the doorway. Tinned meat is all very well when you can get nothing else, but it will not bear comparison with rabbit stew, especially when made by such a clever cook as Mrs. Norris had proved herself to be.

The old man gave him a warm welcome. He was sitting in the same place on the settle, and beside him was a little girl eight years old, dressed in a scarlet cap and jersey and a navy skirt, and with a mass of beautiful curly brown hair hanging down her back.

‘This is little Miss Sinclair,’ said the old man; ‘she has been about the farm all day. They are carrying the hay, and she has been riding in the wagons, and driving them too; haven’t you, missy?’

‘Yes,’ said the little girl; ‘and gathering the eggs, and feeding the chickens, and helping Mrs. Norris to milk.’

‘She loves animals,’ said the old man; ‘she has a sort of power over every creature, her father says, and she’s afraid of nothing. You see, there are only the three brothers and this little girl, nine years younger than any of them. She goes everywhere she can with them, plays their games, climbs trees, jumps her own height nearly, and is a regular little tomboy. Aren’t you, Miss Joyce?’

‘Everyone always tells me I’m a tomboy,’ said the child; ‘but I don’t know what they mean. I’d like to be a boy, though!’

‘Why didn’t you come on the shore with us?’ asked Forester.

‘I did go,’ said the child; ‘I went with Bruce and Victor.’

‘Who are Bruce and Victor?’ said the doctor.

‘Our dogs;—haven’t you seen them? I’ll bring them in. They’re darlings!’

She ran out of the kitchen, and soon returned with two great collie dogs,—beautiful creatures with soft auburn hair, long drooping tails, bright brown eyes, and faces full of intelligence. They were evidently devoted to the child; they watched her every movement, and obeyed her every word. Then she took them for a race round the courtyard before going to bed; the supper was put on the table, and Forester sat down with his friends.

‘Have you had the artist here?’ he asked.

‘Yes, and he’s a queer customer,’ said the old man. ‘I don’t believe he’s an artist at all.’

‘My father’s a very suspicious man,’ said Rupert; ‘it’s a wonder he let you sleep here that night I brought you up to the Castle. I had my doubts whether he would, and I saw him look very hard at your card when you handed it to him.’

The old man laughed. ‘Well, I don’t think I’m wrong this time,’ he said. ‘I think he is a very queer customer.’

‘I don’t like him,’ answered Forester.

‘You have seen him, then; have you, doctor?’

‘Yes, staring up at the Castle, this morning, when I was going down to bathe.’

‘Well, you and I are agreed,’ said the old man; ‘for I don’t like him either.’

‘What has he been drawing?’

‘Can’t make up his mind,’ said old Mr. Norris. ‘He has been wandering about all day, upstairs and downstairs, peering in this turret and that turret, looking here and looking there, and he hasn’t settled on a place yet.’

‘Has the antiquarian been here too?’

‘What, Clegg! No, I haven’t seen any sign of him—that’s one blessing!’

‘Have you found the loft key, Rupert?’ Forester asked.

‘Not yet, sir. I haven’t had much time to look. We’re getting the last of the hay in.’

As they sat over the fire after supper, Forester once more returned to the subject of the artist, and asked what his name was, and where he came from.

‘His name is De Jersey,’ so he says. ‘It may be, or it may not be. He is descended from the Huguenots, and is living now in Leamington. Again, I say, he may be, or he may not be.’

‘Now, didn’t I tell you father was a suspicious man?’ said Rupert.

When, some time after this, Forester said goodnight and went to his tent, he thought, as he looked back at the Castle, that he saw a light in one of the narrow windows in the untenanted part of it. Could the strange artist, De Jersey, be still at work?

But, even as he wondered, the light went out, and the Castle was left in darkness.

Chapter 7: Sunday at Hildick

FORESTER slept long and soundly, having no one to disturb him in his solitude. When he awoke his first thought was that it was Sunday, and that he was to hear Jack preach. He dressed quickly, for it was nearly ten o’clock, made a hasty breakfast, and then went to the Castle to ask what time the service would begin, as he had forgotten to enquire the night before.

To his surprise he found that there was no morning service in Hildick, but that his friend would have gone to a village four miles off to take the service there, and that he would only preach in Hildick in the evening.

Forester wished that he had known this before, for he would gladly have accompanied Jack on his long walk. As it was, there was nothing to be done but to wait until the evening, as it was far too late to walk to Carlington. He therefore determined to go down to the shore and to spend the morning sitting on the rocks.

Sunday at Hildick was like Sunday in the good old days of our fathers, when the fourth commandment was respected and obeyed. Perfect quiet reigned everywhere; no one was working in the fields; there was no disquieting noise to be heard. The bleating of sheep, the lowing of cattle, and the singing of birds were the only sounds that fell upon his ear. What a contrast to London, with its increasing disregard of Sunday observance!

The shore was almost deserted; a few village boys were sitting on the shingle, and in the far distance he could see Joyce Sinclair running with her dogs over the sand, but no one else was in sight. He wondered what had become of them all that lovely morning, and he inwardly groaned to think that he would have to spend it alone; and this in spite of the fact that only a few days before his aim had been to avoid society and to live the life of a recluse.

He went up the path leading to the old church. It took him across a green sward, on which were growing beautiful trees, through the branches of which he could obtain lovely views of the sea, like bright pictures set in a leafy frame. Then he came to a gate, and, passing through this, he found himself in the ancient churchyard. The sea lay just beneath it, and he could hear the waves dashing upon the rocks below.

The graves were unlike any that he had seen before. There were no mounds, but they were quite level with the path, and each one was picked out with an edging of white stone, in a shape that looked like the outline of a mummy’s coffin. It gave the churchyard a most weird appearance; it looked as if the Röntgen rays had streamed upon it, and had brought to light the shadowy forms of the quiet dead who lay far beneath the ground. He found several old graves of the Norris family, but beyond these he saw little to interest him. He concluded that Martha must be the favorite name in Hildick, for on several of the stones he read the inscription:

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MARTHA.

Then he walked round the old church, which had stood on those rocks for seven hundred years or more. The door was locked, but he looked in through the window, and saw that it was very plain and unadorned, and appeared to be exceedingly dark, for the windows were small, and the wall in which they were set was several feet in thickness. He thought of the many generations of men and women who had come up that shady path, and had worshipped in the little church. Where were they now? They had passed away, and even the stones that marked their last resting place on earth had crumbled and fallen to pieces.

The whole place struck Forester as rather dismal, and yet never was churchyard in a prettier spot. Standing as it did with deep woods above it, the rocky coast below, the blue sea beyond, with no sound to be heard in it but the song of the birds and the sound of many waters, what more peaceful or picturesque resting place could be found for the quiet dead?

The doctor, however, was glad to come out into the sunshine again, and to climb down the rocks just outside the churchyard enclosure. The tide was low, so he made up his mind to walk round to the promontory and to climb to the top of it, thus returning to his tent without having to pass through the village or to retrace his steps.

He was sauntering along, and a feeling of loneliness was once more stealing over him, when suddenly he caught sight of a shady straw hat just appearing above a rock in front of him. He walked on, wondering who it could be, and came upon Doris Somerville reading a book, and so intent upon it that she did not hear him coming.

‘Good morning, Miss Somerville, don’t let me disturb you. What a cozy seat you have found under that rock!’

‘Yes, I’ve been sitting here a long time; it’s too hot to walk much today.’

‘Is there room for me?’ said Forester. ‘But perhaps you want to read?’

‘Oh no,’ said Doris. ‘I’ve been reading a long time, and I’ve finished my chapter.’

‘Where is everyone this morning, Miss Somerville? The shore seems deserted.’

‘They’ve all gone to Carlington with Jack. I meant to have gone too, but father was not very well, and we had breakfast late; but he’s all right again now, so I thought I would come down to the shore.’

Forester was playing idly with the pebbles beside him, throwing one from time to time into a little pool that the last tide had left behind. His next remark sounded rather abrupt.

‘Why did you say “Thank you” last night?’

‘“Thank you”?’

‘Yes; when I told you I had made a fool of myself, you said “Thank you”!’

‘Oh, I remember,’ she said, blushing. ‘I was only glad you trusted me enough to tell me.’

‘Were you?’

Such a grateful, pleased look came into his eyes with the words! But Doris quickly changed the subject. ‘Don’t you like a Sunday in the country?’

‘Yes, I suppose I do,’ he said. ‘I used to like it. I haven’t cared much for Sundays at all, just lately.’

‘Why not?’

‘Now, I’m going to trust you again,’ he said. ‘Because I’ve been like an instrument out of tune.’

‘Out of tune with Sunday?’

‘Yes.’

There was silence for some minutes after this. Forester was gazing steadily out to sea, where a little boat was sailing along with the wind.

It was Doris who spoke first: ‘Isn’t it a pity?’ she said.

‘What? To be the untuned instrument? Yes, I suppose it is. But I’ve been upset lately—terribly upset—and somehow I haven’t cared for anything. I have been reckless, I think, ready to run anywhere, or to do anything to get away from my own thoughts. By the bye, do you know what it is to get a thing in your head and not to be able to remember it all? I’ve had two lines in my head almost ever since I came here. My mother taught me them when I was a small child—those are the things that stick, I think— but, for the life of me, I can’t remember the end of this verse.’

‘What is it?’ said Doris; ‘tell me the beginning, and perhaps I can help you.’

‘“While place we seek or place we shun,

The soul finds happiness in none.”’

‘This is the end:

“But with my God to guide my way

‘Tis equal joy to go or stay.”’

‘Of course it is,’ said Forester; ‘I remember it now.’ Their conversation was interrupted by the approach of footsteps, and two men passed them. They never noticed Forester and Doris, who were still sitting under the rock, but went on with their conversation, which was evidently a very heated one.

The doctor saw at once who they were, the antiquarian, Clegg, and his artist friend. They were both very much excited, and were talking in loud angry voices.

‘I tell you, it’s not enough,’ said the artist.

‘Enough? It’s a great deal too much,’ returned the other. ‘Two pounds a week, and a big percentage when the job’s finished!’

Forester could hear no more, for the men had passed on.

‘What horrid-looking men!’ said Doris.

‘Yes; don’t you recognize one of them?’ Doris looked again.

‘Oh yes, of course; the short one is that thin-lipped man that sat next you on the coach.’

‘The same,’ said Forester. ‘He and his friend are up to something at the Castle. What it is I can’t make out, but I mean to keep my eye on them both.’

The little church on the rocks was well filled at all times of the year; in summer, when the visitors were in Hildick, it was full to overflowing. Old Mr. Norris informed Forester that if he wanted a seat he would have to be there an hour before the time for service. The doctor took this statement with a very large grain of salt, but he thought he would go down the hill and sit on the rocks near the church until the last bell began to ring.

However, he found that a stream of people poured into the tiny church as soon as the doors were opened, and on second thoughts he decided to follow them. It was well he did, for the church was already full, and chairs were being let down by a rope from a trapdoor in the bell tower to fill up the tiny aisle. He saw his friend Rupert in the choir, and the Mainwarings, Sinclairs, and Somervilles were sitting near the door. Leonard and several other boys were placed in a row on the steps of the chancel, in order to make more room for the grown-up people.

A chair was put for the doctor by a tall man who he concluded was the verger, and he found himself between Don Mainwaring and little Joyce Sinclair. The latter turned round and smiled at him as he sat down, and then took him under her wing during the service, letting him look over her hymnbook, finding the places for him with great determination, and pushing her footstool towards him that he might share it with her.

Jack read the service in a clear, manly voice. The singing was grand—at least, Forester thought so. A critically musical ear would no doubt have detected many notes out of tune, and have discovered mistakes and faults of manifold kinds. But Forester did not profess to be musical, and the thorough heartiness of the congregation charmed him beyond measure. Everyone was singing; men, women, and children were all taking their part, and it would have been difficult for anyone in the church to resist the infectious earnestness which seemed to pervade the whole place.

Then Jack went into the pulpit, and a hush fell upon the little congregation as he rose from the prayer and stood to give out his text. There was a moment’s pause whilst Jack was rallying his forces. It was a nervous thing for him, a very trying ordeal, to stand up and preach to his mother, to his brother and sisters, to his old uncle, who was sitting all attention just in front of him, and above all to Forester, his schoolfellow and friend, who had always been far more clever than he was, and to whom he had ever looked up with admiring eyes, as to one who was miles above him in intellect and power of mind. Who was he, that he should preach to Forester? But that feeling was only for a moment. In the next, he had forgotten everyone in the church, and only remembered the presence of the One whose servant he was, the Lord and Master in whose strength and for whose sake he was going to speak, whose blessed message of love he had been sent to deliver.

There was no trembling in Jack’s voice when he began. Clearly and distinctly the words of his text fell on Forester’s ear and rang through the old church.

‘“We have known and believed the love that God hath to us.”’

It was a simple, manly sermon, with no pretense to eloquence or flowery speech, but its very simplicity, its downright earnestness, carried his hearers with him throughout it all. He began by quoting two lines of a hymn which, he said, they all loved, and had known since they were children:

‘Till in the ocean of Thy love

We lose ourselves in Heaven above.’

And then he showed how the love of God did indeed resemble the ocean. There, from that little church perched on the very verge of the sea, he carried them in thought far out to the expanse beyond. He pictured a tiny fish swimming in those mighty waters, surrounded by them on every side; and as it swims on, finding no end to the great tracts of ocean, no limit to the vast expanse of water in which it lives, it moves, and has its being. Then he compared it to a human soul, surrounded by the love of God, an endless, fathomless ocean, the bounds of which he will never reach in this life, no, nor in the untold ages of eternity.

Next, he spoke of the awful depth of the sea, and of the mystery of the mighty waters, which, in places, no man had fathomed or explored; and he showed how, in like manner, the love of God had depths of which none of us know anything, mysteries of mercy and goodness and loving-kindness which we can never explain in this life, nor possibly in the life to come.

He went on to remind each one of his hearers, that in that ocean of God’s love he himself had come into being, and that, ever since his birth, he had been surrounded by it. Love had been the very atmosphere, the very element in which his life had been spent, love shown in thousands of different ways; in gifts of health and comfort and prosperity, in home joys and affections, by dangers averted, by difficulties removed, by prayers answered—nothing but love from the first day of life until now. And even the sorrows, anxieties, and disappointments being only so many fresh proofs of that love which will not let us cling to earth, lest we lose the enjoyment and infinite delight of exploring the ocean of His love in eternity, of participating in the fulness of joy in His presence, and the pleasures for evermore at His right hand.

And then Jack suddenly changed his simile, and he made them see the love of God as a strong golden cable, sent to draw us into the everlasting glory above. He showed them that that cable was a threefold cord, composed of three distinct and wonderful strands. The first strand, the love of God the Father, Who, seeing us lost and ruined and without a chance of anything in the future except reaping the consequences of sin, looks down upon us with infinite pity, and loves us with such mighty love that He gives His Son, His only Son, His dearest, His best, His most beloved, for us.

The second strand, the love of the Lord Jesus Christ, Who for us men and for our salvation leaves the glory for the shame, the throne for the manger, the adoration of angels for the contempt of sinful man; and Who, after being despised and rejected by the very ones He came to save, actually lays down His life to pay the penalty of our sin.

The third strand, the love of the Spirit, striving with us day by day, bearing with us in all our waywardness, doing His very utmost to bring us to see the love of the Father, to accept the love of the Son.

He reminded them that a threefold cord cannot be broken, and that this golden cable of love; the love of Father, Son, and Spirit, is an Almighty cable—able to rescue, able to save, able to draw each one of us into eternal glory.

But it was the end of the sermon which seemed to go straight to Forester’s heart.

‘“We have known and believed the love.” Have we?’ he asked. ‘Have I? Have you? Can you change the pronoun and say, I have known; I have believed? By my own personal experience I have tested that love, and found it unfailing. I have known and believed the love of the Father, and have accepted His priceless, unspeakable gift. I have known and believed the love of the Son. I have seen Him hanging on the cross of shame for me. I have realized that He died in my place. I have taken Him as my representative. I have laid my sins on Him, and have accepted His wonderful salvation. I have known and believed the love of the Spirit. I have listened to His pleadings. I have yielded to His strivings. I have welcomed His loving guidance. I have known and believed the love of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. I cannot sound it; I cannot measure it; but I know it surrounds me at this moment, and will ever surround me. In it I live and move and have my being. In it I will trust, and will rejoice all the days of my life on earth, until I am called higher, and am able to enjoy and revel in the same love, in all its fulness, in the wonderful life beyond.

“Till in the ocean of that love

I lose myself in Heaven above.”’

Then came the closing hymn, which seemed the very echo of the sermon:

‘Souls of men, why will ye scatter

Like a crowd of frightened sheep?

Foolish hearts, why will ye wander

From a love so true and deep?

For the love of God is broader

Than the measure of man’s mind,

And the heart of the Eternal

Is most wonderfully kind.

If our love were but more simple

We should take Him at His word,

And our lives would be all sunshine

In the sweetness of our Lord.’

Very quietly the congregation dispersed. They came out to find a beautiful sunset sky, and everyone went down to the shore and walked along the water’s edge. The Sinclairs, Mainwarings, and Somervilles all formed one party, and Forester joined them as they left the church.

They seemed quite a crowd as they started together on the beach, but it is in the nature of crowds to disperse, and soon they were scattered all over the shore—the younger ones far ahead, and the others coming at a more leisurely pace behind.

Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair had begun their married life in India, and, as Mr. Somerville had also lived there for many years, they had much in common, and found that they had several common friends.

Jack, who was a great lover of children, had not joined the party, but had gone up the hill with Joyce to fetch her dogs, that they might have a run on the sands before being shut up for the night. The rest of the young people walked on quickly together to the other side of the bay.

The tide was fast coming in, and washing to land a variety of things; long pieces of sugarcane, old bottles, seaweed of many different kinds, driftwood, shells, and sea-urchins were coming to shore on the busy waves. Doris stopped to watch a curious object a little way out on the tide.

‘It looks like a shoe,’ she said.

It was a sabot, a wooden shoe thrown overboard from some French boat. Forester stopped with her, and they waited patiently, until at last, with a merry laugh, she pulled it out of the water.

‘I wonder who wore that old thing,’ she said.

‘Isn’t it quaint? I shall take it home as a curiosity.’

Forester carried it for her, and they went on towards the cliffs at the head of the bay. By this time the others were considerably ahead of them, so once more he found himself alone with Doris.

‘You were quite right,’ he said.

‘What, about that being a shoe?’

‘No, about Jack’s sermon. I forgot all about Jack himself.’

‘I knew you would,’ she answered.

‘Miss Somerville, I feel tonight as if I would give all I possess to change places with Jack.’

‘Do you?’ she said. ‘I wonder if you would change with him! Do you know where Jack lives? I went once to see him. We found him in a dismal back street; he has to live there to be near his own people. And his landlady! Such a frowsy old dame! She can cook a chop fairly well, but nothing else, I believe. His room is small and dark, and looks out on a blank wall, and there Jack grinds away at his sermons, and is at the beck and call of all the people round. He can never take off his boots in the evening and get in a chair by the fire and feel that work is done. They come to him at all hours of the day and night. Now it’s a baby to be baptized, now a dying person to be visited, now somebody out of work who wants a character written, or somebody else who wants new boots or something of that sort.’

‘Not a very lively sort of life, I should imagine,’ said Forester.

‘No, you wouldn’t think so, but Jack is lively enough. I never saw anyone enjoy life more. He is in the best of spirits the whole time, and won’t let any of us say that it’s a hard life.’

‘In fact,’ said Forester, laughing, ‘that verse I was trying to remember is an exact description of Jack and of me. The first two lines are Norman Forester:

“While place we seek or place we shun

The soul finds happiness in none.”

And the last two lines are Jack Mainwaring:

“But with my God to guide my way

‘Tis equal joy to go or stay.”’

Doris did not answer, but asked him how he liked the Hildick singing, and the conversation drifted into other channels. The others soon after this turned round, and they formed one party again, and as it was fast growing dark they hurried homeward.

Chapter 8: A Midnight Visitor

THE days which followed were all very much alike, and all equally delightful. But there was one great event in the next week which must not be forgotten, and that was the supper on the shore. It was arranged to take place on Mab’s birthday, which fell upon the Wednesday of that week. Great were the preparations for that supper! The young people climbed up the steep, wooded hill collecting dry pieces of wood and numbers of fir cones, which they piled in a great heap on the shingle.

Then, when the eventful day arrived, there was much excitement over the arrangements for the evening’s repast. The Sinclair boys got up early, went out shooting with Rupert Norris, and brought back a couple of rabbits as their contribution to the supper. They would accept no help in skinning or cleaning them, for the whole entertainment was to be prepared by the young people themselves.

As soon as it began to grow dark the great fire was lighted, and the girls, armed with frying pans, saucepans, and kettles, were soon busily at work. They boiled potatoes, fried sausages, poached eggs, stewed mushrooms, and made rounds of buttered toast. But the rabbits formed the chef d’oeuvre of their culinary performances. These were cooked entirely by Val and Dick Sinclair, who carefully seasoned the gravy, added an onion, parsley, and other herbs, mace, pepper, and all manner of condiments, to make their dish savory and tempting.

The elder people came down to see them, and were persuaded to taste some of the dishes. But long after they had gone home the younger ones sat round the cheerful blaze.

‘Mab’s birthday only comes once a year,’ said Don; ‘so we must make the most of it, and let it last as long as we can.’

They had quite a concert as they sat round the fire that night—one merry song after another, followed by grand choruses in which the whole party joined.

Suddenly Doris laid her hand on Forester’s arm—

‘Look, there are those two horrid men!’ she whispered.

The doctor looked up quickly, and could just distinguish two figures, standing at some little distance from the fire, and evidently watching all that was going on.

Val saw them too, and said: ‘I vote we make a move; the fire’s dying down, and there is old Sly-boots staring at us.’

‘Who in the world is Sly-boots?’ asked Jack, who had seen no one.

‘Oh, that’s the name Dick has given to that so-called artist’s bosom friend. Come along! Let’s pack up; I hate to be stared at, especially by him.’

‘Do you see much of that artist?’ asked the doctor, as he walked up the hill with the Sinclairs.

‘See him! Why, he haunts the place! I detest him,’ said Dick. ‘When we climb about amongst the ruins we’re sure to come upon either him or Sly-boots. They keep well out of old Norris’ sight, though. I often see them hiding in dark corners when they think he’s on the trot.’

‘Have you seen any of the artist’s pictures?’

‘No, I haven’t; and I don’t believe there are any to see,’ said Dick. ‘He scribbles away in a book, but I don’t think there’s much drawing about it.’

‘What are they after at the Castle? That’s what I want to know,’ said Forester.

‘What are they after?’

‘Yes, I’m certain they are up to some mischief. Just you fellows keep an eye on them, will you? I don’t like to say much to the Castle folks, though I’m sure the old man does not care to have them lounging about the place. But Rupert seems to think it’s all right, so there they remain, and I don’t want to alarm the Norrises without cause. Who sleeps in the room I slept in?’

‘Which was that?’

‘The one with a big four-post bed in it.’

‘Oh, dad and mother sleep there; we’re in the back bedrooms. Have you been into them?’

‘Yes, once; Mr. Norris took me. Who sleeps in that queer room that looks on the farmyard, with the turret in the corner of it?’

‘Dick and Billy sleep there,’ said Val. ‘I’m in the one that looks out the same way as the courtyard gate.’

‘No ghosts in the Castle, I suppose?’ said Forester.

‘Not that I know of,’ said Val, laughing. ‘Dick and Billy say they hear noises, but I expect it’s only the horses in the stable.’

‘What kind of noises?’

‘Oh, footsteps, and people stealing about. It’s all rubbish, though! They’re as nervous as girls.’

‘We’re not nervous,’ said Dick indignantly; ‘but I want to know what those noises are? I’ll find out one fine day; you see if I don’t.’

‘Or one wet night,’ suggested Val. ‘Well, don’t wake me, that’s all.’

Forester told them that he quite believed what Dick had said, for when he slept in the Castle he had been awakened by footsteps both nights, and they had sounded to him as if they were close to the room in which he was, and he fancied they came from the turret which was between the two bedrooms. He advised them to ask Mr. Norris about it.

‘So I did,’ said Dick; ‘but he wouldn’t listen. He said no footsteps ever went about his house at night, and he wanted me to believe it was rats I heard. As if I couldn’t tell the difference between the sound of the scuttling of rats, and of people going up and downstairs!’

‘What did Rupert say?’

‘Oh, Rupert only laughed and said it was a ghost. But I’ll find out some day: I’ve got a clue, and I’m working it out by degrees.’

Forester was more convinced than ever that something mysterious was going on in the Castle, and he only hoped that Dick would soon be successful in discovering what it was.

He did not linger on at the Castle, though the old man was at the door and pressed him to go in; but a tremendous wind had risen, and he was afraid that he might find his tent lying fiat on the ground. However, to his great joy, it was all right when he came up to it, and he went carefully round tightening the cords and hammering in the tent pegs, in preparation for the night of storm which seemed to be before him.

Forester went to bed, but for some time found it impossible to sleep. The wind was blowing directly from the sea; it howled across the moorland; it shrieked amongst the trees of the wood; it whistled through the hedge under the shelter of which he had encamped; it made the tent pole creak, and the curtains flap, and the ropes strain. It sounded as if all the spirits of evil were let loose, to wreck their vengeance on any who might come in their way.

But the doctor was tired and sleepy, and after a time even the wind, noisy and angry and tumultuous though it was, failed to keep him awake. He was roused, however, by another sound, which startled him more than the wild fury of the elements. It was the sound of a voice close to the canvas walls of his tent.

‘Doctor, doctor,’ said the voice.

Forester sprang up, and at first could not remember where he was. Was he in his flat at West Kensington, and was this his good old housekeeper, Mrs. Timmis, who had come to tell him that the night bell had rung, and that some patient had sent for him?

Again came the call: ‘Doctor, I say, doctor.’

No, that was not the mild, gentle voice of his old housekeeper; it was the coarse, rough voice of a man. And he was not in his comfortable bedroom in West Kensington, but in a bare tent out on the lonely moor.

‘Doctor! Wake up, will you? Doctor, I say!’

‘Who’s there?’ demanded Forester in an angry voice.

A terrible gust of wind, coming at that moment, drowned the answer.

‘Who are you; and what are you doing here at this time of night?’

‘Doctor,’ said the voice, and again came words Forester could not distinguish. He got out of bed and lighted his lamp. Then he put his revolver within reach and shouted through the canvas:

‘What do you want?’

There was a slight lull in the storm, and he could hear the answer now.

‘Doctor, I say: I want you to come and see my old dad; he’s pegging out fast.’

‘Why do you come to me?’ said Forester. ‘Go for your own doctor.’

‘Haven’t got one. There isn’t one here.’

‘No doctor?’

‘No, none at all under a matter of five miles or more, and he’s pegging out fast.’

‘Wait a minute,’ shouted Forester, as the wind once more returned in fury; ‘I can’t hear you. Come inside, and be quick about it or we shall have the tent down.’

Forester unfastened the tent door, and his night visitor slipped inside. He eyed him carefully as the light of the lamp fell upon him, and was glad that his revolver was close at hand. The visitor was a short, thick man, with a red, bloated face, an unkempt beard, and small rat-like eyes. He wore an old sealskin cap, a rough pilot coat, dirty corduroy trousers, and long fisherman’s boots. He had a short clay pipe in his mouth, and he kept it there when he entered the tent.

‘Now then,’ said Forester, ‘tell me what you mean by coming and disturbing me at this time of night.’

‘Beg pardon, sir,’ said the man, more civilly; ‘but the old man’s pegging out, and somebody has got to come and see him, else if anything happens we shall have to have an inkwitch, and I don’t want none of them there inkwitches at our house!’

‘Again, I say, why don’t you fetch the nearest doctor?’

‘How can I go a night this like?’ said the man indignantly; ‘and how can I leave the old chap alone? He’ll be dead by the time I get back.’

‘Well, get a neighbor to sit with him till you return.’

‘Haven’t got no neighbors,’ growled the man; ‘and don’t want no neighbors neither. We don’t belong to these ‘ere parts, and there ain’t any house anywhere near. Besides, if I go for yon doctor over there, the old man will be gone long afore he gets here, and we’ll have to have that inkwitch.’

‘Now look here,’ said Forester, ‘what good can I do your father, even if I come with you? I’ve no medicine to give him, and none of my instruments with me. I can only just look at him, and what good on earth will that do?’

‘Come, anyhow, and see,’ urged the man— ‘maybe there’s something you can do if you try, and anyhow, it’ll save that there inkwitch.’

Forester did not like to refuse, though he did not at all relish the idea of a midnight walk with this rascally looking individual. Rogue and villain were written all over his face, and the prospect of going out with him into the darkness was anything but inviting. But the doctor was a most conscientious man, and he never shrank from any duty, however unpleasant; so he told the man that, if he would wait outside for a few moments whilst he dressed, he would come with him to see his father.

He hastily put on his clothes, lighted his lantern, and slipped the revolver into the breast pocket of his coat. Then he went outside, and found his rough and unpromising-looking guide lying on the ground and smoking, on the most sheltered side of the tent. He jumped up when he saw the doctor and led the way, but did not vouchsafe a single word of thanks.

It was a terribly dark night, there was not a star to be seen; the wild wind was bringing up heavy clouds from the sea, and they had not gone far when the rain began to fall in torrents. Where they were going Forester had no idea. The man seemed to be taking him in an opposite direction to that in which the Castle lay, and across the open moorland.

The doctor had difficulty in making his way through the furze bushes which grew very thickly on that part of the common. Then they seemed to him to be passing down a long and very narrow lane. The light in his lantern burnt dimly, but he could just discern high hedges on either side, and a heavy muddy road in which were great cart ruts and large pools of water.

On they plodded over the heavy ground, their feet sinking deeply into the mud. Now a stile had to be crossed, and his guide led the way across an open field. The wind and the rain were so terrific here that for some time they made little or no progress. Forester took care that his guide walked in front of him, so that by the light of his lantern he could keep him well in view. To what was he leading him? he wondered. Was it a dastardly plot to rob or perhaps to murder him? Or was it a real case of need?

They had been walking on for about half an hour, not speaking a word to each other, for the noise of the wind was so great that conversation was impossible. They had climbed several stiles, walked across fields of stubble or short grass, and had tramped through more than one muddy lane, when Forester began to be conscious that the rocky path on which they were walking was going steeply downhill.

‘Are we nearly there?’ he shouted to the man in front.

‘Yes, not far now,’ he called back; ‘come along, doctor.’

Forester was following him more slowly. What would he see when their goal was reached? Soon after this he heard the noise of waves beating upon the rocks—they were drawing very close to the sea.

‘Here we are,’ said his guide at length, as he lifted the latch of a small gate and led the way into a garden.

And now Forester could see a light shining from the window of a little cottage close at hand. His guide opened the door, and he followed him into a small, low kitchen. Rough beams ran along the ceiling and were covered with smoke and cobwebs; a table with a few dirty cups and plates on it stood in the middle of the room. There was very little furniture of any kind; two or three broken chairs, an old horsehair sofa, and a wooden stool were all that the cottage contained, with the exception of a low wooden bedstead drawn up to the fire, on which, half sitting, half lying, was an old man with long grey hair. His eyes were closed, and he was apparently unconscious. Forester went up to him, felt his pulse, and listened to his breathing.

‘Has he any pain?’ he asked.

‘Awful; he’s had it most of three days.’

‘Where?’

The man pointed to the old man’s chest: ‘Catched him like, when he breathed,’ he said.

‘Why didn’t you get a doctor?’

‘Don’t know,’ said the man shortly; ‘didn’t think it was anything serious, as you may say. Old dad often has bad turns.’

‘What made you come for me then?’

‘Well, he began shaking, and then he turned deadly like, and said as how he was a-going to die; and then he began to breathe short, and I thought maybe he was; and then after that he never spoke again.’

‘But why did you come to me? What do you know about me? How could you tell I was a doctor?’

‘Saw you come t’other night on the ‘bus, and helped to carry your traps into the post office. There was a luggage tag on one of ‘em, and it said, Dr. Forester. Says I, “You’ve come to these ‘ere parts to camp out, Dr. Forester; that’s what you’ve come to do. I wonder where you’re a-going to pitch this ‘ere tent.” Next day I went across the moor yonder, and saw you and old Maxie a-putting of it up.’

‘Now listen,’ said Forester. ‘Your father’s very ill, very ill indeed. He has inflammation of the lungs, as far as I can make out, but I can’t examine him properly. I’ve no stethoscope with me. You must go and get a doctor immediately. He’s unconscious now, but it’s only a bad faint caused by the pain; he’ll be able to speak again presently.’

Even as he said this the old man opened his eyes and began to groan as if in great agony.

‘Are ye better, dad?’ said the man.

‘No, Dan, no better—no better at all. I can’t last much longer, I think.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that!’ said Forester, in the kind, pleasant voice in which he always spoke to his patients. ‘When the doctor comes we will see what is the matter with you, and what we can do for you.’

‘Who are you?’ said the old man, looking at him for the first time.

‘He’s yon doctor in the tent,’ said Dan— ‘him as I told you about; but he hasn’t got any of his tools here, so he can’t do much good—so he says.’

‘No, I can’t; therefore you must go for the nearest doctor at once,’ said Forester firmly. ‘Now then, can’t you get someone to stay with the old man?’

‘No; there’s nobody anywhere near,’ he answered moodily.

‘Well then, I’ll stay, if you can get no one else. Go at once, and mind you are quick about it.’

The man put on his fur cap, pulled it over his eyes, and, somewhat reluctantly and without a word of thanks to Forester for his kindness, prepared to go.

But before he left the, room he went to a cupboard in the corner, took out a bottle of whisky, poured some into a glass, and drank it almost raw.

‘Have any, governor?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Forester; ‘I never touch stuff like that, and it would be better for you if you never took any.’

Then the man went to the bed, bent over his old father, and whispered something in his ear. Forester thought he caught the words, ‘Don’t blab about what don’t concern you’; but the whisper was so low that he could not be certain that this was what was said.

The next minute Dan went out into the darkness, and closed the door behind him.

Chapter 9: A Strange Night

WHEN the doctor was left alone with the old man he set himself first of all to do what he could for his comfort. He shook up the dirty cushion and pillows with which he was propped up, and with his careful hands moved him gently into an easier position, and straightened the ragged blanket which was his only covering. Then he found a kettle on the hearth, black with the soot of ages, and, seeing a can of water standing near, he poured some in and boiled it on the fire. Then he sponged the sick man’s face and hands, which were covered with the grime of weeks of neglect, using his own pocket-handkerchief as a sponge, and drying them on a cloth hanging on a nail in the door. Then he washed out one of the dirty cups, dried it by the fire, and, seeing some milk in a jug, he warmed it in a small saucepan, which he also had to cleanse before using, and gave it gently and slowly, a spoonful at a time, to the poor old man. The warm milk revived him, and when he had finished it he spoke to Forester for the first time.

‘Say a prayer,’ he said.

Forester started; he had never prayed with anyone in his life. He did not answer for a moment, and again the old man addressed him:

‘Do say a prayer,’ he pleaded.

Once more Forester devoutly wished that he were Jack. Jack would have known exactly what to say, and how to comfort the dying man in his time of need; but he—what could he do? Then a prayer that his mother had taught him years ago, when he was a tiny boy, almost a baby, flashed into his mind, and, bending over the old man, he repeated slowly, ‘God be merciful to me a sinner.’

‘To me a sinner,’ said the sick man; ‘to me a sinner.’

Soon after this he seemed to breathe more quietly, and the doctor glancing at him saw that he was fast asleep. Then the watcher sat down to rest, tired with his long tramp in the wind and the rain. The air of the room was close and stifling, redolent of the fumes of whisky and the odor of stale tobacco, but he dare not open the window, for the cottage faced the sea, and the wind had become a fearful hurricane. It seemed to him sometimes as if the window would be blown in, and the howling in the chimney was frightful.

Forester went quietly into a small outhouse, found a little coal, and threw it on the fire, which was fast dying out. Then he tried to think of all manner of things, to make the time pass quickly. It seemed like a horrible dream, to be sitting in this strange and dirty place in the middle of the night, and the very wildness of the weather added to the weirdness of the situation. He could hear, whenever the wind lulled for a moment, that great waves were beating on the rocks close by. He wondered if they ever came as far as the cottage; it seemed to him sometimes as if he were on board ship, and at the mercy of wind and tide.

What a long night it was! Would it never be morning? The old man still slept, and as Forester bent over him from time to time he wondered if he would awake better and easier. He thought of the whisper he had overheard, which seemed to imply the existence of some secret which was not to be told. What could it be that the son was so anxious that the father should not tell? Probably they were poachers or smugglers, and were afraid of their doings being brought to light. An old gun was standing in one corner of the room. Was it loaded? he wondered. The woods were enclosed with wire and there seemed to be a good staff of gamekeepers, and surely with a coastguard station close by smuggling would not be easy. For what purpose, then, was the gun used? What tale could it tell if it was able to speak?

Just then the fire, which had begun to revive, shot up a bright flame, and by its light Forester saw something sparkle underneath the old sofa. What could it be? A pair of scissors, perhaps. The flame died down and he could see nothing, but he felt about with his hand on the ground underneath the couch, and came upon a small hard object lying against one of the legs. He picked it up and brought it to the fire to examine it. To his astonishment he found it was a small golden crucifix, at least it looked like gold, though he argued with himself that possibly it was only gilded. Yet it was a strange thing to find there. Could the old man and his son be Papists? he wondered, and supposing they were, why did they not take more care of their crucifix? He laid it beside him on the table, but he took it up several times after that and examined it in the firelight, and the longer he looked at it the more convinced he felt that it was made of solid gold; and he also noticed that the figure on the cross was beautifully carved and bore evidence of skillful workmanship. He marveled more and more that such a costly thing should have found its way into that forlorn cottage by the sea.

A short time after this the doctor was startled by hearing a whistle outside. Was it the wind in the chimney? No, he was sure it was a human whistle, and it was repeated several times. The old man was still sleeping, and he was unwilling to disturb him by moving across the room; but when the whistle was followed by a low knock at the door he decided to go to it, that he might see who was outside.

Opening the door only a little way because of the violence of the wind, Forester peered out into the darkness, and at first could see no one. But when his eyes were more accustomed to the dim light he could just distinguish the figure of a man standing by the gate. He seemed to be wearing a long ulster which came down to his boots—the collar was turned up, and a cap was drawn tightly down over his eyes. Forester could not see his face; it was too dark for that.

‘Let me in, Dan, quick!’ he said.

‘Dan has gone to fetch the doctor to see his father,’ said Forester; ‘the old man is very ill. What do you want?’

‘Oh, nothing of consequence,’ said the man— ‘goodnight’; and in another moment he was gone.

Forester went back to his place by the fire considerably puzzled. Where had he heard that voice before? He tried to remember, but he tried in vain. Perhaps it reminded him of someone with whom he had travelled. Or was it like the voice of some patient of his in London? Voices were often somewhat similar, so there was really nothing remarkable about that. But it did strike him as strange that a visitor should come to that cottage on the shore in the middle of the night, and especially on such a wild night as that.

At length the weary hours passed by and it began to get light. Now the doctor could look out of the window and see a little of his surroundings. Far in front of him stretched the sea, covered with white horses rearing their heads in the wind. The tide was going out, and the rocky shore was strewn with masses of seaweed which had been brought up by the storm.

Presently the old man awoke and began to groan again. Forester raked together the fire, heated some milk, and gave it to him as before. Then he felt his pulse, and found it more rapid and feeble than the night before.

The rain had stopped and the sun was shining brightly when at length he heard the welcome sound of footsteps. Dan was returning at last. He came in with the same surly expression he had worn the night before.

‘Well, what about the doctor?’ Forester asked.

‘Oh, the doctor—he’s going to ride over after breakfast, he says. He doesn’t hurry his self, doesn’t doctor.’

‘Then I’ll go home now,’ said Forester. ‘I’ve just given your father some milk; give him some more in about an hour if he’s awake. By the bye, I picked this up under your sofa last night; I saw it shine in the firelight. You should take more care of your valuables, and not leave them lying on the floor.’

The man looked at him with his rat-like eyes, as if he would read his very thoughts, and then said carelessly, as he took up the gold crucifix: ‘Oh, that old thing. It must have tumbled down. It belonged to my mother; she brought it from old Ireland with her. She was a Paddy and a Catholic, was my mother.’

Forester was thankful to get out of the stifling atmosphere of the dirty cottage and to be able to return to his tent. He had some difficulty in finding his way. He discovered, however, that he was in the quiet little cove of which Mr. Norris had told him, and after making his way to the top of the rugged path which led down to it, he found himself on the high road to Hildick, and was able to discover in which direction to go. It was nearly seven o’clock when he reached his tent, and he thought it was too late to go to bed again. They would be expecting him on the shore to bathe, and would be amused to hear of his night’s adventure.

So the doctor got his towels and ran down the hill, that he might wash off the dirty, smoky atmosphere of the cottage which, in his fancy, still clung to him. There was no swimming to be done that morning, for the sea was far too rough, so the bathe was soon over. Forester went to the Bank for breakfast as usual, and on the way there told Jack and Don of the strange night he had spent.

‘I think I had better go and see that old man,’ said Jack.

‘Yes, do. He wanted me to pray with him in the night, but that’s more in your line than mine.’

‘We’ll walk over together after dinner, if you like.’

Forester agreed, and that afternoon the two friends crossed the moor, and managed to find the short way across the fields by which the doctor’s surly guide had taken him the night before. When they reached the cottage they found the door a little way open and walked in. Dan was lying asleep on the old couch with his empty pipe in his mouth. The fire had burnt low, and the place looked even more desolate than the night before. The old man opened his eyes when they went in, and seemed pleased to see Forester.

‘Well, did the doctor come?’

‘Yes, he came, and he gave me some’at to ease the pain like.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Said as he couldn’t do naught much for me; I was too far through.’

His breathing was very bad, and the words came with difficulty.

‘I’ve brought my friend here to see you,’ said Forester.

‘Who be you?’ asked the old man.

‘I’m looking after the parish here for your vicar,’ said Jack; ‘and I thought perhaps you would like me to come and see you.’

‘Parson, be you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hush, don’t wake him,’ pointing as he spoke to the couch; ‘he can’t abide parsons! But I’m glad you’ve come. I want—’

A fit of coughing stopped him speaking, and this brought on the pain so badly that for some moments nothing more could be said. But Forester’s gentle hands had applied the liniment, which the doctor had brought with him and which he found on the table, to the place where the pain was most acute, and after a time the old man was easier.

‘Have you come to pray with me?’ he asked. ‘He did in the night,’ pointing to Forester. ‘I haven’t forgot your prayer, master: “God be merciful to me a sinner.”’

Jack turned to his friend, who glanced shyly at him, and then walked to the window, and stood with his back to the bed, looking out at the sea.

‘That’s a beautiful prayer!’ said Jack; ‘have you said it for yourself?’

‘Ay, many a time. God be merciful to me a sinner. Yes, and I am a sinner. I know that, a great sinner.’

‘But, thank God, there is a great Saviour for you,’ said Jack in his cheery voice. ‘You say you are a great sinner, and God must punish sin; do you know that? God can’t just forgive you and let bygones be bygones, and take no further notice of your sins, because that wouldn’t be just. But God loved you so, that He let His dear Son be punished instead of you.’

‘Ay, He died on the cross, didn’t He?’

‘Yes, for you.’

‘Was it for me?—Are you sure?’

‘Yes, quite sure.’

‘Then what have I got to do?’

‘Thank Him,’ said Jack.

‘Thank Him?’

‘Yes, tell Him you are a great sinner, and that you think Him for dying instead of you, and ask Him to be your own Saviour.’

‘Will you ask Him?’

‘Yes, I’ll ask Him; but that isn’t enough, you must ask Him yourself. Would you like to ask Him now?’

Very simple was the short prayer that followed. Jack knelt by the bed. Forester still stood by the window, but he covered his face with his hand, and the old man in a feeble voice repeated, sentence by sentence, the words of the prayer.

They were just leaving the cottage when the man on the sofa woke and glared at them both.

‘Oh, it’s Dr. Forester,’ he said. ‘Well, you needn’t come any more now; we’ve got the doctor from over yonder in attendance, and it’ll be all right about the inkwitch.’

‘Hold your tongue, man; do you know what you are saying? Don’t let your poor old father hear you talk like that!’

‘I like to see ‘em, Dan,’ said the old man.

‘Well, maybe you do,’ he said; ‘but all the same, there’s nothing more to be done now. So you young gents may as well go and enjoy yourselves on the shore. Good afternoon to you both.’

‘A surly chap that,’ said Jack; ‘and a rascal too, I should imagine. I wonder who they are?’

They went into the Castle to see old Mr. Norris on their way back, and told him where they had been, and asked him if he knew anything of the two men in the cottage by the shore. He said that he had seen them once or twice when they had passed by the gate, but they had not been very long in the neighborhood. They came, he understood, from somewhere up north, and they had come to Dundry Bay for crab fishing. Old Maxie had had many a tussle with them over it, for Maxie looked upon all the crabs in the sea as his private property. They had made no friends in Hildick, and the village people looked upon them with suspicion and distrust. More than that he could not tell them—and he did not think that anyone in the place knew any more about them.

That night, as Jack Mainwaring knelt to say his prayers, his thoughts went to the old man whom he had visited that afternoon, and who was dying in that lonely cottage by the sea; and he prayed that his few feeble words might be used by the Spirit of God to bring him out of darkness into light; and that he might see how willing God was to save him, and might by the hand of faith grasp the loving, Almighty Hand which would draw him safely through the river of death, and would land him in the glory and light of the shore beyond.

So Jack prayed; but how little he thought that those few simple words had done more than that; how little he knew that the message of salvation, so feebly spoken, had been received, and gladly received, by another heart.

It was not until years afterwards that he heard that Norman Forester, instead of going to bed that night when he returned to his tent, walked in the starlight to the very end of the promontory, and that in that quiet place, where no sound was to be heard but the gentle lapping of the waves upon the shore below, he felt himself indeed alone with God. And then, as he sat there on the rocks, he seemed to hear again the conversation to which he had listened in the cottage. First came his friend Jack’s voice: ‘He loved you so that He let His dear Son be punished instead of you.’

And then the answer in the feeble whisper of the dying man: ‘Ay, He died on the cross, didn’t He?’

‘Yes, for you.’

‘Was it for me?—Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘Then what have I got to do?’

‘Thank Him.’

‘And I’ve never done it,’ said Forester; ‘I’ve never thanked Him. I’ve lived all my life without doing it. I’ve pleased myself as far as I could, and I’ve tried to make the best of life; but I’ve never thanked Him.’

‘Was it for me?—Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure.’

The words came back to him again and again. He got up, climbed the hill again, and paced about on the moor. He saw himself, as he had never seen himself before, a sinner in need of a Savior. And that nights he realized how ungrateful he had been. A Saviour provided for him, and at such a cost, and he had never even said, ‘Thank you.’ But he said it that night, and his thanksgiving took the form of familiar words, which he had known from his earliest childhood:

‘I thank Thee for my creation, preservation, and all the blessings of this life; but, above all, for Thine inestimable love in the redemption of the world by our Lord Jesus Christ.’ And to these words he added some of his own: ‘I thank Thee, Lord Jesus, that Thou hast died instead of me.’ And then the well-known thanksgiving went on again. ‘I beseech Thee to give me that due sense of all Thy mercies, that my heart may be unfeignedly thankful, that I may show forth Thy praise not only with my lips, but in my life, by giving up myself to Thy service, and by walking before Thee in holiness and righteousness all my days.’

Yes, from that night Norman Forester’s was a consecrated life, dedicated to the service of his Lord. The same plain, unvarnished gospel message which had guided the poor, ignorant old man had led into light and joy and peace the clever and talented young doctor.

But Jack did not know this at the time. It was a seed cast upon the waters, and it was not until after many days that he found it again, and discovered, to his joy and thankfulness, that it had borne such glorious fruit.

The next day he and Forester again crossed the hill to visit the old man. But when they arrived at the cottage they found the door locked, and no sign of anyone about the place. Forester went to the window and looked in.

‘Dead,’ he said shortly. ‘I thought he wouldn’t be long, poor old chap.’

The next day there was a funeral in the old churchyard— Jack’s first and only funeral whilst taking the duty at Hildick. The son stood by the grave, the only mourner. He had put on a black tie, but that was the only difference in his attire, and he was barely sober as he walked with unsteady footsteps after the coffin.

Forester stood at a little distance hidden by a high tombstone, and listened whilst Jack committed the poor old body to the dust, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, through Jesus Christ our Lord. He felt that he would meet the old man again, and he wondered what he would be like in that other life where we shall all learn so much.

‘Queer chap that!’ said the old gravedigger, as he watched Dan slouching out of the churchyard. ‘Anybody with eyes in their head can see that he’s not a Hildick man; we don’t make that article here. No, nor we don’t want to,’ he added, as he shoveled in the earth and filled up the old man’s grave.

Chapter 10: White Heather

THERE was only one of the party at Hildick who noticed any change in Dr. Forester, and that one was Doris Somerville; perhaps it was because she watched him most. His look of utter despondency when she first saw him had affected her strangely; she was sure he had had some great sorrow, but what it was she did not know. She was also convinced, as she saw more of him, that this was not all, but that he was restless at heart, trying to forget a painful past, and having nothing to lean on in the present or to hope for in the future. The two lines he had quoted, and had applied to himself, had shown her that. She knew that he was right when he said that they described him. His soul did not know what happiness —true happiness—was.

But, as the days went by, Doris noticed that all this seemed to be changed. It was not because he was merry and full of jokes, for he had always been that; but in his quieter moments, at those times when, as they were sitting on the shore, the cheerful talk had ceased for a time, she noticed a look of rest and peace and contentment on his face which had not been there before. It seemed to tell her that now the last two lines were true of him as they were of Jack, that he now had One to guide his way who could alone give true heart content.

Doris saw a great deal of Dr. Forester at this time, so she had plenty of opportunities of watching his face and of drawing her own conclusions. She was not only very musical, but she delighted in painting. She had had good lessons at school, and had since attended a School of Art, and had done a good deal of outdoor work. She was anxious to carry away with her from Hildick some picture which would always remind her of the most pleasant holiday she had ever spent.

She set out alone one morning to choose the spot from which she might make her sketch, and after wandering about for some time she fixed upon an opening in the rocks almost underneath the head of the promontory. There she would be able to get the trees above, the masses of rock in all shades of yellow, orange, and red beneath, and then, as a foreground, the sea, with a fringe of white foam on the pebbly shore. This view charmed her immensely. If only she could reproduce it, however feebly and imperfectly, it would be a joy to her for ever.

So she sat down with her sketchbook, and was soon working away at her picture, far removed from the merry party on the shore, and yet so much interested in her work that she did not miss them.

The others were sitting on their favorite rocks just underneath the old church. Joyce was throwing sticks into the water and coaxing her dogs to jump in and bring them back. Don and the Sinclair boys had set up an old tin and were pegging stones at it, Forester was lying on the sand the very picture of idleness.

‘Come along,’ cried Don presently; ‘we’re going to play hockey on the sand; we’ve brought the sticks down.’

Mab and Dolly jumped up at once to join the game.

‘Come along, you lazy fellows,’ Dolly said to Jack and Forester.

‘Where’s Miss Somerville?’ asked Forester. ‘Why don’t you get her to play?’

‘Oh, Doris! She’s off somewhere to paint.’

‘Where has she gone?’

‘Oh, I don’t know — somewhere along the shore. Come on, you two!’

Jack jumped up and followed them, but the doctor declared he was far too tired for hockey, and they were all soon out of sight. How was it then that, in spite of being tired, he jumped up the moment they had disappeared round the corner, and immediately began to walk swiftly along the shore in the opposite direction? Was he looking for anything, or for anybody? Whether he were or not, certain it is that he found Doris seated on a rock and intent upon her picture.

‘You here, Miss Somerville!’ he said when he came up to her, as though she was the very last person that he expected to see.

Of course, having come upon her in this unexpected manner, it would not have been polite to pass swiftly on without looking at her picture and making a few remarks about it, and, upon this, the feeling of weariness apparently returned, and he found it necessary to sit down upon the rock and watch her as she painted.

Whether he helped or hindered the picture it would be hard to say, but he certainly made the time pass so pleasantly that Doris would hardly believe him when he took out his watch and told her that it was nearly one o’clock. They had talked on almost every subject under the sun, and had learnt more about each other in those two hours than many people do in as many years.

It was after this pleasant morning on the rocks that the doctor made a very curious discovery. He found that the shortest way from his tent to the rocks by the church was to go to the end of the promontory, climb down the steep cliffs, and then work backwards along the rocky shore.

Val and Billy strongly contested this discovery, and maintained that the road which led past the Castle would take him to the shore in less than half the time, and they told him that, if he came the old way, he would also have the pleasure of their delightful company all the way down. But Forester most obstinately stuck to his own opinion, although the new way he had found sometimes took him so long that he did not arrive at the general rendezvous until it was almost time to return home for dinner, and then he appeared in company with Doris, and carrying her camp stool and sketchbook. Many were the jeering remarks from the boys when he arrived, watches were brought out, and an exact calculation made of the precise length of time that this short cut had taken him; and he was also asked to explain how it was that, at 7 a.m., when he went to bathe, he always found the road by the Castle the shorter one, whilst later in the morning he carefully avoided taking it because of its length.

The doctor bore their teasing very good-humoredly; perhaps he thought that the pleasant mornings on the shore well repaid him for it all. They had that quiet part of the beach almost to themselves. Sometimes Maxie appeared on his way to his lobster pots, and greeted Forester with a broad grin of pleasure and a friendly nod, but they seldom saw anyone else.

One day, however, they spied a man coming round the point, and picking his way over the seaweed-covered rocks.

‘I do believe it’s that antiquarian,’ said Doris.

‘I am so glad you’re here. I can’t bear that man.’

It was Clegg, and the next moment he caught sight of them and came up to them.

‘Good morning, doctor,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen you for a long time—not since we had that pleasant meal together in old Norris’ kitchen.’

But as soon as the man spoke Forester knew that he lied. That was not the last time they had met. He had spoken to this man last at the door of the cottage by the sea. His was the voice he had heard when in the middle of the night he had opened the door and looked forth into the darkness. He knew it, and he was persuaded that Clegg knew it also. He had distrusted the man before; now he felt convinced that his unfavorable opinion of him was absolutely correct.

What the antiquarian wanted at that cottage, for what purpose he took that midnight walk on such a night of storm, Forester was not prepared to state; but that his object was one which would not bear investigation he felt thoroughly certain. Did Clegg suspect that he had recognized him? Or did he hope that he had been able to throw him off the scent? Forester could not tell.

Whatever his feelings were, the man had the impudence to endeavor to continue the conversation, and even to lean over Doris whilst he passed remarks on her picture.

‘Pretty view that, miss! And very well done too. I’m a bit of an artist myself, so I know a good picture when I see one.’

Doris made no reply, but began hastily to put up her drawing materials. The doctor looked at his watch, and, taking no notice of the unpleasant intruder, said: ‘Miss Somerville, we ought to be going now.’ And then, without even wishing him good morning, they walked on together in the direction of the church.

Clegg stood still, looking after them till they were out of sight. Then he shook his fist in the direction in which they had gone, and muttered words which had better not be inserted here.

The next event of importance was another birthday—that of little Joyce Sinclair.

‘I’m going to be eight tomorrow,’ she announced to Forester; ‘and we’re going to have a picnic, and everybody is coming to it, and you’re coming too.’

The invitation, given in this curious fashion, was gladly accepted by the doctor, and he looked forward to it with very pleasant anticipation.

The place chosen was a small bay lying about four miles nearer to Llantrug, and close to which was another ancient castle even more in ruins than that of Hildick, but which formed a very picturesque object on the hillside, standing as it did in the midst of a grassy valley running down to the sea.

They decided to go early in the morning whilst the tide was low, so that they might be able to walk across the firm sand, and thus, skirting Hildick Bay, and passing the point beyond, they would reach the sheltered cove, which was to be found at the entrance to the green valley in which Minton Castle stood. Maxie’s donkey and cart were requisitioned to carry their provisions, and it was settled that the large party should start not later than nine o’clock.

Long before that hour, however, the doctor was up, and was walking across the moorland, and away from the Castle and the place of rendezvous. Why was he so anxious to add to his walk by taking exercise so early in the morning? And why did he stoop from time to time to look under the furze bushes? What did he expect to find? Whatever it may have been, he seemed to have discovered it after a time, for he returned to his tent, found his kettle boiling, and after a hasty breakfast hurried down to the Castle.

Joyce ran to meet him, full of excitement, her two dogs bounding after her.

‘Come and look at my presents,’ she said, as she dragged him into the Castle. ‘I never had such lovely ones before.’

They were all set out on a little table in the window, and he duly admired them one by one.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘you haven’t got my present; can you guess what it is?’

‘Yes, I know,’ said the child; ‘it’s that sweet little bit of white heather in your button hole!’

‘No, it isn’t that. Feel in my pockets and see if you can find anything.’

She found a large box of chocolates which Forester had sent for by the ‘bus the day before, and she ran off to exhibit it to her mother.

‘What sharp eyes that little puss has,’ said Forester to himself.

The day was one of those rarely fine days in this country in which we have actually no fear of rain, and when we do not dream of taking waterproofs or umbrellas, even as a precautionary measure,

Everyone was in high spirits, and a merrier party probably never crossed the sands of Hildick Bay. The only one who seemed a little less lively than usual was Jack. As Forester watched him he appeared to him at times to be lost in thought. It was not that he was depressed or unhappy, but his thoughts seemed to be far away, and sometimes he did not appear even to hear the lively conversation going on around him.

About half way to Minton Bay a stream came running down towards the sea, and they had to take off their shoes and stockings, and to wade across. On the other side the party became somewhat broken up. Joyce had driven across the stream in the donkey cart, and continued to drive on the other side as the walk was rather a long one for her. She very much resented old Maxie’s walking by the donkey’s head.

‘He thinks I can’t drive,’ she whispered to Forester.

He walked beside her for a little way, and then looked round to see what had become of Doris. She and Jack had lingered behind, and he noticed that Jack had slipped his arm through hers, and that they were evidently in earnest conversation. Not liking to interrupt their talk, Forester ran on ahead, and soon overtook the rest of the party.

They had chosen a place for dinner, laid the cloth, unpacked the baskets, gathered sticks for a fire, and had in various ways taken possession of the shore for the day, before Jack and Doris appeared. Everyone was very hungry after the walk, and did full justice to the farmhouse fare which Mrs. Norris had packed up for them. Forester sat on a rock between Mab and Dolly, and they laughed so much all the time that Joyce told them that if they were not quiet she should turn them out of her birthday party.

When dinner was over everyone helped to pack up and to clear away. Old Maxie, who had been eating sandwiches by the dozen behind a rock close by, undertook to light the fire, and to have the kettle boiling in time for tea. The girls had found a brook on the hillside, where they were washing the cups and mugs which had been used for lemonade, that they might be ready for the next meal. Forester followed them there, and leaning over Doris said:

‘Miss Somerville, shall we go and see Minton Castle? It’s only a mile away.’

‘Thank you,’ said Doris, blushing; ‘Jack has asked me to go with him.’

She did not even say, ‘Will you come too?’

So Forester could only answer, ‘Oh, all right!’ and he hurried away to help old Maxie to make up the fire.

Then the older members of the party brought out books and newspapers and prepared for a quiet afternoon, whilst the younger ones hurried away to explore the Castle.

As they were walking there the doctor asked Dick how the ghost was going on, and he told him that he had not heard it for several nights; he thought it was getting tired of going up and down stairs.

‘However,’ said he, ‘I’ll catch it yet; just you see if I don’t!’

‘And find it to be the old mare kicking her heels in the stable,’ said Val.

‘A regular mare’s nest, that,’ said Don.

‘Wait a bit,’ answered Dick. ‘Don’t you fellows laugh till I’ve given you something to laugh about, I’m on the scent, I tell you.’

‘Tell us what the scent is,’ said Forester.

But Dick only laughed, and told them he was not going to let them into all his secrets.

‘My idea is that Clegg and his friend are up to something at the Castle,’ suggested Forester; ‘else why are they always prowling about there? Antiquarian or no antiquarian, one comes to the end of exploring any old ruin after a time.’

But Dick would not reveal what his suspicions were, and kept repeating that they would see presently.

By this time they had reached the Castle, which they found far less interesting than the one at Hildick. They raced all over it, looked into every cranny and corner of the ruins, but nowhere could they see Jack and Doris. They had noticed them in front of them walking in the direction of the Castle, but no one had seen them since, and now they seemed to have utterly disappeared from sight.

‘What are those two after?’ said Val. ‘They seem very keen on each other’s company today.’

‘I think they always are,’ said Don. ‘Jack and Doris have been chums ever since they were in petticoats. We have got a photo of them at home; you should see it—two little babies sitting side by side in a pram, with their arms round each other, and looking at each other with the most sentimental grin.’

‘Who took it?’

‘Uncle Dick—he used to photograph every holiday time. He hasn’t taken a single one this year; getting too old, he says. I do wish we had it here. There they are, those two, smirking at each other like two little idiots! We call it “The Young Lovers.”’

‘Is that what they’re after this afternoon?’ asked Val.

‘I shouldn’t wonder. I don’t mind if it is. She’s a jolly girl is Doris—always the same, you know, and she’s just the one for Jack. He always tells her about his work and that sort of thing, and she knows how to look after old women and sick people, and all the rest of it.’

‘I think Jack’s just splendid!’ said Billy.

‘So he is, “though I says it as shouldn’t,” as Jack’s old landlady would say. He’s a regular brick in the pulpit and out of it. But he’s not a bit too good for Doris, I’ll say that!’

‘She seems pretty fond of him too,’ said Val.

‘I should just think she is,’ replied Don. ‘If you want Jack’s praises sung, go to Doris. She’ll let you have them right enough. I run him down sometimes, just to fetch her, and don’t I catch it finely!’

Forester never spoke a word, but he was listening, most attentively to the whole of this conversation; not a single word of it was lost upon him. How blind he had been not to have noticed this before! Everyone else had seen it, and of course they were right in the conclusions they had drawn. Of course that would be the trend of events. He ought to have known it all along. Could anything be more natural? They were exactly suited to each other in every way. How foolish he had been! He had fancied that Doris liked to be with him, and that she had enjoyed those quiet mornings on the shore as much as he had done; but now he felt that all the time she must have thought him a terrible bore, and must have been longing for Jack to come and take his place. If there was one thing that the doctor held in abhorrence more than another, it was going anywhere where he was not wanted. His acutely sensitive nature recoiled from it as from an adder; and the feeling that he had been guilty of committing an act so utterly foreign to his nature was as wormwood and gall to him.

Jack and Doris did not appear until teatime, and then gave a very lame account of their proceedings.

Oh yes, they went to the Castle; but there was not much to see there after all, and so they went on the hill beyond, and lost their way in the wood.

Val winked at Don. ‘What a pity you found it again,’ he said. ‘We might have had no end of fun looking for you; and might have found you covered with leaves, like the babes in the wood.’

Doris laughed, such a merry, lighthearted laugh, Forester thought, as she told them that she and Jack had had a very pleasant afternoon in spite of being lost.

Tea was a welcome meal, and everyone did full justice to it, and to the large birthday cake, covered with icing and sugar plums, with a broad inner stratum of almond paste, and which bore the motto in pink sugar on the top of it—Many happy returns of the day.

Then came the walk home along the shore, during which no one appeared to be in better spirits than the doctor. He never flagged the whole way, and there seemed to be no end to his jokes, his amusing stories, and his power of repartee.

It was not until he had said goodnight to them all, and had pinned his bit of white heather into Joyce’s dress as he gave her a kiss, and had told her to be sure to ask him to her birthday party next year, for it was the nicest he had ever been to in his life; it was not until he had left the Castle behind, and found himself out on the lonely moorland, with only the quiet stars shining above him, those stars which watch us with their bright eyes, but which have no tongues to tell what they see; it was not until then that the doctor dared to pause and to look into his own heart.

During the last few weeks he had simply enjoyed himself, from day to day, in a way in which he had never done before. He had delighted in Doris’ society; he had interested himself in finding out what were her thoughts and ideas on various subjects; he had contrasted her with someone else whom he had known, and had marveled at the difference—and thus he had gone on from day to day in a kind of happy dream, never asking himself to what all this was leading him, never stopping to call his feelings by the right name, never looking into the future at all; but just enjoying to the full the happy present in which he was living.

But since he had left his tent that morning his eyes had been opened, and as he threw himself down on the heather that warm, still August night he had no difficulty in reading his own heart. He loved her—oh, how he loved her! He had thought once that he knew what love was; but now he discovered that he had never really loved before. The feeling, which he had called love in the past, seemed to him tonight to be a sentiment so utterly wanting in intensity, life, or warmth that, when contrasted with what he now experienced, it was like ice compared with the red-hot glow of a fire. He had had a certain amount of affection, admiration for a pretty face and charming manner, a great sense of the fitness of things, and a longing to escape from the solitude of bachelor life, and to settle down to the quiet home life which was his idea of bliss. He had had all this, and he had thought that the kind of love he had read about in story books was not a reality. He had imagined that his ideal (for he had an ideal) did not exist, that she was not to be found in this faulty world, and that therefore he must be content with the nearest approach to that ideal that he could discover.

But he had never known what real love was, never! He knew tonight. Yes, he had found his ideal; she was all of which he had ever dreamt; she was more than he had ever pictured to himself. Yes, he had found her, but she was not for him. She was Jack’s ideal too. Jack loved her, and had probably loved her long, long before he came on the scenes; dear old Jack, so thoroughly worthy of her—such a contrast to himself. Jack, who was always the same, utterly free from the moods to which he knew that he himself was liable—Jack, so good, so manly, so true.

Surely he would not even wish to stand in Jack’s way, after all Jack had done for him, even if it had been possible for him to do so. Dear old Jack, he deserved her, and he was the very one to make her happy. Who was he that he should complain? He would wish them Godspeed in the bright future that lay before them. He would rejoice in their joy, even though it meant his own loss.

But not tonight, no; just for tonight he must think of himself, and of the sorrow that had come upon him. He had not cried since he was a boy, he had not shed a single tear on that day, not long ago, when he discovered how he had been deceived. He had, been angry then—disappointed, annoyed, depressed; but he had never cried. Yet now the hot, scalding tears would come, in spite of all his efforts to keep them back.

There was no sleep for Norman Forester that night. He was a man of very strong feelings, and his whole nature was stirred. He did not even attempt to go to bed; he paced about the moorland; he even climbed down to the rocks, and sat for the last time on the spot where they had sat so often together.

Jack would see that picture finished, not he—he must get back to London. Work was the best thing for him now. When he was busy with his patients, or going round the wards in the hospital, and doing what he could to lessen pain, to cure disease, and to bring comfort and help to others, he would feel braver and better.

Yes, he would get back at once; he would write to Mrs. Timmis tomorrow. His old housekeeper was having a holiday in the country, but he would tell her to return at once, and to have all in readiness for him. This was Thursday—at least, yesterday was—it was early morning now. He would write today, Friday; she would get it on Saturday, but not in time to get back that day, for she was in an out-of-the-world place. She would not be able to get off until Monday morning; but he could catch the night train, and be back in his rooms early on Tuesday morning. That would give him time to get his tent down, and to pack it up. He settled it all deliberately, and to the smallest detail, even to the wording of his letter to Mrs. Timmis; anything to occupy his thoughts, and to steady him sufficiently to get through the next three days.

‘ But with my God to guide my way

‘Tis equal joy to go or stay.’

What made those two lines flash into his mind just as he returned to his tent? They seemed to bring a strange untold comfort with them. He was going away on Monday, but he would not go alone. His Guide would go before him, and go with him. And in his busy life, in his toilsome duties, in his weary, constant fight with disease and death, in the quiet hours of his solitary life, he would never again be alone; his Guide would be there. And even though the greatest of earthly joys could never be his, yet he would not be desolate; he would never be deserted, for his Guide would be with him even unto the end.

Chapter 11: A Meeting Disturbed

IT was with no small effort that, when seven o’clock came, and he felt that the long night of conflict was over, the doctor took up his towels and set off to the shore to bathe as usual. He was a man of very strong determination; when he made up his mind to any course of action nothing on earth would move him from it, and he had resolved the night before that no one should ever have any idea of what had been in his mind, or of the struggle he had gone through to obliterate his own wishes and only to think of the happiness of his friends. He knew that he would have three days of very great difficulty, and he could not help wishing that they were over.

He felt very much like a soldier on the way to battle as he ran down the hill that morning. The Sinclairs were not up; he threw pebbles at Val’s window and shouted underneath it, but got no answer. No noise would have waked him that morning, for the long day in the open air had made him sleep soundly.

Forester went on alone: he was sorry that the Sinclairs were not coming to bathe, for he rather dreaded being alone with jack and Don; he thought they might have something to tell him that morning, and he did not feel quite sure of himself yet; he was afraid that his congratulations would not sound as warm and hearty as he would like them to do.

However, to his relief, not a word was said on the subject which he had supposed was uppermost in all their minds. The sea was calm and the long swim refreshing after his sleepless night, and Forester, refusing a pressing invitation to breakfast at the Bank, climbed the hill again, feeling far less unnerved and better able to face the day—a day which could not fail to be a trying one to him.

It is needless to say that he did not take his short cut to the shore that morning. He pictured Doris on the rock busy with her picture, and sitting just where he had sat the night before. She would not know, she would never know, what his thoughts had been as he had sat there only a few hours before. How thankful he was that he had never in any way led her to suspect his feelings! If he had done so, she would have been troubled and sorry for him; her clear eyes would have been full of sympathy for him, and it would have brought a shadow over her happiness. He was glad, very glad, that she would never know.

He was late going down that day, and on the way he met Dolly. She looked very bright and pretty in her pale blue motor cap and linen dress—like a Harebell, he thought. She told him that she and Mab were going with Don and the Sinclair boys “for a long walk in some woods at the other side of the bay, and he asked if he might come with them.

‘Is Jack going?’ he said.

‘No; he is going to do his sermon.’

‘Going to read it to Doris, perhaps,’ thought Forester.

However, it made things very easy for him, and during the walk the others were in such good spirits that he found it infectious, and soon joined in all the merriment. The views from the hill were lovely, for they looked through long vistas of trees upon the blue bay beyond, and saw the woods on the other side, with Hildick Castle and the old church standing exactly where an artist would have placed them in a beautiful picture woven out of his own imagination.

‘Next week,’ said Don, ‘we’ll have another picnic, I think they’re a grand institution! I vote we have heaps more before we go home. Mother says she thinks Monday would be a good day. So don’t forget, any of you, and fix up anything else.’

‘I’m afraid I shall not be with you,’ said Forester.

‘I’m off home on Monday.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Don; ‘surely you told me you were going to stay longer than that!’

‘Yes, but I find now I have to get back to work, and when duty calls, etc. etc. etc.’

‘Bother duty calling,’ said Don. ‘Now don’t go yet, there’s a good fellow. We’re such a jolly party here, and it will spoil it all if we begin to break up.’

‘Sorry,’ said Forester; ‘it has been a ripping time; but I’m obliged to go on Monday, so it’s no good your tempting me with picnics and other delights.’

They came back by the shore, and found Jack and Doris sitting together on the shingle.

‘How’s the picture getting on?’ asked Forester, as they all sat down behind them.

‘Oh, I’ve done very little today,’ she said; ‘really nothing. Jack—’

At this moment Don interrupted her by saying:

‘Whatever do you think this wretched man has been telling me? He says he’s going away on Monday, and can’t come to our picnic.’

‘You don’t say so!’ said Jack.

‘Yes, I must get home,’ explained the doctor. ‘Tuesday is my day at the hospital, and I want to be in time for that.’

Doris made no remark, but all the others stoutly protested that they would not allow him to go, and that it would be an awful shame if he did.

Then Jack looked at his watch, and said it was time to go home for dinner. They all jumped up, and were walking along the road, when Doris suddenly remembered that she had left her camp-stool on the shingle. Forester ran back to get it, telling them to go on, and he would follow. When he returned, and had passed the turn on the road, he found Doris standing just where he had left them, waiting for him to come up.

‘Thank you,’ she said; ‘it was good of you to go back all that way.’

Forester did not speak for a minute or two. It was rather a trying ordeal to be left alone with her.

‘Must you really go on Monday?’ she said at last.

‘Yes, I must,’ he said firmly; ‘it is quite impossible for me to stay. It has been a lovely time, so different from what I thought it would be when I came here; but it’s over now, and I must get back to work.’

She turned to him for a moment, and seemed about to say something, but checked herself.

‘What were you going to say?’ he asked.

‘Oh, nothing! I was only thinking what a pity it is that nice things get over so quickly.’

‘I suppose she feels, now that the party is beginning to disperse, that the end of the holiday has come into sight, and that Jack will soon be back in the slums of Manchester, and it may be many months before they meet again.’ So Forester thought, as he walked on by her side in silence.

At length they reached the house where the Somervilles were lodging, and he gave her the camp-stool, and for the first time ventured to look at her. There was a look of sadness on her face which he had never seen on it before, the brightness seemed to have gone for a moment.

‘Thank you,’ she said, as she took the stool from him; ‘I must get in.’ And without another word she left him.

As the doctor climbed the hill, Clegg and De Jersey passed him. They took no notice of him or he of them, and they hurried in front of him up the hill. He wondered, as he watched them, where they were going, and why they were in such haste. The mystery at the Castle, if mystery there was, had never been explained, and Forester was sorry that he was leaving Hildick before any discovery had been made there. Dick had again and again assured him that he was on the scent, but apparently had never been able to catch his ghost after all.

As he passed the Castle gate he saw the two men standing there talking to Rupert, and, not feeling inclined after Clegg’s behavior on the shore to enter into conversation with him, he passed swiftly on with merely a friendly nod to Rupert. But Rupert would not be passed in that way, and called after him to stop.

‘You might come in, doctor,’ he said. ‘Mary has been making your favorite rabbit stew, and she begged me to look out for you, and bring you in. I came out on purpose, and then these gentlemen came up. Now, do come, sir; you must be sick of tinned meat by this time!’

Forester could not refuse so kind an invitation, so he followed Rupert across the Castle courtyard, and the two men came behind. Were they also invited to dinner? he wondered. But he soon discovered, to his relief, that the invitation had not been extended to them.

‘We have come up to the Castle to say goodbye,’ explained Clegg; ‘we’re off in the morning, and we have a good deal to do today.’

They followed the doctor into the ancient kitchen. A clean, white cloth was on the table. May and Hawthorn, with bibs tied under their chins, were sitting on high chairs at the table. Mary was stirring a pot on the fire, from whence a savory smell was filling the room; Leonard was sitting on the settle by his grandfather, patting one of the collies. All were waiting for Forester’s arrival, that the meal might begin.

‘That’s right,’ said the old man, as he came in; ‘we haven’t set eyes on you for a long time, sir. We thought you had forgotten all about us, and were so taken up with all the young folks down below that you would never give us a bit of your company again.’

Forester laughed as he told him that he was delighted to come, and that there was no place like that cozy chimney-corner; he should never forget how comfortable it was.

Then the old man caught sight of the two men behind Forester, and his expression changed in a moment.

‘Hullo! you’re here!’ he said. ‘I didn’t see you. What have you come after?’

‘Only to say goodbye, Mr. Norris,’ said Clegg, ‘and to thank you for all your kindness to us. We’ve had a most agreeable visit, most delightful in every way. As you know, I’m an antiquarian.’

‘Oh yes,’ interrupted the old man; ‘you need not tell me; I’ve heard that before. Well, you’re going, are you?—When?’

‘Tomorrow, by the early ‘bus.’

‘And Mr. Artist? I can’t remember his name.’

‘Going too, so he has come with me to say goodbye. We have to be home this weekend, both of us; I wish we could have stopped longer.’

He made a great show of shaking hands with them all, and so did his friend. He kissed the little girls, and May began to cry, for she did not like him; he invited Rupert to come to see him in Birmingham, and he promised to send them all cards at Christmas. At last he and his silent friend, the artist, who had not uttered a single word, took their departure, and as soon as the door closed behind them the old man exclaimed in a pleased voice:

‘Good riddance of bad rubbish! And I hope that’s the last I shall ever see of you!’

‘Have you ever seen any of his pictures?’ asked the doctor.

‘What, that artist chap! No, I don’t believe in his pictures. Rupert does; I don’t. Rupert is going to see them in the Royal Academy,’ added the old man, with a chuckle. ‘He asked you, didn’t he, Rupert?’

‘Well, he did say he hoped I should see them there some day.’

‘And you believed him,’ said the old man; ‘you believed him, Rupert; you can’t deny it!’

Mary now told them that dinner was ready, and they took their seats at the table. Then Forester told them that he was leaving on Monday, and going back to his work. They all seemed sorry that he was going, and hoped that he had enjoyed his holiday. He told them it had been the happiest time of his life, and he should never forget the Castle nor their kindness to him whilst he was at Hildick.

After dinner was over, and Forester had sat in his favorite place on the settle, with Jemmy the pet lamb lying at his feet, and when he had discussed the affairs of the nation with the old man, and had given him an account of his visit to Palestine, he walked to the harvest field to watch Rupert and his men carrying the corn.

Joyce was there, and of course the collies were with her; not a laden wagon left the field without her, and to her great joy she was allowed to drive the empty wagons back to the field. She seemed as much interested in the crop as Rupert himself, and she made Forester pull off his coat and help to throw the sheaves into the cart. He stayed there for some time, sometimes watching, sometimes helping; but a restless fit was on him that afternoon, the old craving for a hermit life was returning to him, he wanted to get away from people, at least from people that he knew. ‘There are times,’ he said to himself, ‘when one is better alone.’

With this feeling upon him he avoided the shore, at least that part of it which skirted Hildick Bay. They would all be there, he knew; would they miss him? Jack and Doris would have each other, and the others made one jolly party, and it was hard to keep pace with their liveliness today. So it was better for him to have this afternoon by himself, that he might pull himself together again, for that look on Doris’ face had haunted him. He was afraid she had guessed his secret, and was sorry for him. It certainly was a look of sadness, and in his unselfish love he would not bring the tiniest cloud across her bright horizon. But he had been so careful, he had so tried to school himself that day, and to keep from her the least sign of what he had gone through the night before, that he wondered how she had divined his thoughts.

‘It must be because I am suddenly going away,’ he said to himself; ‘she must have guessed that it is because I cannot bear to stay here.’

He wandered on aimlessly over the moorland. He passed a clump of white heather, but it had no attraction for him now; and then he found himself at the stile which he had crossed, for the first time, on that stormy night on which he had been called up to visit the old man in the cottage by the sea. He thought he would make his way to the lonely cove, none of them ever went there, and he would be able to get a little rest from the fearful strain of appearing in good spirits when he felt as if his heart were breaking.

It was a lovely afternoon, and, as he wandered down the narrow path through the valley, the beauty of the whole scene, the lovely color of the heathery hills, the golden gorse which in some places was still in full flower, the fields on the lower slopes of the hill where the grass was green and the sheep were peacefully feeding, the bold rocks below stretching out into a sea which reflected the blue of the sky above it, and on the far horizon the fishing boats with their white sails shining in the light—the loveliness and perfect beauty of it all soothed him and comforted him, he hardly knew why or how. It seemed to him, as he sat on the heather watching it all, as if a loving hand were being laid upon him, a hand of gentle sympathy and comfort.

It reminded him of a night long ago, when he was lying, a tiny child in his little cot, sobbing as if his heart would break because he had broken a favorite toy. His mother came quietly into the room; he did not hear her come in, but he felt her hand laid lovingly on his head, and he was sure that she was sorry for him. And he knew that this world was his Father’s world, and in every bit of its loveliness he saw his Father’s hand, and it rested like a gentle touch upon his troubled spirit.

He got up after a time, and made his way to the rocks below. He passed the forlorn cottage, the door of which was closed, and which looked, he thought, more gloomy and forsaken than ever. Was Dan still living in it? he wondered. He climbed round a high rock on the shore, that he might sit where he could get a view of the bay, and, somewhat to his disgust, came upon Dan sitting where he had meant to sit, and smoking the same dirty clay pipe which he had had in his mouth when he came to call him in the night. As it was impossible to pretend that he had not seen him, Forester greeted him pleasantly.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said; ‘what a lovely day!’

Dan grunted without removing his pipe, and looked anything but pleased to see the doctor. Forester was passing on to another place where he saw a comfortable seat with a back to it, formed by a slightly shelving rock, when the man called after him roughly:

‘I say, doctor.’

‘Well, what do you want?’ said Forester, looking back.

‘What are you after down here?’

‘What am I after down here?’ replied Forester angrily, amazed at the insolence of the question. ‘What business is that of yours, I should like to know? What are you after down here?’

‘I’m after my proper business,’ shouted the man. ‘P’r’aps you’re not aware, doctor, that this ‘ere bay belongs to me, and the sooner other folks takes theirselves off from it the better for them.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’ retorted Forester. ‘This bay is no more yours than mine, and if I have any more of your impertinence I shall order you out of it.’

‘You’d better not!’ growled the man.

Forester took no further notice of him, but established himself on the rock for which he was making, lighted a cigar, and sat quietly watching the bay. The old cottage was well in sight; he could see the closed door, a thin curl of blue smoke coming from the chimney, and two old lobster pots standing in the neglected garden.

‘Now, why did that old rascal want me away?’ he said to himself; ‘he must have had some reason. I wonder what it is.’

He determined to sit where he was, and to await events. Presently he saw Dan get up, with a scowling glance cast in his direction, and begin to climb the path which led up the valley.

‘Now, I wonder what you are up to, you old villain!’ said Forester to himself; ‘I think I will follow you and find out.’

Acting on this determination, he got up and began climbing the steep path which Dan had taken, keeping him well in view, and yet making the distance between them as great as possible. ‘He has not seen me yet,’ thought Forester; ‘he thinks I am still on the shore.’

Presently, as Forester watched, he saw two men coming down the hillside, along the path by which he had come to the cove. He recognized them at once, Clegg and De Jersey. Dan saw them too, for he hurried to the foot of the hill, and then went through a most extraordinary performance. He took a red pocket handkerchief from his pocket and tied it round his neck, at the same time holding his right arm above his head, as if to attract attention.

The two men on the heights above caught sight of him, and immediately went back, and disappeared from sight over the brow of the hill. Then the doctor, having seen all that he wanted to see, turned round swiftly and hid himself behind a thick hedge, so that Dan might not know that he had been watched.

It was all clear to him now. A meeting between the three men had been arranged to take place either on the shore or in the old cottage. Dan was on the lookout for the other two when he came upon him on the shore. He had resented Forester’s presence, because he did not wish him to witness the meeting, or to know that there was any connection between them. But, seeing that the doctor had taken up his position on the rock which commanded a full view of the cottage, and that, in spite of his insolent words, he seemed likely to stay there, Dan had walked up the hill, that he might give a previously arranged danger signal to warn his two friends to come no nearer.

Forester crouched down under the hedge, and waited till the heavy slouching footsteps of the man went by. He looked a more utter villain than ever, and the doctor felt glad that he had not to take another midnight walk with him. He did not feel inclined to return to the cove, inasmuch as he would find himself in such evil company. So, as soon as Dan was out of sight, he hurried up the hill and went back to his tent.

There was hockey on the shore that evening, and Forester, who was always very keen on the game, played it with his usual energy and spirit. Everyone played, and played well, and the exercise did the doctor good, and helped him to sleep soundly when he returned to his quiet tent.

Chapter 12: Who Chose the Hymn?

‘ONE day over,’ said Forester to himself, with a sigh of relief, when he woke the following morning. ‘Only Saturday and Sunday now!’

The elements appeared to be ready to help him out of his difficulty, for when he jumped out of bed he found that it was a pouring wet day. There would be no sitting on the rocks or walking on the shore; he would not even have the pain of picturing Doris at work on her picture, with his seat beside her either filled by Jack or left empty. He looked out, but beyond a driving mist nothing could be seen. It reminded him of his first day of camp life, and his feelings seemed to be in harmony with the weather.

He was boiling his kettle inside the tent, and was smoking, to drown the smell of paraffin, when he heard footsteps coming up the lane. He looked out, and saw Val in a long mackintosh coming towards him.

‘Hullo!’ he called out to him, ‘what are you after, taking your walks abroad in the rain like a duck?’

‘I’ve come for you,’ said Val; ‘put out that horrible stove, get on your coat, and come at once. Breakfast is just coming in, and mother wants you to spend the day at the Castle.’

Forester as usual made many excuses, but Val would hear none of them, and carried him off with him. Joyce was feeding the collies at the door when they arrived in the courtyard, and called to them that breakfast was ready. It was certainly a pleasant exchange for the doctor from the damp, dismal tent. It was a chilly morning, and a fire had been lighted in the broad fireplace of the parlor, and looked cheery and bright.

Mrs. Norris was bringing in a dish of fried ham and eggs, and greeted Forester with a pleasant smile. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair welcomed him most kindly, and the boys were delighted to have a visitor to help them to pass what promised to be a somewhat monotonous day.

During breakfast Dick boasted that he had been up before any of them.

‘I heard you go past my door,’ said Mrs. Sinclair. ‘Why did you get up so soon, on such an awfully wet morning? Surely you did not bathe!’

‘Not I,’ said Dick; ‘but I made up my mind last night that I would see whether old Sly-boots and the long-haired one really did go away on the ‘bus. I had my suspicions that when they told us they were going it was only a blind. I had an idea that they wanted us to think they were gone, so that we might be off our guard, but that they would still be sneaking around all the time.’

The doctor remembered what he had seen the day before, when he went to the cottage by the shore, and listened with great interest.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘go on; what did you find out?’

‘I got up at six,’ said Dick, ‘for I didn’t know exactly what time that lumbering old ‘bus would start. Rupert was only just going out, and I expect he wondered what I was after. I ran down the hill for fear I should be late, but when I got to the village I saw a man pulling out the ‘bus, and harnessing the horses. I knew then that I was too soon, so I had a run up the village, but saw nothing of those two fellows. However, after I got back to the ‘bus, and had watched all sorts of old dames getting in with their baskets, I suddenly caught sight of them coming down the hill. Sly-boots soon spied me when he came up, and had the impudence to cross the road and shake hands with me, as if I was a dear friend of his.

‘Did they go in the ‘bus?’ asked the doctor.

‘Oh yes, they went right enough, and called out goodbye to everybody they saw, and waved their hats and pocket-handkerchiefs till they were out of sight.’

‘Was that fellow Dan anywhere about?’ asked Forester.

‘Not that I know of,’ said Dick; ‘I never caught sight of him.’

‘I’m awfully glad they’ve gone!’ said Val.

‘I’m awfully sorry,’ said Dick.

‘Why sorry?’

‘Oh! because I wanted to find out what they were after at the Castle, and I thought I was on the scent, and now I’ve lost it again.’

The heavy rain lasted all day, and it seemed useless to think of going out. The doctor and the boys took a constitutional over the hill in the afternoon, but beyond that there was nothing to be done outside. In the comfortable Castle parlor, however, they had all manner of games, and the day passed more quickly than any of them would have thought possible.

Jack came up the hill to fetch Forester to the Bank, but he found his friend already at the Castle, and the doctor was glad, under the circumstances, that he had had this previous invitation. He had won his way manfully through two days, and now there was only Sunday to be lived through, and then he would be able to relax the constraint which he had put upon himself. Monday was no day, he told himself, for lie would be too busy taking down the tent, and packing up his belongings, to have time for thought of any kind, and no one would expect him to come on the shore on such a busy morning.

‘A clear shining after rain.’ Where had he heard those words? They seemed to the doctor exactly to describe what he saw when he opened his tent door on that Sunday morning. Everything looked refreshed and invigorated by the rain of the day before, and the bright sunshine was making the drops still clinging to the hedges and long grass sparkle like so many diamonds.

It was his last day at Hildick. He could not help feeling sorry when he remembered this, in spite of his great anxiety to get away and to be back in his busy life in town.

How should he pass the morning? The Sunday before, he had walked with Jack to the distant church; but today surely Doris would be going with him, and if he went they would wish him at Jericho, or a little farther. So he sat alone at the head of the promontory, and watched the waves, and drank in the pure sea air, and thought how long it would be before he saw so lovely a place again.

In the afternoon he sat with old Mr. Norris on the seat in the Castle courtyard, and had tea afterwards in the farmhouse kitchen. Then he went back to his tent to get ready for church. He went into the Castle on his way down the hill, but found no one there but the old man, all the rest had gone down the hill, that they might be in time to get seats in the tiny church.

The doctor followed them quickly, but found when he got near that the bell had just stopped. He saw that the place was full, even the porch was packed with people, who were afraid of the heat inside and preferred a cooler seat. Forester looked inside the church, and saw only one vacant chair. He made his way to it, and just as he was sitting down he noticed that Doris was next him. Jack will not mind now, he thought, for he cannot sit here himself. Forester would never have chosen to sit there, but as he found himself there with no possibility of changing his place he could not keep back a feeling of pleasure at being near her, just once more. ‘It is the last night, the very last night!’ he said to himself.

What a hearty service it was! Everyone joined in the responses; everyone listened attentively as Jack, in his clear voice, read the lessons. And then came the first hymn. The doctor had no hymn book, there were very few hymn books in the church; Doris had one, however. She found the place, and when they stood up to sing she held it for him to look over with her. How well he could hear her sweet voice as she sang the beautiful words:

‘I heard the voice of Jesus say,

Come unto me and rest.’

Forester tried to sing too, but the words seemed to choke him. Was his hand trembling as he held the book? or was it hers? It surely could not have been hers! He was glad when the hymn was over and they knelt down again.

The next hymn was easier, and he joined in; no one could help singing in that church. And then came Jack’s sermon, the last he would hear at Hildick. He wondered when he would hear him preach again, and where.

The doctor blamed himself afterwards that he could remember so little of that sermon. He heard it as if he were in a dream; he listened to it, and it comforted him at the time, yet when he tried to recall it afterwards he could only remember a few sentences. But he never forgot the text. It dwelt with him long after the remembrance of the sermon had quite passed away.

‘Thou shalt guide me with Thy counsel, and afterward receive me into glory.’

That text should be his sheet anchor, he thought, in the new life of work which he was to enter upon that week. The guide should be his here; the glory would be his in the Eternity beyond.

Then came the last hymn, and Forester started as Jack gave it out:

‘O Thou by long experience tried,

Near whom no grief can long abide.’

He had learnt that hymn years ago. He looked at the end, and there, as he felt sure he should find it, was the well-known verse:

‘While place we seek or place we shun,

The soul finds happiness in none;

But with my God to guide my way

‘Tis equal joy to go or stay.’

Doris began to sing the verse, but she suddenly stopped. He felt sure now that her hand was trembling as well as his. He did not dare to look at her, but kept his eyes fixed on the book. It was over at last, and they knelt down, and Jack’s manly voice gave the blessing.

The doctor let the others go on, and waited for Jack, who was some time in coming, as he was talking to the old clerk. Forester had promised to go to the Bank for supper, and he could not get out of it that last evening. He wondered very much whether Doris had told Jack what he had said about that verse. He thought she must have done so, and it rather surprised him. He had said to her what he would never have dreamt of saying to anyone else, and he thought she would have respected his confidence. But after all, he thought, what could be more natural than that she should tell Jack? Was he not Jack’s friend? And of course, now she would tell Jack everything. Yet although he argued with himself in this way, still, at the bottom of his heart, it rather hurt him that she should have repeated words which after all were only meant for her ear.

Yet perhaps even in this thought he wronged her, perhaps it was only a remarkable coincidence that that hymn should have been chosen. Stranger things than that have happened, and indeed are constantly happening.

Jack was ready at last, and the two friends walked up the village together.

‘Jack,’ said Forester, ‘who chooses the hymns?’

‘I do. I choose them every Saturday, and let the organist have them, that she may play them over.’

Then she had told him; there could be no doubt about it now.

‘I liked those we had tonight very much,’ said Forester.

‘So did I! Oh, by the by, I didn’t choose those hymns, I had forgotten. I was busy yesterday evening, and Doris said she would choose them for me. So you have to thank her for choosing those you liked.’

The doctor gave a sigh of relief, she had not betrayed his confidence after all; but, on the other hand, she had chosen that hymn because she knew it was his last Sunday, and because she felt sure that he was fond of it. It is just like her, he said to himself. Even in her joy she can think of others, and try to give them pleasure.

Doris and her father came to the Bank for supper. She was very pale and quiet, Forester thought; perhaps she was not feeling well. He devoted himself to Mab and Dolly, but he could not help glancing at her from time to time, and he rather wondered that Jack did not talk to her more, and that he seemed to take so little notice of her; but, doubtless, he was feeling tired after his Sunday’s work.

It was nearly ten o’clock when the doctor rose and said goodnight to them all.

‘We shall see you tomorrow,’ Mrs. Sinclair said. ‘Come to breakfast; it’s the last morning, so you can’t refuse.’

He thanked her, but said he was afraid he would not be able to come down the hill, as Maxie was to arrive at nine o’clock to help him to take down his tent; but she promised to have breakfast half an hour earlier, and he was obliged to tell her he would come.

Doris was in the hall getting her coat as he came out. He put it on for her, and whispered as he said goodnight, ‘It was good of you to choose my hymn, Miss Somerville.’

Jack followed him out.

‘You’re not coming with me, Jack. No, I can’t allow it. You’re tired out, and it’s a stiff pull to the top at any time.’

‘Of course, I’m coming,’ said Jack. ‘Why, it’s your last night, more’s the pity, and who knows when you and I will get a chat together again?’

Yet, although Jack said this, he did not seem much inclined to talk when they first set out, and the doctor was thinking of Doris, and wondering why she seemed so much out of spirits that evening. The two friends walked on almost in silence for some time. It was Jack who spoke first.

‘Forester—Norman.’

‘Yes, Jack.’

‘I want to tell you something.’

The doctor felt very much like a soldier buckling on his armor, as he pulled himself together, and answered in as cheerful a voice as he could command—

‘Well, dear old man; what is it?’

‘It’s a secret at present, but I must tell you. I know I can trust you, Forester. We’ve been friends such a long time; haven’t we?’

‘Shall I guess what it is? Something very jolly; isn’t it? You are going to tell me you are engaged, Jack.’

How steadily he said the words. How calmly he spoke! Who, that heard him speak, would ever have suspected the tumult of soul within?

‘However in the world did you know?’ said Jack.

‘Oh, I see! Don must have told you. Don never can keep a secret. He never could when we were at school, and he is no better now. It’s as good as telling the town-crier to tell Don anything!’

‘Well, he didn’t exactly tell me,’ said Forester.

‘Oh, I understand; he threw out hints, and left you to guess the rest,’ said Jack, laughing. ‘Well, it’s true, and I don’t mind your knowing; in fact, I wanted you to know. That’s why I came up the hill with you tonight. I wanted to tell you how happy I am.’

Forester slipped his arm in Jack’s as he said, ‘You know, don’t you, how glad, how very glad I am for you? You could not have done better!’

‘Then you know all about it; Don has evidently told you the whole story. Yes, I am indeed a happy man. You see, we’ve known each other so long, and Doris is such a splendid girl. Oh! you don’t know what she is, or how she has helped me. I could never tell you all, if I were to try. But I hadn’t much hope that I should ever get her. You see, her father has rather put difficulties in the way, and all the time I’ve been here I’ve been trying to persuade him to let us be engaged. We’ve loved each other a long time now, and he knows we have, but he said he would never let us be engaged until I had a living. He did not believe in long engagements.’

‘But have you a living now?’

‘No, not yet, but I have hopes of one soon; still, it is not certain; and it seemed so long to wait. And all this time he would not let me write to her, and I scarcely ever saw her. But just this last week he has come round so far as to say we may be privately engaged; that is to say, the family may know, her family and mine, and we may correspond, and I may go there sometimes; so that altogether things will be on a much more comfortable footing. And then, of course, if I get a church of my own, everyone can know, and he will consent to our being married at once. I feel years younger already, and Doris says she does. I felt I couldn’t let you go away without telling you.’

Forester pressed his friend’s hand, as he said goodnight to him at the top of the hill, and Jack rather wondered at the serious way in which he said as he did so, ‘I do congratulate you, Jack, with all my heart I do. God bless you both!’

Then the doctor went on in the darkness alone. What had been a fear before was a certainty now. Once or twice during the last two or three days he had asked himself whether he had not rather jumped to conclusions, and at any rate somewhat anticipated events.

But now he knew, Jack had told him all, and he found that he had made no mistake. Well, he was thankful that he was going tomorrow; in thirty-six hours he would be in London.

Chapter 13: Where Can He Be?

THE next morning the doctor was up early, that he might get a last bathe before breakfast. It was a beautiful day, and this made it all the harder for him to go away. Everything, he thought, looked its brightest and its best. Val put his head out of his bedroom window as he passed the Castle.

‘Wait a moment,’ he said; ‘I’m coming.’

Mrs. Norris was sitting on a three-legged stool milking, just outside the gate, and he went up to her, to tell her he should drop in later in the day to say goodbye. He was still talking to her when Val and Billy joined him.

‘Where’s Dick?’ Forester asked, as they went down the hill together.

‘He must have gone on in front,’ said Val. ‘When did he start, Billy?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Billy; ‘I must have been asleep when he got up. He’s got quite a mania for early rising just now. Catch me turning out at six in the morning, on a pouring wet day, to see any old Sly-boots off!’

Jack and Don joined them at the corner of the road leading from the village, and they all went on together to the shore. They expected to find Dick there, but he never appeared.

‘I wonder what he’s after,’ said Billy; ‘bathing off the rocks somewhere, I expect. He’s got a great craze for diving this last week.’

They all enjoyed their bathe, and Jack and Don took the doctor back with them to the Bank. Everyone seemed rather out of spirits at breakfast; they were all fond of Forester, all sorry that he was going.

‘It won’t seem a bit right without you,’ said Don. ‘Why can’t that stupid old hospital take care of itself?’

They were just preparing to go out when Val appeared. ‘Is Dick here?’ he asked.

‘Dick? No; hasn’t he turned up yet?’

‘No, he hasn’t; we’ve been expecting him all the time, and mother thought he might be here. It does not matter, he’s bound to turn up soon. He never has any idea of time. Can I help you to pack up your tent, Forester?’

‘Thanks, Val; Maxie is coming, but I won’t refuse a good offer; an extra hand in packing will be a great help.’

‘I’ll come too,’ said Don. ‘We’ll soon get it done between us. Let’s hurry up and finish, and then get back to the shore.’

They climbed the hill together, and, as they passed the Castle, saw Joyce looking out of the gate.

‘Is Dick back?’ shouted Val.

‘No, not yet.’

‘It strikes me he’ll want his breakfast when he does come,’ said Don. ‘It’s hungry work prowling about before breakfast.’

They found Maxie, with his donkey and cart, waiting for them close to the tent.

‘Be this belonging to any of you young gentlemen?’ he said, as he fumbled in his pocket and brought out a soft grey cap.

‘Hand it here,’ said Val. ‘Why, it’s just like Dick’s cap!’

It was Dick’s cap, they all knew it well, they had seen him wearing it many and many a time.

‘Wherever in the world did you find this, Maxie?’

Maxie pointed vaguely in the direction of the sea.

‘Over there,’ he said.

‘Where?’ asked Forester; ‘tell us exactly.’

But this was more than Maxie was able to do; his brain was somewhat bewildered at all times, but when he was questioned about anything he seemed to lose what little intelligence he had, or, at any rate. to be unable to express what he meant to say, or to give a direct answer to any question that was put to him. They asked him one thing after another, but were quite unable to get any information out of him, beyond the mere fact that he had found the cap ‘over there.’

‘Look here, you fellows,’ said Forester to the others, ‘not a word of this to Mrs. Sinclair. She will only alarm herself, and think something has happened to Dick, when, in all probability, we shall find the explanation is as simple as daylight. Possibly Dick is at home now, and ready to start off again to look for his cap. The best thing you can do, Val, is to go home and tell him when he comes that it is safe in my tent; in fact, you had better stop about near home and look out for him. We shall manage the tent all right. I’ve no doubt he has been on the rocks, and his cap has blown off, and he has lost it.’

Val went back somewhat reluctantly, and as soon as he was out of hearing Forester whispered to Don, ‘I don’t like this at all.’

‘And I don’t like it either,’ said Don. ‘Something’s up!’

‘Will I begin to pull him down, master?’ asked Maxie, with his hand on one of the tent pegs.

‘No, Maxie, leave it alone now. Take your donkey and cart to the Castle, leave them there with one of the farm lads, and come back to me.’

‘All right, master, all right.’

‘And not a word about that cap. That’s not your business, Maxie, remember.’

‘Not a word, not a word, master,’ repeated Maxie, as he led his donkey away down the road.

‘Now, Don,’ said Forester, ‘perhaps we are making a mountain out of a mole-hill. Perhaps Dick may even now be at home; but, at the same time, accidents do happen, and I must say it appears to me a strange thing that a fellow’s cap should be picked up; he would hardly go on without it, would he?’

‘Hardly!’ said Don. ‘Well, what do you mean to do?’

‘Make Maxie collect his wits, and take us to the place where he found that cap. He can’t tell us, but he may be able to show us, and then we can come to our own conclusions.’

The doctor and Don sat down on the heather to await Maxie’s return. At last they saw him coming back; his pace was that of his old donkey, they were such constant companions that the old man had fallen into the habit of walking at exactly the same rate as that of his leisurely four-footed friend.

‘Come on, Maxie,’ cried Forester; ‘hurry up!’ The old man came on at an ambling pace.

‘Shall we pull him down now, master?’

‘No, Maxie; we will leave the tent now. I way it you to do something else first.’

‘Yes, master.’

‘Look at me, Maxie. I want you to think, and to try to remember where you found that cap, and then I want you to show me. Can you do it?’

‘Do what, master?’

‘Can you take me now to the place where you picked up that cap?’

The old man’s bewildered brain at last grasped what was wanted of him, and he turned round and began to cross the moorland. Forester and Don followed him, and he led them, by a number of short cuts unknown to them before, towards the woods that covered one side of the promontory.

After a time Maxie climbed over a fence, and they followed him. He led the way to a small path, not much wider than a sheep track, which took them through the thickest part of the wood. This path was lined with ferns and moss, and the trees overhead were hung with ivy, and their trunks covered with lichen. Every now and then they had to climb over the trunk of a fallen tree, or to push their way through a tangled mass of brambles. The path led steeply downhill, and soon they could catch a glimpse of the sea lying far down below.

Still Maxie went on in front, looking back from time to time to see if they were following him. At last, when they were nearly at the bottom of the wood, they saw him stop under the shadow of a large spreading oak tree. He waited for them to come up, and then, pointing to the ground close to the gnarled trunk, and just where a quantity of harts-tongue fern was growing, he said shortly—

‘The cap was there, master.’

There was a fallen tree close by covered with moss and fern.

‘Now, Maxie,’ said the doctor, ‘sit down by us here and tell us all about it. When did you find it? And what made you come here?’

‘I was going to my pots, master, to look for crabs; plenty of them down below here. Sometimes they come in and get caught; sometimes I never catch one.’

‘Well, you were coming down to look at your pots this morning. What time, Maxie?’

But Maxie was not at all clear on this point. Five o’clock, six o’clock; he did not know which; he never took much notice of time.

‘Anyone about, Maxie, when you came?’

‘Nobody.’

‘Anyone on the shore when you got down there?’ ‘No,’ he saw nobody and nothing; nothing but the cap. ‘Says I, “That’ll belong to one of them young gents.” So I picks it up, and puts it in my pocket, and goes away to my pots.’

This seemed to be all the information to be got out of Maxie, so they told him he might go.

‘Will we pull the tent down now, master?’

Forester considered a moment. ‘Go to the Castle, Maxie, and get your donkey,’ he said at length, ‘ask when you get there if Master Dick is at home; if he is, go to the tent and wait there for me; if he is not, go home till I send for you.’

After the doctor had repeated this several times Maxie appeared to grasp what was said to him, and began to climb the hill.

‘Now, Don, let us carefully examine the ground under this oak tree.’

They stooped down, and looked attentively at every part of the ground covered by the branches, and in doing so they noted two things. First, that in one place the ferns and moss were crushed and flattened as if something Very heavy had been laid upon them; and secondly, that, not far from this particular spot, the green moss was discolored by a few drops of blood.

‘What do you make of that, Don?’

‘His nose was bleeding, perhaps, and he rested here for a time until it stopped.’

‘Well,’ said Forester, ‘it may have been so. Let us hope that in that case he is home by this time. It’s useless to alarm ourselves without cause; the first thing to be done is to go up to the Castle and enquire.’

So they went quickly up the hill, and arrived at the Castle gate almost as soon as Maxie. Mrs. Sinclair was looking out of it as they came up.

‘Well, Mrs. Sinclair,’ said Forester cheerily, ‘has your wandering boy come back?’

‘No,’ she said; ‘and I do begin to feel rather anxious. Mr. Sinclair says it’s very foolish of me to worry, for what could happen to Dick here? And of course it is a perfectly safe place; still, it is not like Dick to stay away so long. He is such a kind-hearted boy, and he knows that I soon get anxious.’

‘Does anyone know what time he went out this morning?’

‘No; neither Rupert nor his wife saw him at all, nor did any of the farm servants, and they were here at six o’clock. Mary says she was down very early this morning, for it is churning day, and she was working at the churn out here in the courtyard. She is quite sure he never came out after she was up. Oh! I think he can’t be long now. I’ve asked them to keep the kettle boiling for his breakfast. What time is it?’

It was ten o’clock. She ran in to give some further directions about Dick’s breakfast, and the doctor took hold of Don’s arm and hurried him away before she returned.

‘Come along,’ he said; ‘we must lose no time. Let’s find Jack, and get him to help us.’

‘What to do?’

‘Why, to search the shore and the wood thoroughly. Dick may have hurt himself in some way, sprained his ankle, or even broken his leg, and may be in need of immediate help.’

They were soon down the hill and in the village. They met the girls on the way, coming towards the Castle with grave and anxious faces.

‘Has he turned up?’ Doris asked.

‘Not yet,’ said the doctor; ‘I hope he will soon.’

Then they hurried on, feeling every moment might be of importance, and the girls followed more slowly behind.

Forester ran for a moment into the post office and sent off two telegrams. One was to his old housekeeper. ‘Not returning today; will wire time tomorrow.’ The other was to a cab proprietor in Llantrug, to countermand his previous order for a cab to take him to the station that evening.

Then they went on to the shore, and here they found Mr. Sinclair, Jack, Val, and Billy. They had been hunting amongst the sandhills, thinking that Dick might have gone there after bathing, and might have sprained his ankle stepping into one of the many rabbit holes with which they abounded. They quite hoped that they would hear of Dick’s return to the Castle from the doctor and Don, but discovered to their disappointment that they had no good news for them, and that they were much more anxious than they had so far been.

They all sat down on the shingle to make their plans. Mr. Sinclair’s idea was that Dick might have gone by the early ‘bus to Llantrug.

‘He was doing amateur detective work on those two rascals who were always hanging about the Castle,’ said Mr. Sinclair, ‘and he seemed very vexed that he Ind found nothing out before they left. Now, is it not possible that he may have gone to Llantrug to try to follow them, or at any rate to find out what their movements were, after they left Hildick on Saturday?’

Don and Forester exchanged glances.

‘You don’t think so,’ said Mr. Sinclair.

‘No,’ said the doctor, ‘I don’t; and I think I ought to tell you what we have discovered.’

He then told them of Maxie’s finding the cap, and of the strange out-of-the-way place in which he had come across it. But neither Forester nor Don liked to tell Dick’s father, at that time, of the red drops that they had seen on the moss under the oak tree.

They now formed themselves into a search party, under the leadership of Forester. He had great presence of mind, and seemed to know exactly the right way to go to work. They all leant on him, and were glad to do what he told them, feeling sure that it was the best thing that could be done. They agreed that it was most important that Mrs. Sinclair should not be unduly alarmed, and Doris undertook to go at once to the Castle and to do all she could to cheer her. Mab and Dolly were also to remain near home, so that if Dick returned they might be able at once to bring the good news to the searchers on the shore below.

‘Now,’ said Forester, ‘there are six of us. If we are unsuccessful we can get help later on from the village; but if Dick has simply sprained his ankle, or something of that kind has happened, he will not care for an awful fuss to be made. So, for the present, suppose we go to work in this way. We will first of all thoroughly search the wood, looking into every nook and cranny of it, and behind every bit of brushwood and rock. Dick may be feeling faint and unable to call to us; he may even be unconscious. Then we will meet on the open ground, on the other side of the wood, and confer again.’

They started at once; the doctor and Don taking the lower part of the wood, so that Mr. Sinclair might not come across what had so much alarmed them under the oak tree.

After about an hour’s diligent search they all met on the moorland beyond, but no one had anything to report, except that in certain places there were signs of footsteps having recently passed over the undergrowth of the wood; but these might have been Maxie’s footsteps when he went down to his lobster pots that morning.

‘Now,’ said Forester, ‘we will search the shore. Don and I will cross over the top of the promontory, go down on the other side, and begin at the cove beyond. The rest of you had better go down to the rocks there, and work on round the promontory until you meet us.’

Every one of the party was ready to do just what he was told, and soon Forester and Don were crossing the fields leading down into the valley where Dan’s cottage stood.

‘I do hope he’ll turn up all right,’ said Don, when they were alone.

Forester did not answer.

‘What are you afraid of, Norman?’

‘Well, I hardly know; but I can’t help wondering, Don, whether there has been foul play.’

‘Foul play?’

‘Yes; you know how he has been spying on those two rascals, Clegg and De Jersey. Depend upon it, they must have noticed it, and my opinion of those two is, that they would stick at nothing.’

‘But they’re gone—they went on Saturday. Don’t you remember Dick saw them off?’

‘Yes, I know; but their fellow-conspirator isn’t gone. Whatever they are after, Dan knows of it, and Dan is helping them, you may be sure of that.’

And when Don heard all that the doctor had to tell him on the subject, he fully agreed with him.

‘Now,’ said Forester, ‘you see why I wanted to begin at this part of the shore. I’m going to find Dan, and to hear what he has to say about it.’

They hurried on down the valley and made their way to the cottage. As they drew near they caught sight of Dan himself, in his shirtsleeves, with his arms on the garden gate, leaning over it, and smoking. He took no notice of the doctor when he came near, and when he wished him good morning only answered by a grunt.

‘We have come for the young gentleman,’ said Forester.

‘You’ve come for the young gent? What do you mean by that? I’ve got no young gents here, no, nor don’t want no young gents here, neither; and as you be young gents yourselves, you can take yourselves off.’

‘Keep a civil tongue in your head, man, and answer a civil question. Have you seen the young gentleman anywhere on the shore here?’

‘What young gentleman?’

‘One from the Castle. There’s a party searching for him along the shore, and we want to know whether you’ve seen him. You had better tell the truth,’ added Forester, ‘or it will be the worse for you.’

Dan did not deign to take the slightest notice of what was said, further than to pour out such a torrent of oaths that the doctor said to Don—

‘Come on. We’ve given him his chance, now; he will have to tell some day in a way he won’t like.’

‘I’d give anything to go inside that cottage,’ said Forester, as they went on; ‘we might find some clue to the mystery there; but he stands to guard his castle, and we could not enter it without a warrant; it would not be a safe game for either of us to play. If nothing turns up soon we must get the police from Llantrug.’

They walked quickly along the shore, and soon met the rest of the search party. Mr. Sinclair was evidently growing very anxious, as he felt that time was passing on, and that no trace of Dick’s movements had been found. It was then nearly two o’clock; no one had thought of dinner, but Forester could see that they were all tired and disheartened, and he proposed that they should go home, rest for an hour, get some food, and then start afresh in another direction.

Mr. Sinclair seemed at first loth to give up the search even for a time, but, on the doctor’s suggesting that it was possible that Dick might have already returned, he consented to go back to the Castle. On the way he seemed so upset and exhausted, that Forester was doubly glad that he had insisted on a pause in their search. He walked with him some way behind the others, and impressed upon him the necessity of husbanding his strength, as much might be required later on. He also begged him, if possible, not to let Mrs. Sinclair see his anxiety more than was actually necessary. The poor father took hold of Forester’s arm; he seemed to lean upon the doctor for support, both physical and mental.

Joyce ran to meet them when they drew near the Castle; they could see by her face that she had no good news to tell them; Dick had evidently not returned.

‘You’ll come and dine with us, of course,’ said Mr. Sinclair.

‘Yes, if you would like me to do so. But, perhaps—’

‘Oh, you must come; you will help me so much to comfort my wife, and after dinner we must plan out what is to be done next.’

Rupert and the old man were standing in the courtyard as they entered it. Mr. Sinclair passed into the house, but the doctor stopped to have a word with them before entering.

‘This is a bad job,’ said Rupert.

‘Oh, he’s all right,’ said the old man. ‘I can’t imagine what all this fuss is about. Why, he has only been gone half a day, and here has everyone jumped to the conclusion that he has killed himself, or something of that sort! When I was a boy, I often went off for a day along the shore; lads will be up to pranks of one kind or another, and you can’t stop them. And there’s his poor mother crying her eyes out!’

‘Did you hear what Maxie found in the wood?’ asked the doctor.

No, they had not heard. Maxie had obeyed orders, and not said a single word about the cap. Forester told them shortly where it was found, and what he had seen under the tree; but he charged them not to say anything to Mrs. Sinclair about what he had told them.

Old Mr. Norris thought a moment, and then said, ‘Now, that throws a fresh light on the subject. It seems to me now, that it works out this way. Young Master Sinclair wakes early, very early, before our folks are up, or the men at work in the farm. He comes downstairs, opens the room window, slips out, closes it again, and runs down the hill to bathe. It was high tide about five o’clock. He thinks he will go down through the wood to the rocks. Climbing down through the brambles, and not keeping to the path, maybe, he hurts himself in some way, cuts his hand, or stumbles on some glass and cuts his foot. He only has those, tennis shoes on, and they’re no manner of good here. Nothing but strong soles are any good at Hildick. He has got holes in them, to my certain knowledge. Well, we’ll say he cuts himself, and we’ll say it was his toe. Most likely going to bathe he didn’t even put his socks on. Well, he stops under the tree and he ties his foot up, but not before some drops have fallen on the moss. He isn’t going to lose his bathe however, so on he goes, gets down there and dives from the rocks.’

The old man stopped.

‘Go on,’ said Forester.

‘I don’t like to go on, sir.’

‘But I want you to go on. If that be the case, where is he now?’

‘Where is he now?’ said the old man sorrowfully.

‘Ah, that’s what it is, where is he now? Wait till the tide comes in at six o’clock this evening, and perhaps we shall see.’

‘You surely don’t think he’s drowned!’

‘Maybe not, sir, maybe not; we’ll wait for the incoming tide.’

Chapter 14: Watching the Tide

THE doctor saw that there was much to be said for the view Mr. Norris had taken of Dick’s disappearance, and he went into the Castle feeling it a very difficult task to try to be cheerful and hopeful. None of them were sorry when dinner was over. They all tried to avoid the subject uppermost in their thoughts, but no one cared to talk of anything else, and the meal was taken almost in silence.

‘What a nice girl Doris Somerville is!’ said Mrs. Sinclair, after there had been a long pause in the conversation. ‘She has been with me all the morning, and I really don’t know what I should have done without her. We’ve known her such a short time really, and yet I feel quite to lean on her. You don’t often come across a girl like that, do you?’

‘No,’ said Forester; ‘not often.’

This he said aloud, but in his innermost heart he gave another answer: ‘Never, no, never will you find one like her.’

When dinner was over the doctor sat with Mr. Sinclair for a little time on the seat in the Castle courtyard, and they consulted together about their next movements. Forester had made up his mind that, if Dick did not appear before the afternoon, he would tell Mr. Sinclair about the blood they had seen under the oak tree, and would also hint at his suspicions with regard to Dan and the two men who had left on Saturday. But Mr. Norris’ suggestion had impressed him very much. He began to see that a more simple, though not less tragic, solution of the mystery was possible, and that being the case, he did not think that the time had arrived to put the police upon the scent, or to call in detectives from Scotland Yard. He, like old Mr. Norris, would wait for the incoming tide.

If nothing was revealed then, or when the tide returned again the following morning, he would once more consider the advisability of communicating his suspicions to Dick’s father. He therefore now merely suggested that the coastguards should be interviewed, and questioned as to whether they had seen anything of Dick whilst on their morning beat; and that the search party should call at every cottage in the village, to find out whether any of the Hildick people had been on the shore early; and that they should also ask their assistance in the search, and thus get together a large band of helpers.

Mr. Sinclair seemed relieved to be at work again; so they hurried down the hill, and, on meeting with the others, they divided the village between them, each of them taking a certain number of houses in which to make inquiries, after which, and in about an hour’s time, they arranged to meet on the shingle, that they might make known to each other any information they had obtained.

At four o’clock, the appointed time, they all collected at the place in which they had agreed to meet. Doris, Mab, and Dolly were there when they arrived, all anxious to hear the result of their inquiries.

The doctor was the first to speak. He reported that the coastguards could give him no information whatever. They had walked along the shore in both directions during the night. One had skirted Hildick Bay, the other had gone round the promontory, but neither of them had come across anything extraordinary. They had met no one, and had heard no sound but the waves beating on the rocks. However, Forester found when he questioned them that they had returned to the station about three o’clock, and before daylight had begun to appear. He had found them very kind and interested, and they had promised to let him know if anything came under their observation which might throw light upon the mystery.

He went next to the house of the old sailor who owned the only boat in Hildick Bay. His was the boat that Forester was watching that first morning, when he sat by Mr. Somerville on the shore and shared his newspaper.

Old Treverton’s seagoing days were over; he sometimes did a little fishing when the herrings came into the bay; and when the visitors were in Hildick, provided that the day was fine and the sea perfectly calm, he would row them about slowly and carefully in the quiet water; but his working days were almost done, for he was more than eighty years of age.

Old Treverton was always glad of a chat with anyone whom he could persuade to stop to talk to him, and was ready to spin as long a yarn as the time of the passerby would allow. He was therefore highly gratified by a call from the doctor, and invited him into his little parlor.

‘Well, could he tell you anything?’ asked Mr. Sinclair.

‘No, he knew nothing about Dick, he had never seen him since yesterday morning. The old man has a good memory, and seems to know us all by name; he said at once, “Oh, that’s the young gentleman with black curly hair and rosy cheeks.”’

‘Then that was a failure too,’ said Mr. Sinclair in a disappointed voice, for he had hoped from the doctor’s manner that he had something to tell them.

‘I went on,’ Forester continued, ‘to question him as to whether he had seen anything unusual on the shore, and then he told me rather a queer thing. You know where he keeps his boat, on the rocks, well out of the reach of the tide. It was an extraordinarily high tide this morning, still, it came nowhere near the place where the boat was moored. But when Treverton went to look at the boat this morning, it was gone.’

‘Gone!’

‘Yes, it had been taken out by someone; he is sure of that. The tide had not been near it; all the rocks round were dry, but the boat was gone. The old man has been in an awful way about it all day; he has been hunting for his boat, just as we have been hunting for Dick.’

‘And he hasn’t found it yet?’

‘No, and the worst of it is that now he seems to think Dick has taken it out, and he is sure he would not be able to manage it. Old Treverton thinks no one can row that boat but himself. Still, it does seem a possible solution of the mystery. Dick may have gone out in the boat, and have been carried out by the receding tide farther than he bargained for. If so, we shall probably hear of him soon; so many ships pass the entrance to the bay that he could be in no great danger on a day like this, for the sea has been fairly calm, and that old tub would not easily be overturned.’

‘I don’t believe for a moment that Dick would take the boat,’ said Val.

‘Well, we shall see; to my mind it is a hopeful view of the matter,’ said Forester.

He was glad to dismiss old Mr. Norris’ suggestion from his mind. He had seen one very great difficulty in accepting the theory that Dick had jumped off the rocks and been drowned, for, if this had been the case, surely his clothes would have been found. Still, on the other hand, he had remembered that Dick might have bathed before high tide; and in that case, inasmuch as the tide was unusually high, his clothes, which he had probably left not far from the sea, might have been carried away by the waves. Now the idea that Dick had gone out to sea in old Treverton’s boat was a far less painful one to entertain, for in that case he might possibly be alive and well, and the doctor breathed much more freely than before.

None of the others had anything special to report except Jack. He had been to the myrtle-covered cottage which was famous on account of John Wesley’s visit to it. He and the old woman who lived there had become great friends during his stay in Hildick, and, as a special mark of her favour, she always dusted John Wesley’s chair with her apron and put it by the fire for him to sit on.

Jack had told her the trouble they were in, and in her own homely way she had expressed her sorrow and her sympathy. Then he had asked her whether she or her husband had been on the shore early that morning, or had seen anything or anyone about. She had told him that she was up very early, for her husband had to go on business to a farm on the Llantrug road. He had returned not long ago, and was just washing himself in the backyard.

Jack had asked if he might speak to him, and the old woman had called to her husband to come in. He said that he had set off about five o’clock, and had driven across the marsh to the Llantrug road. No one was about in the village when he started, and when he got up the hill and looked back on the bay he saw no one on the shore. Jack asked him whether any boat was in sight, and he told him that he had not noticed one. He was sorry to hear that old Treverton had lost his boat, but he had seen nothing of it in the bay, and he felt sure had it been there he would have noticed it.

‘Was that all?’ asked the doctor.

‘Well, yes, all that seemed to have anything bearing on Dick’s disappearance. He had rather a curious experience farther along the road, but you won’t care to hear about that; we must not lose time, must we?’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Forester; ‘all evidence is worth having, whether at first sight it seems to help us or not. Would you mind telling us what his funny experience was?’

‘Well, he was driving his cart along the Llantrug road, when he came to the place where a road runs into it. I think it comes from that village on the top of the hill. It isn’t much of a road, I believe, more like a lane. However, just at the corner where it comes into the main road, old Lloyd came upon an upset!’

‘What kind of upset?’

‘It was a dogcart that had come to grief. It had evidently been coming down the lane at a great pace, and just at the turning the horse had stumbled and fallen. It was lying on the ground when Lloyd came up.

‘Well, what was there queer about that?’ asked Don.

‘Oh, nothing about that, of course; but what struck him was the peculiar appearance of the people in the cart.’

‘How many were there?’

‘Only two.’

‘Men?’

‘No, very stout old females, dressed quite in the old-fashioned style, short full skirts and long cloaks. One had a hat on, and a thick woolen veil, the other had a large bonnet, and grey curls in front. They were trying to get the horse up when he got near, and he stopped his cart and went to give them a hand. He could not imagine who they were. He knows all the Garroch people well, but they told him they had come from some village ten miles inland, and that they were going to see a daughter of the old woman who lived in a farm near Llantrug, and who was very dangerously ill.’

‘What was remarkable in that?’

‘Nothing at all,’ said Jack; ‘but as old Lloyd was helping them with the horse he happened to look inside the cart.’

‘What did he see there?’

‘He saw something covered with a rug—a long bundle of some kind, and the rug was tucked tightly over it. “What have you got there?” he asked them, for you know old Lloyd does not mind asking anything he wants to know.’

‘And what did they say?’

‘They said they had been pig-killing at home, and had not had time to salt the pig, so had brought it with them to the daughter’s, that they might do it there. Old Lloyd thought this was a very queer story, and I agree with him. If the daughter was dangerously ill, why should they take a big job like that into a sick house?’

‘Did they tell him anything else?’

‘Nothing else; they jumped into the dogcart as quickly as possible, and drove off at a tearing pace towards Llantrug. Lloyd said he quite expected that the horse would be down again.’

‘Well, I don’t see what all that has to do with us,’ said Mr. Sinclair; ‘unless you want to suggest that those two old dames were taking poor Dick away in a cart. Don’t you think we ought at once to scatter and continue our search?’

The doctor and Don had been together all day, and they agreed to keep together now. They undertook to go over the old ground still more carefully, whilst the others sought farther afield.

Forester was anxious to be on the shore, that he might watch the incoming tide. It was now five o’clock and the sea was coming in apace. By this time many of the cottagers had come out to help in the search, and as the doctor and Don went down towards the rocks they saw the searchers scattering in all directions—in the fields, upon the sandhills, and amongst the woods round the bay.

Arrived at the shore, they found old Treverton still on the lookout for his boat. The poor old man was as mournful as if he had lost a child.

‘I’ve had her thirty years, sir,’ he said; ‘and I thought she would last my time.’

‘Well,’ said Forester, ‘perhaps you haven’t lost her. Don’t despair yet; she may turn up somewhere.’

‘Any word of the young gentleman, sir?’

‘No, not yet; but we haven’t given up hope.’

‘Well, sir, I may be wrong, but it strikes me that the lad and the boat are together. I’m very much afraid they are—very much afraid.’

And now they walk on together to the farthest point they can reach on the rocks, and watch the advancing tide. Steadily, slowly, but surely, it is coming on. As they stand there they can watch the water rising. Now it has covered that little island far out at sea: now it has swept over that stretch of seaweed-covered shore; now it is creeping round that high rock; now it is coming up to the breakwater by the church. Like a relentless force it is coming on, and still on.

What is it bearing on its swelling waters? What is coming in with the tide? Who can tell what those busy waves may be carrying? Wreckage from ships lost years ago on some distant ocean; shells and seaweed brought from the fairy caverns below; corks that have floated the fishermen’s nets on some foreign shore; bottles with messages from shipwrecked men, pieces of rope, lengths of sugar cane, wisps of straw that have been carried backwards and forwards by many a tide—which of these are the waves bringing in tonight?

The three men stand silently watching, gazing far out to sea. The old sailor has brought his small telescope with him, and is looking through it at the waves.

‘What is that?’ he says at length; ‘what do I see driving in towards the other side of the bay?’

He hands his glass to the doctor. ‘Your eyes are younger than mine, sir,’ he says; ‘tell me what you see there.’

‘I see nothing yet.’

‘Look again, sir.’

‘I am looking again. Yes, now I do see something; it looks like a black speck on the water.’

‘It must be more than a speck for us to see it here, sir, three miles or more away.’

‘Look, Don,’ says the doctor; ‘take the glass.’

Don sees it too. ‘Seaweed,’ he suggests; ‘or perhaps a log of wood.’

‘It may be, or it may not be,’ Treverton says in an excited voice. ‘I shall go across the bay and watch it come in.’

‘We will come with you; but we must hurry up,’ says Forester, ‘or we shall be too late.’

He and Don run on ahead, and the old man follows them. It is not easy to go quickly, for the tide now covers the hard sand, and the shore above high water-mark is covered with heavy and loose shingle, which makes it difficult to keep up any great pace. They are astonished afterwards to remember in how short a time they had crossed the bay.

They do not stop to take off their boots and socks when they come to the stream, but run quickly through the water. On, and still on they hasten, and now the speck has become a large dark object on the crest of the waves. They need no glass to see it clearly now; each advancing wave brings it nearer; it is making straight for the shore of the bay in which they had had that pleasant picnic only the wee, before. How different it all seems now! What a gloom has fallen over the happy party that had met together there!

But they must hasten on. Now the point is turned —now the bay is reached—now the busy waves have nearly finished their work. The dark object on the water is coming to land. They can see it distinctly now; as they run to meet it in the water they can almost touch it; there is no room now for speculation or doubt. A high wave is rising; this one will bring it within reach. Old Treverton is turning the corner now, he is running along the bay; but long before he reaches the spot, they have caught it—they have rescued it from a receding wave—they are bringing it ashore.

It is old Treverton’s boat, and it is coming in bottom upwards.

Chapter 15: Who Shall Tell?

THE doctor and Don looked at each other as they stood over the boat, but neither of them spoke a word. The old man helped them to drag it out of reach of the waves.

‘I never thought I should see her again,’ he said; ‘let’s turn her over, and take her up under the cliffs. I can’t get her home tonight, because the oars are gone.’

They soon managed to right the boat, and were beginning to push it along the sand when Don suddenly called out—

‘Hullo! what’s that tied to the seat? Look, Norman!’

What was it that made every bit of color fade out of Forester’s face as he bent forward and looked at what Don had discovered? Something was knotted tightly round the seat; something that was soaked with salt water and hung down draggled and torn at the bottom of the boat; something that had once been green, but the color of which was now hardly discernible. It was a tie—Dick’s tie; he had worn it only the day before.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Forester.

‘Quite sure,’ said Don; ‘look, here’s the name of the shop; Carter Brothers, Leamington. That’s where the Sinclairs come from, you know.’

They unfastened the tie, and when old Treverton had secured his boat, they walked slowly back together. Still, they kept their eyes on the busy sea. Would it bring anything else home tonight? Would any other dark object be seen on the crest of the waves?

‘He may not come in here,’ said the old man; ‘he may be carried far away. I’ve known them toss about on the water for weeks, ay, for months sometimes. The sea’s a queer one to deal with; one never knows when he will send his goods home. Ay, dear, and a bonny lad, too. What a pity! What a pity!’

‘Norman,’ whispered Don, ‘I can’t stand this; let’s get rid of him somehow.’

The doctor soon after told the old sailor that they were going across the sandhills that they might find the rest of the party, and might tell them what had happened, and they left him to go home by the shore. Don was terribly upset as they walked on together.

‘Isn’t it ghastly, Norman?’ he said. ‘And to hear that old fellow talking about it like that! I couldn’t have stood it another minute.’

They walked on without speaking for a long time. Then Don was again the one to break the silence.

‘Norman.’

‘Yes, Don.’

‘Who’s going to tell the Sinclairs?’

Forester did not answer. He had been trying to face that question ever since he had seen the boat come ashore.

They must be told; but how much, and when, and who would break it to them best?

‘Would Jack go, do you think, Forester?’

Yes, Jack would go; he never shrank from any duty, however painful; but it was an awful thing to ask Jack to do.

‘I think I shall go to the Castle myself,’ said Forester presently.

In his great unselfishness he would not ask another to do what he shrank, oh, so terribly, from doing himself.

Don did not speak again. He walked on, thankful that Forester had undertaken to break the news, and yet wishing from the bottom of his heart that he could do anything to help him. As for the doctor, he was planning what he should say to the Sinclairs, and how he should say it.

‘Shall you tell them about that tie?’ asked Don at length.

‘I don’t know; I think not tonight. And yet if the next tide brings—You know what I mean, Don; they would be more prepared.’

‘Yes; but if after all he should be safe, picked up by a ship, or something of that kind?’

Don’s hopeful nature had asserted itself again, and the doctor caught a little comfort from his words, and tried to argue himself into believing that the case was not quite so hopeless as he had at first imagined.

It was getting dark when they reached the village, and the band of willing searchers was returning. Groups of men and lads were standing at the corner of the street discussing the sad event of the day.

‘No news, sir?’ they asked, as Forester and Don went by.

‘None of Master Sinclair. Treverton has found his boat.’

‘Where? How?’

But the two young men walked on up the hill, and did not stop to answer them. Treverton would bring the news quite soon enough.

‘Now, Don, had you not better go home and tell Jack? He might come up to the Castle later on, after I’ve told them; it might be a comfort to them to see him.’

Don agreed, and the doctor went on alone. As he went through the gate leading up to the ancient watchtower, he saw someone coming down the field from the Castle. It was Doris; she had been with Mrs. Sinclair all the evening, and was now returning home. She told him that Mr. Sinclair and the boys had just come in, and that she had persuaded Joyce to go to bed, and had left her sobbing herself to sleep.

‘You have found nothing, Dr. Forester, I suppose?’

‘Yes, we have found the boat.’

He told her where they had found it, and how it had come in bottom upwards, and then he showed her the tie.

‘This is terrible!’ she said.

‘Yes, and I have to tell them. I must go and get it over.’

‘Let me walk up the hill with you,’ she said; ‘may I?’

There was a world of sympathy in her tones as she said this.

‘Thank you, Miss Somerville; it is very kind of you.’

Neither of them spoke for some minutes after this, but it was a comfort to Forester to feel that she was there.

‘What a sad ending to our holiday!’ he said at length.

She did not answer, but he saw that her tears were falling fast.

They came at length to the stile leading into the Castle, and she told him that she must turn back.

‘It is so hard for you,’ she said gently, ‘so very hard; but I know you will be helped.’ She could say no more for crying, but went slowly down the hill; and Forester crossed the stile into the Castle courtyard.

How he told them the sad news he never knew. All the sentences he had prepared left him, but other words seemed to be given him at the moment. Had she not said, ‘I know you will be helped’? Was he not sure that she would pray for him?

It was very touching to the doctor to see how the Sinclairs all clung to him, how they seemed to lean upon him in their sorrow, and to feel it less hard to bear when he was with them. He could not understand it, for he had a very poor opinion of himself, and of his own power of showing sympathy; but he could not help noticing that they liked to have him there, and that they dreaded the thought of his leaving them.

Jack came and knelt with them and prayed for them, and they rose from their knees feeling that they were not alone in their sorrow; but long after Jack had gone Forester stayed on. It was late at night when he left them, and turned out in the darkness to go to his tent.

He was so worn out when he got there that he fell asleep almost immediately. It was a troubled, disturbed sleep; he dreamt that he was on the sea, being driven about by wind and tide, and yet trying with all his might to reach the shore. Once he was close to a rock, but, just as he was laying hold of it, a hand came out and pushed him back into the water, and he looked up, to see Clegg’s spiteful face above him mocking at his struggles. Now he was going down for the last time, the water was closing over his head; but at that moment another hand came and drew him out, and gently brought him to land, and he heard Doris’ voice say, ‘I knew you would be helped.’

He woke in the morning with the awful feeling upon him that something dreadful had happened, and that some painful duty awaited him. He could not at first remember what it was that came upon him like a terrible crushing weight. Then it flashed across him. He recalled the sad event of the day before, and realized that the hideous duty which awaited him was to go to the shore and watch the morning tide come in. He calculated that it would be high tide about six; but so restless was he that he was on the shore and pacing up and down long before that hour.

There were other watchers on the shore. Old Treverton was there wandering amongst the rocks, and so were many others of the villagers. There was no talking to be heard; all were silently watching the sea; all were waiting for what the tide might bring Some had walked far across the bay, to the place where the boat had come in the night before; others were standing on the rocks near the church. Old Treverton had brought his telescope, and was carefully scanning the water.

But the tide came in, and the tide went out, and the sea refused to give up her dead.

That day was a far more painful and trying one than the day before. Then they had had much to do, searching here and searching there; they had walked for miles over hill and dale, through wood and heather, along the stretches of sand, and over the tumbled masses of rock with which the shore was strewn. But now there was nothing to do but to sit still, face the sorrow that had befallen them, and wait for the next incoming tide. Then they had had hope; through all their anxiety they had clung to the possibility of Dick’s being alive and well. They had pictured to themselves and to each other all manner of causes that might have delayed his return, and each time that they had come back to the Castle they had done so with the hope that they might find him there. But now hope had given place to despair, fear to a terrible certainty.

The doctor, who the day before had had suspicions that Dick’s disappearance might be accounted for in quite a different way, had now become thoroughly convinced that the mystery was explained. Who could have taken out the boat but Dick? Was not the tie sufficient evidence of that? And inasmuch as the boat had come to land bottom upwards, what else but drowning could have befallen the one who took her out to sea?

Yet certain though he now was of poor Dick’s fate, he felt that he could not desert the Sinclairs in their time of need. If he could be of the slightest help or comfort to them, if he could in any way lighten, even in the very smallest degree, the heavy, overwhelming sorrow that had befallen them, he was persuaded that it was his clear duty to stay. So he sent another wire to his housekeeper, telling her that his return was indefinitely postponed; and he made up his mind that, in the meantime, he would not see more of Doris than was actually necessary, but would school himself to forget his own trouble, and to think only of the bereavement that had come as a heavy blow upon his friends.

Mrs. Sinclair was feeling so ill that she did not get up at all that day, but the others seemed glad to have him with them. Poor Val was terribly upset; he and Dick were devoted to each other, and to lose him thus suddenly seemed almost more than he could bear.

Joyce had cried till she could cry no more; the poor child was very young to have such a dark shadow brought into her life, and Forester was very sorry for her. He invited her to have tea with him in his tent. She brought her dogs with her, and forgot her trouble for a time, as she helped him to boil the kettle and to cut the bread and butter. Then she poured out tea, and Forester talked to her about her life at home, her school, her dogs—anything he could think of to turn her thoughts for a time from what had happened. She was a quaint child, and her opinion on various subjects much amused and interested him She asked him all manner of questions, some of which were not easy to answer. For instance, the doctor told her how glad he was to have someone to pour out tea for him—for he always had to pour out his own tea in London.

‘Why don’t you get married?’ she asked, after thinking over this for some time; ‘then your wife could pour out the tea.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Forester. ‘I haven’t found a wife yet, you see.’

She meditated a long time over this, and Forester’s thoughts had wandered on to another subject, when she said suddenly:

‘I don’t think Mab or Dolly would do.’

‘Do for what?’

‘To be your wife; they’re too young.’

‘Much too young. Have some more jam, Joyce; there’s plenty in the pot. You like strawberry jam, don’t you?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ But she was not to be turned from her point. ‘There’s Doris,’ she said; ‘why wouldn’t she do?’

The doctor did not answer at once, and she went on— ‘I think she is so nice. She put me to bed last night, and she was so kind. Don’t you like her?’

‘Yes, very much; but you see, Joyce, it doesn’t do to choose wives for other people. You must come and pour out tea for me in London the next time father brings you to town.’

It was some time before he could turn the conversation into a fresh channel; her kind little heart was so much distressed at the thought of his being lonely, and having no one to pour out tea for him. Then something reminded her of Dick, and she began to cry again, and he had once more to try to comfort her.

The evening tide came in and went out, but nothing was revealed by it. Old Treverton seemed to think that a current had carried the body far beyond the bay and a long way out to sea.

Chapter 16: At the Tent Door

THE doctor went early to his tent that night, for the Sinclairs were worn out and they were going to bed. He sat for some time smoking at his tent door and watching the stars, which were quite unusually brilliant, and seemed to look down upon him with bright and friendly eyes. Then he said his evening prayer, and felt glad that at least he could help his friends by pleading that strength and comfort might be given them in this heavy bereavement.

He fell asleep almost as soon as he laid his head on the pillow, and he slept much more soundly than the night before. He was thoroughly tired, for he had walked miles during the last two days, and needed rest as much, or more, than any of the others. But though he slept heavily he was suddenly awakened.

He was dreaming that he was walking along the shore with Doris, that she was talking to him about Jack, and that he was trying to seem interested and pleased, when he was alarmed by a huge piece of rock falling down with a tremendous crash from the cliff above, and rolling almost to their feet.

Forester jumped up in bed, aroused and startled. Was it only a dream, or had there really been a noise? Oh, it was only a dream, of course; he would turn over and go to sleep again. But this was not easy, for sitting up in bed had made him so wide awake that sleep would not return to him. He tossed about on his pillow, thinking of all manner of things for some little time. Then he struck a match and looked his watch. It was just two o’clock.

It was a hot, sultry night, and he thought he would open the tent door for a few minutes, to let in the fresh air; perhaps if it was cooler he would be able to sleep again. He untied the strings that fastened it and looked outside, and then he saw that the noise he had heard in his dream had not been an imaginary one. Some dark object had fallen against the side of his tent, and was now lying huddled up against it. He stooped to discover what it was, and he found that it was a man, lying on his face, with nothing on but an old shirt, the sleeves of which were torn and hanging in rags, and a pair of rough corduroy trousers. He had no shoes or stockings on, and his bare feet seemed to be bleeding.

The doctor bent over him and tried to raise him, and then, to his utter astonishment, he saw that it was Dick, quite unconscious and apparently dead. He put his arms round him and dragged him into the tent. Had he found him only to have to break the news of his death, for a second time, to his father and mother?

But no, thank God, he was not dead; he had his finger on his pulse, and could feel it faintly beating. He lighted his lamp, and then carefully and tenderly lifted the unconscious lad upon his bed. Then he bent down over him. What was that odor that he perceived? Ah! he knew it well; it was chloroform! What was that awful wound across the temple? What did it all mean? His former suspicions crowded back upon him with terrible rapidity. He knew now that he had been quite right in entertaining them before. There had been foul play of some kind. Yet what about the boat, and the tie found in it? What was the solution of this awful, inexplicable mystery?

But there was no time to consider this now; he must do what he could for the poor lad. He trembled to think it might be too late. Had he crept back from some place of imprisonment, only to die on the very threshold of help and safety?

The doctor heated water, and washed and dressed the wound. He had brought with him a little parcel of lint and strapping and other things necessary for such work. He knew that he was going fourteen miles from a chemist’s shop, and he had said to himself that he might find it useful, in case of any accident. How glad he was that he had done so! How little he thought when he was packing it up that he should need that parcel so sorely! He also remembered that his thermometer was in its usual place in the breast pocket of his coat, and he took Dick’s temperature. He found that it was extremely high, and that his pulse, which was now more easily discernible, was rapid and feeble.

He examined him carefully, and decided that he was not now under the influence of chloroform, but that he had undoubtedly been drugged a short time ago. Had he been under the power of an anesthetic, he could not have come, as he had done, to the tent. He had evidently recovered from its effects, set out to return home, and then fainted from utter exhaustion, just as he reached the spot where he had been found.

Forester at once did all he could to revive him, and presently was relieved to see him open his eyes and look at him; but there was no sign of recognition in his face, and he soon closed his eyes again. The doctor warmed some milk and managed to make him swallow a very little of it, and then he waited for a time, and thought out carefully what was his best course of action. He felt that it was useless to call the Sinclairs at that early hour. In all probability they were asleep, and he knew that he would need their help later on; besides which he did not like, for many reasons, to leave Dick alone. He needed constant care and watching, and moreover it was possible that if he left him he might no longer be safe.

Who knew whether, supposing him to have escaped from some place of imprisonment, he might not be pursued; and if he were found alone, the ruffians who had ill-treated him so shamefully might not scruple even to take his life? That he was very ill, Forester had no manner of doubt, and if he was to recover from his present condition it would only be by the greatest care and most diligent nursing. So he sat beside him, feeling his pulse from time to time, and listening to the rambling mutterings of the poor boy, who was evidently quite unconscious again.

What a long night it seemed, and how thankful he was when it began to grow light! Now the farm servants would soon be at work, and he would be able to get help; someone was sure to be passing by to whom he could call.

But it was not until six o’clock that he heard footsteps coming up the lane. He looked out, and to his great relief saw Rupert coming towards him. He went to meet him and told him what had happened, and left him to watch beside Dick whilst he went to tell them at the Castle. He stood underneath Val’s window, and threw pebbles at it until he woke him.

‘Val, I want you; come out.’

In a few minutes Val joined him. ‘Has it been found?’ he asked, with a white face. ‘No, Val, no; nothing has come ashore; it is better news than that.’

‘Better than that?’

‘Yes, much better. Dick is alive. Very ill, Val, but still living.’

‘What has happened to him? Tell me quickly!’ said Val, in an agitated voice.

Forester told him of his finding poor Dick close to his tent in the middle of the night, but he said that what had happened to him was still a mystery, for Dick was too ill to give any explanation at present.

‘Now, Val, you must tell your father.’

Val ran to do this, and Forester waited in the Castle courtyard. The old man came out, and was delighted to hear that Dick had returned, and the doctor and he conferred together as to the next steps to be taken. A farm servant was to be sent at once for the nearest doctor, for Dick would need medicine and other things which Forester could not obtain; besides which he would be glad to consult with someone tire as to the best course to pursue.

Forester also obtained information from Mr. Norris as to the nearest police station, for he felt that enquiries ought most certainly to be made at once about the outrage that had been committed, so that the guilty parties might be found, and at once arrested and called upon to answer for their conduct.

Mr. Sinclair soon joined them, and he and Val walked back with Forester to the tent. They came inside, and poor Mr. Sinclair was overcome when he saw his boy. Dick looked so fearfully ill, his face was so ghastly and drawn, that it did not appear possible that he could recover. The poor father, who had kept up bravely through the awful strain of the last two days, now quite broke down, and sobbed aloud, as he bent over the unconscious form on the bed. Val too stood looking sorrowfully at his brother with tears in his eyes.

The doctor did his best to cheer them and to give them hope, and he urged them to return soon to the Castle, that they might see that every effort was made at once to discover the mystery, and he also told them that, should consciousness return, it was of the utmost importance that, for some hours, Dick should be kept perfectly quiet, and should, if possible, see no one but himself.

Mr. Sinclair was only too thankful to leave his poor boy entirely in the doctor’s hands, and he promised that they would be guided in all things by his opinion, in which they had the greatest possible confidence.

So all the morning Forester watched in the quiet tent. When Dr. Taylor came, they thoroughly examined poor Dick, and found several severe bruises upon him in different parts of his body. The wound on the head appeared to have been caused by his falling heavily forward upon some sharp surface, and they also discovered the marks of a severe blow upon the back of the head.

‘I should say,’ said Dr. Taylor, ‘that someone came behind him and felled him to the ground, that in falling forward upon something his head was cut open, and that he must have been completely stunned by the blow, and unconscious for a long time afterwards.’

Forester quite agreed with him in this opinion, and they consulted together as to the treatment of the case. There was evidently concussion of the brain, which accounted for many of the symptoms which were present, and they both felt that, if Dick were to recover, he would need the very greatest care.

That care Forester was quite prepared to give; never was any patient nursed with greater skill or tenderness. He had consulted with Dr. Taylor as to the advisability of moving Dick into the Castle; but they agreed that at present perfect quiet was absolutely necessary, and that it would be running a great risk to attempt to carry him so far in the present state of affairs.

In the afternoon Mrs. Sinclair came to the tent, and Forester left her and Val in charge, whilst he went to get a little fresh air and exercise. The night had been a great strain upon him, and as he was going to sit up again that night, he felt that he would be the better for a little rest and change, and Mrs. Sinclair was only too glad to take his place.

He sauntered down to the shore, and saw Jack and Don and the three girls sitting under the breakwater. They all came to meet him, anxious to hear the latest news of Dick, and they told him that the police officers had arrived, and had been going round the village making enquiries about what had happened. They had also been at the Castle, and Mr. Sinclair had told them about Clegg and De Jersey, and how Dick had declared he should keep an eye upon them; and they both agreed that it was possible that they had looked upon him as a spy, and had taken their revenge by inflicting upon him the serious injuries which he seemed to have sustained. One problem, however, was still unsolved. What was Dick doing that night, and how had he come into contact with these men?

‘Where are the police now?’ asked Forester.

‘They have gone round the promontory to see that fellow Dan, and to hear what he has to say about it. Someone in the village told them that he has been seen, more than once, talking to those men, and they think that he probably knows where they are.’

The doctor then proposed that they should all walk along the shore in that direction, that they might meet the police officers and hear what they had discovered, and they all agreed to do so. After a time, they left the rocks and climbed the hill, and, by crossing over the common at the top, they arrived at the cottage only a few minutes after the police.

The cottage door stood open, and they went in, but Dan was not there. The two policemen were standing looking round the room, but no one else was to be seen. There was no fire in the grate; the whole place seemed deserted. Some empty glasses, smelling of whisky, stood on the table; an old pair of boots was lying on the hearth; a pack of dirty playing cards was scattered over the old horse-hair couch. There was a curious faint odor about the whole place. They were glad to get outside and sit on the rocks whilst the policemen searched the house further, endeavoring to find out some clue to the mystery they were trying to discover.

Presently, one of the men came to the door and called to Forester.

‘Look here, doctor,’ he said, for Jack had explained that he was the doctor who was looking after the poor injured lad.

Forester went to the cottage door.

‘Well, have you found anything?’

‘Yes, sir; come and see.’

The doctor followed them into the small outhouse at the back, from which he had fetched coal on the night which he spent in the cottage, and the policeman pointed to the floor. It was stained with blood.

‘What do you make of that, doctor?’

Forester went down on his knees, and carefully examined the bloodstains.

‘Human blood, I should say, by the look of it.’

‘Now, doctor,’ said the other man, ‘if you and your party will clear off, me and my mate will watch for the return of this gentleman as lives here. He’s not gone far, or he wouldn’t have left his door wide open; and when he comes back we’ll hear what he has to say about these blood marks.’

They, therefore, left the cove as quickly as possible, and as it was low tide they walked back by the shore. Forester kept well ahead with Mab and Dolly, leaving Jack and Don to follow with Doris.

‘Now, if Don had any sense he would come with us!’ he said to himself.

When they came to the church they rested a little on the rocks, and the three who were behind joined them. Forester looked at his watch.

‘I must go now,’ he said. ‘I told Mrs. Sinclair I would be back at five, in time to give Dick his medicine.’

They all walked on together till they came to the wad leading to the village. At the corner Doris stopped.

‘Father wants Billy and Joyce to come to us for tea,’ she said. ‘I’m just going to fetch them. Do you mind my walking up the hill with you, Dr. Forster?’

Did he mind? His heart gave a great bound of joy at the thought of it. And yet—and yet—But there was no getting out of it now, so they walked on together, not speaking at all at first.

‘I feel sure Dick will get better,’ she said at length.

‘I hope so; he is certainly better this afternoon.’

‘Oh! I know he will; we have so prayed for it.’

‘Yes, we have.’

‘And I know what care you are taking of him; but you must be so tired. Do you think you ought to sit up another night?’

‘Doctors are accustomed to do without much sleep,’ he said.

‘Are they?’

‘Yes; I never know when I go to bed how long I shall stay there; the night-bell has a knack of ringing just when I’m falling off to sleep.’

There was silence again, and all the time Forester was feeling that he ought to congratulate her on her engagement with Jack; but somehow or other the words would not come. He measured the distance they had yet to walk before reaching the Castle; he tried to settle what he should say and how he should say it; but still he kept putting it off from moment to moment. At last he thought he would lead up to the subject by saying— ‘What a splendid fellow Jack is!’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘he is; and you’ve known him so long. Jack was telling me last night all about the time you were at school together, and what friends you were.’

‘I’m so glad he’s so happy, so very glad.’

‘Oh! Jack’s always happy,’ she said; ‘I’ve never known him depressed or gloomy.’

‘But I know how specially happy he is just now. He told me as we came up the hill the other night. You see he is such an old friend of mine, and he knew I would keep his secret, and I wanted you to know how glad I am.’

‘I knew you would be glad,’ she said.

And just then Joyce came running down the hill with her dogs to meet them, and he had no opportunity to say anything more. Well, she would understand all that he meant to say, and he was glad that he had made the attempt, in however feeble a manner, to express his good wishes for them both. He would feel more easy and natural now when he met her, as he would be sure to do from time to time during the next few days, for he had fully determined not to leave Hildick till Dick was out of danger.

Forester went back to the tent, and found his patient cooler and better; his pulse was more quiet, there had been no sickness, and although he was still unconscious, he felt much more hopeful about him. He told Mrs. Sinclair this, and she went back to the Castle greatly cheered.

Dick was very quiet now; the incoherent rambling talk had ceased, and, soon after he took his medicine, he appeared to be sleeping peacefully. Forester boiled his kettle, ate his tea beside him, and then sat quietly watching him. How busy his thoughts were that evening, how madly they seemed to be racing through his tired brain! He thought of Jack and Doris; he wondered what they would be doing then, how happy they would be, how they would be reveling in each other’s presence, and in the joy of knowing that they were all in all to each other. And then his thoughts raced back to that great trouble he had experienced before leaving home, and which now seemed so long gone by. What a terrible mistake he had nearly made, and how foolish he had been to mourn that God’s Hand had been put out to save him from his own folly.

And then, with lightning rapidity, his thoughts flew on into the future, and he planned and pictured out the life he would live when he went back to London. How lonely it would be, as far as earthly companionship was concerned! He remembered how Joyce had pitied him for this, and he felt that he would realize this loneliness all the more, going as he would from this large and happy party, and finding himself with no one to whom he could speak except his poor old housekeeper.

‘But with my God to guide my way,

‘Tis equal joy to go or stay.’

He seemed to hear Doris’ voice saying these two lines to him. Was she saying them, or was she singing them? He gave himself a shake; he was falling asleep, and he must not do that. He got up and moved about the tent, and as he did so, he heard a whisper outside—

‘Forester, can you come here a minute?’

It was Val.

‘I thought you were both asleep,’ he said ‘all was so quiet.’

‘Dick is sleeping beautifully, and I think I did doze a little. Well, what about the police?’

‘One of them has just been to the Castle to say that Dan has never returned; they are of opinion that he will not come back now, and they are going to try to discover where he has gone. I do hope they’ll catch him, the rascal! Forester, I came to ask you to let me sit with you tonight. Do, there’s a good fellow! I’m not much good,’ continued poor Val; ‘but I could boil the kettle and hand you things, and I should so like to stay.’

Forester was glad to accept this offer, and then Val persuaded him to go to the Castle for supper, leaving him in charge. About an hour after this they settled down for the night. Val had brought milk and beef-tea, and all they would need in the way of nourishment for Dick, and the two young men lay back in camp-chairs to watch beside him and to face together the long hours of the night.

It was a great comfort to Forester to have a companion with him; now and again they spoke softly to each other, and it was touching to him to see Val’s great desire to be of use and to save him trouble in every way.

‘If you fall asleep, Forester, never mind,’ he said; ‘I’ll wake you if he stirs the least little bit, and I’m not at all sleepy.’

Forester protested that he was not tired, but his face told another tale, and soon, when Val looked up from his book, he saw that the doctor was fast asleep in his chair. Val was very glad of this, for he knew how worn out Forester was. He looked at his book again, and was just turning over a fresh page when he heard his own name. He looked up in surprise, to see Dick looking at him with a steady, conscious gaze.

‘Val, dear old boy, where am I?’

‘You’re all right, Dick; you’re in Forester’s tent, and he and I are both with you.’

Forester heard the voices and woke with a start. He was delighted beyond measure to see the change in his patient; but he would not allow him to speak another word till he had had some nourishment. Now Val’s quick fingers poured the beef-tea into the sauce pan, lighted the stove, heated and then poured out the beef-tea and brought it to the doctor to administer.

Dick smiled his own bright, cheery smile as they bent over him, Val gently raising his pillow with his arm, and the doctor feeding him from an invalid cup.

‘Have they gone? Are you sure?’ he asked.

‘Who, Dick?’

‘Those men.’

‘Oh quite sure; they’re miles away now.’

That seemed to content him, and he turned a little to one side, and fell asleep again. Forester and Val exchanged glances, but said nothing.

Once again in the night he woke, and at once looked anxiously round the tent.

‘What is it, Dick?’

‘Oh! nothing; only I thought I saw someone standing there.’

‘There is no one here; no one but Val.’

‘You’ll keep them out; won’t you?’

‘Of course we will. Take your milk, Dick, and then go to sleep again.’

So the night wore away, and in the morning he was so much better that Forester allowed his mother to come and see him and to sit with him. But he absolutely forbade all conversation, and warned Mrs. Sinclair that the consequences might be most serious if he were allowed to dwell on what had happened to him during those two days of which as yet they knew nothing.

Chapter 17: The Spiral Staircase

IT was not until some days had passed, and Dick had, to a great extent, recovered his strength, and was able to sit up in a chair in a shady spot outside Forester’s tent, that the doctor considered him sufficiently recovered to tell what had happened to him. Forester was sitting beside him when Dick said suddenly—

‘I want to tell you about that night, Forester.’

‘Yes, Dick, tell me; but if you feel it tires your head or makes the pain return, stop at once.’

‘I will, Forester. Where shall I begin?’

‘Begin at the beginning,’ said the doctor, laughing.

‘So I will. Let me see; what day of the week was it?’

‘Sunday night.’

‘Oh yes, Sunday night. Billy was sleepy, and went early to bed. I came up last, for I stopped to talk to old Norris, and they had such a jolly fire that I did not feel inclined to go up. It must have been nearly eleven when I went upstairs. I passed through Val’s room, and he was asleep; then I went to my own, and Billy was snoring too.’

‘Then I suppose you got undressed?’ said Forester, as he stopped.

‘No, I didn’t. I was trying to remember what came next. Oh, I know, I found a book on the dressing table that Billy had been reading, and I took it up to see what it was, and it looked rather interesting, so I sat down and started reading it.’

‘Well,’ said Forester, ‘and when did you go to bed?’

‘I didn’t go to bed. I went on reading for more than an hour. All was quite still; there wasn’t a sound in the house. That stupid old clock seemed the only thing awake, and it made me jump whenever it struck. I turned sleepy at last, and had just settled to go to bed when I heard a noise. It was those footsteps again. I had not heard them for several nights. I put my ear to the turret and listened. Old Norris had declared that it was solid, that there was nothing inside it whatever; but as I listened, I felt sure that he was wrong. I was certain that there was a spiral staircase in this turret, just as there is in that one by the gate which leads you up into the loft above. I could distinctly hear the footsteps, sometimes going up this staircase, sometimes going down.

I sat and puzzled where the exit could be, and I could think of no place at the bottom where it could possibly come out, nor could I remember any place above to which this staircase could lead. I determined, however, that I would not go to sleep until I found out.

The others had laughed so much about my ghost; now I would prove to them that I was right. I crept out of the room, so that I might not wake Billy; I stole like a thief through Val’s room, but he never stirred. Then I crept very quietly along the corridor. I knew that if any of them heard me they would not believe about the footsteps, and would not let me go. The stairs did creak as I went down, and I felt sure Rupert would wake; but he did not. I’m sure I wish he had.’

‘Now, Dick, not another word till you’ve had some milk.’

Forester jumped up and brought it from the tent.

‘Now may I go on?’

‘Yes, if you’re not too tired.’

‘No, I’m all right, and it’s such a relief to tell somebody. Well, I went into the parlor and crept out of the window. Then I made my way to the tool-house; you know where I mean, where Mr. Norris’s grandmother lived. Rupert had lost the key; he lost it before we came, so I knew I should be able to get in.

‘It was horribly creepy and dark in there; I lied brought a candle with me and I struck a match and lighted it, but I could see no one about. I passed the bed-place and tried to find out if anyone was hiding there; but I could see no one. Then I found my way to the steps going up into the loft. A fearful wind was blowing there, and it blew out my candle; but I lighted it again and went on. You know how that stone staircase winds, and, as I took each turn, I didn’t know what I might see.

‘Well, at last I got to the top, and there was the loft. It looked very weird, just lighted up by my candle. There was that queer old bed, and the spinning wheel, and all looked just as usual. I picked my way amongst apples and onions, and it felt awfully cold up there, and I began to think I had come on a fool’s errand. There wasn’t a sign of anybody. I think I should have gone back to bed then, if a gust of wind hadn’t blown out my candle again. And then I saw a light.’

‘A light, Dick?’

‘Yes, just a glimmer of light, which seemed to come from the floor in one corner of the loft. I went up to the place, and what do you think I saw?’

‘I can’t guess, Dick; go on.’

‘Well, I saw that some of the boards in the floor had been taken up, and that there was a large hole.’

‘What sort of a hole?’

‘Like a trap door, Forester, and just underneath if I saw steps.’

‘Stone steps?’

‘Yes, stone steps, another winding stair. And, in a tiny niche in the stone wall close to the top, a small oil-lamp was standing. That was the light I had seen!’

‘What did you do next?’

‘Why, I went down, of course. “Someone must have lighted that lamp,” I said to myself; “I’m on the scent now, sure enough.” Well, I started, and the steps wound round and round and round. I knew where I was then, in the turret which old Norris thought was solid, and which stands in the corner of our bedroom. I had lighted my candle again, and could see the round wall of the inside of the tower. I said to myself, “I must be passing through Billy’s room; I wonder if he’ll hear me, and think I am a ghost.” I had just got as far as that, when what do you think I heard?’

‘A real ghost?’ asked Forester.

‘I heard footsteps, coming down the steps behind me. There was no going back now without being, seen, so I determined to go on. But I own, Forester, I wished then that I was on Billy’s side of the wall.’

‘Now you’re getting flushed, Dick. Stop a bit, and tell me after.’

‘I can’t stop, Forester; I must tell you the rest. Do let me. Well, I heard my own footsteps going down and down, and I heard those other footsteps coming after me. As I wound round and round. those steps wound round and round too. It seemed like a horrible dream. Where was I going, and what should I see at the bottom? It seemed a lifetime whilst I went down those steps, with those footsteps of someone, I knew not of whom, slowly but surely pursuing me.

‘I concluded at last that I must be far below the level of the house, and must be entering some dungeon underground. The air felt damp and cold, the steps were wet under my feet. The walls of the turret were slimy, like the sides of a well. I would have given worlds then not to have come, but there was no possibility of retreat, for those steps were behind me. At last I saw in front of me a bright light; I turned the last corner of the winding stair, and saw that it led into a small square chamber like a vault. On the floor was a glittering mass of, jewels, rings, gold chains, gold and silver cups and vases, beautifully carved images and crucifixes, besides piles of golden coins. Kneeling on the floor, with their backs turned to me, were two men, hastily packing all these sparkling things in a large sack. They did not see me, but I could see them distinctly. They were Clegg and De Jersey.’

‘I always told you they were up to mischief,’ said Forester. ‘I knew it. Now, Dick, do stop if it tires you.’

‘It doesn’t tire me. Well, I remember I was just on the point of speaking to them and asking them what they were doing, when suddenly I was struck down from behind. Those footsteps had come up to me, I suppose. I remember nothing more. Now, I know I must have fallen and cut my head open. I was so stunned, either by the blow or by the fall or by both, that I must have been unconscious for a long time after that. I cannot tell you what happened next. I do not know what they did with me, or how I got out of that place. All I know is that I never walked up that winding staircase; so I suppose they must have carried me up.’

The doctor felt Dick’s pulse, and when he found that he was not unduly exciting himself he allowed him to go on.

‘What do you remember next, Dick?’

‘I think the next thing I remember was finding myself quite alone, out of doors somewhere, lying on my back. I could feel, when I put out my hand, that I was lying on leaves or moss. I could not imagine how I had got there, but I looked up, and saw branches overhead, and a bright star shining through them.

‘Forester, I thought it was like God’s eye watching me, and I asked Him to take care of me. I could not lift my head up; I put my hand to it, and felt that it was bleeding, and I remember feeling awfully sick and dizzy. It took me a long time to remember what had happened, and when it came back to me I wondered if they had left me there to die.

‘But at last I heard voices, and I knew that they were coming. They seemed to be coming very slowly, and as they got near I found out that they were carrying something, for I heard them say it was an awful weight, and they wished that they had it there. Then they sat down under the tree close to me, and I kept my eyes tight shut, that they might not know I was listening, and that I might find out what they were up to. I did not dare to look at them, but I found out that there were three of them, Clegg, De Jersey, and another.’

‘Dan, I expect,’ said Forester.

‘Yes, it was Dan. I found that out afterwards, but I had never heard his voice, and therefore did not know him then. I think I can remember all that they said, for I listened very attentively. Clegg began by asking if the boat was down below, and the voice I did not know answered that he had her ready, and that old Treverton would open his eyes wide in the morning when he came to look for her. Then Clegg gave his orders to the other two. They were to carry their load down to the boat and then come back for me.

‘“Look at him, Dan,” he said; “has he got his eyes open?”

‘“Not yet; he’s fair stunned like. That was a rattling blow I gave him on his skull, the prying young imp! I only wish I’d finished him off while I was about it!”

‘“No, no, Dan,” said Clegg; “we don’t want to swing for it, mind you! I settled that with you before. Do what you like to him, but not that. Have you got the bottle?”

‘“The chloroform bottle? Ay! I’ve got it. It’s a mercy I brought it with me tonight. I had my suspicions he was prying after us. Now see what a good job it is I got hold of it. I had mighty hard work to get it too; I tried at a lot of places, and they wouldn’t let me have it, and then I got it just by luck, as you may say. My old mother’s cousin has a chemist’s shop, and I saw this ‘ere bottle on a shelf last time I was over there. Says I, ‘Dan, that may come in useful to you one of these days.’ So I puts it in my pocket, and here it is. Now I’m going to give this ‘ere spy a dose of it; that’s what I’m a-going to do. Sleeping dogs can’t tell no tales; that’s what I say.”

‘The next moment he threw a handkerchief over my head, Forester, and then I remember nothing more.’

‘Nothing more at all, Dick?’

‘Oh yes, I do remember more; but not what happened next, or for a long time after that. I think now that they must have done as they proposed, carried the treasure down to the boat first, and they come back for me. They had evidently moored the boat somewhere below the wood. Then I feel sure they rowed all round the promontory to the cove beyond.’

‘You mean where Dan’s cottage is?’

‘Yes, for when I became conscious again I found myself in that cottage.’

‘Were you in bed there?’

‘No, lying on a stone floor, in some kind of outhouse. I could see a brush in one corner, and some pieces of wood and a little coal. The door of this back place was left ajar, and I could see a light in the room beyond. The three men were in there, and I think they were drinking, for I heard the clink of glasses and smelt whisky.

‘Then I discovered that Clegg and De Jersey were going off almost immediately, that a trap was waiting for them at the door. I think they were disguising themselves, for they were laughing at each other, and Clegg told De Jersey that he made a first-rate old woman. I gathered that they were taking the jewels I had seen with them; but I also discovered that, from some hiding place in the cottage, numbers of other parcels were being brought out.

‘They had evidently been at work at the Castle for some time, and had found the hidden jewels by degrees, and then had carried them as they found them to Dan’s cottage, making him give them a receipt for each bundle. I could hear them checking off these receipts, and counting everything in each parcel. They made a great row about a crucifix which was missing, and at last Dan brought it from somewhere, and said it had been found on the floor after they had gone.

‘After this there was a great wrangling about money. Dan wanted more than they had bargained with him For. He said it was a risky job, and he ought to be well paid, and at last they agreed to give him fifty pounds extra. But there was one thing that they insisted upon, and that was that he should stop where he was till Tuesday night, so as to give them time to get off abroad with their jewels.

‘“Some idiot may have seen us together,” said Clegg, “and then they’ll come straight down here; and if they find that young shaver lying in there, it’ll be all up with our game. So you’ve got to stick here, Dan, till tomorrow night, and let no one come in. They won’t offer to, if you keep on guard.”

‘“I don’t see the fun of that,” said Dan. “You two goes off with your jewels, and then what will the Castle folks do? Why, get the bobbies down, and a warrant with them, and they’ll walk in and search the place, and then it’s me that’s got to be made a convick of, and it’s you that gets off scot free.”

‘“Now look here,” said Clegg, “you’ll be all right, if you’ll only do as I tell you. We’ve turned old Treverton’s boat bottom up, and sent it out with the tide, and we’ve fastened this lad’s tie on it. They’ll find the boat, and they’ll be so busy looking for his body that they won’t have time to trouble you. Do you see?”

‘“Well,” he said at last, “make it another fifty pounds, and I’ll stay.”

‘They swore and they quarreled for ever so long over that, but at last they gave in. They paid him his money, and then they asked him what he should do with me. You can fancy how I listened then, Forester. He told them he had got his chloroform bottle, and he didn’t want them to teach him; he knew what to do.

‘Soon after this I heard them drive away, and presently that wretch Dan came to get coal, and kicked the on the head with his boot as he passed by. I was awfully sick, and my head was terribly bad, and soon after I became unconscious again; I must have done, because I can’t remember anything of that day or the next. You are sure it was Tuesday night that you found me outside your tent?’

‘Quite sure, Dick; Wednesday morning rather, for it was two o’clock.’

‘I fancy he must have kept me under the influence of chloroform more or less the whole time, and that he gave me a good dose of it just before he started. Whether he stopped as long as he promised them, I don’t know; when I came to myself it was quite Clark and all was very still. I did not dare to move for a long time; I was afraid Dan might be asleep in the next room, and it would wake him. But, as time went on, I thought I would venture to creep to the door and peep in; but I could see nothing, for there was not a ray of light. I felt so faint I thought I should fall, but I steadied myself against the doorpost, and then I felt for my pocket, for I knew I had a box of matches there. But I found, Forester, that my coat was gone, and that I had nothing on but an old shirt.

‘Then I guessed that Dan was gone also, and that he had taken away my clothes whilst I was unconscious from chloroform. I was not so frightened then, but made my way to a chair, and sat down for a time, till I was better and less faint. Then I felt about on the table, and to my great joy found a box of matches. I struck one or two, and by their light I found his old trousers, which he had left on the couch. I put them on, horrid dirty old things.’

‘I’ve had great pleasure in making a bonfire of them, Dick,’ said the doctor.

‘Well, his boots were there too, and I put my feet in them, but they were much too heavy for me, so I settled to come barefoot. The rascal had evidently taken my boots as well as my clothes; I’m sure I don’t know how he got them on, but they always tell me I’ve got rather big feet.’

‘Well, Dick, what did you do then?’

‘Set out for home; but I never thought I should get there alive. I fainted several times, and my feet were sore and bleeding, and I felt worse than I’ve ever felt in my life. When I got to the heather I lay a long time in a dead faint, and then when I came to myself I prayed God to help me to get just as far as your tent.’

‘And He did help you, Dick!’

‘Yes, He did help me; and oh! Forester, you have been good to me.’

‘Not at all, dear old man, not at all. Now that’s the very last word I shall allow you to speak! Here’s Val coming with your beef-tea; and remember what you have got to do is to forget all about what you’ve told me, and try to get well as soon as you can. Look! Joyce is coming too with the dogs. Now I will leave her and Val in charge of you, and go for a run.’

Chapter 18: The Secret Drawer

THE doctor felt that no time ought to be lost, if those three men, who had so shamefully treated poor Dick, were to be brought to justice. He did not even stop to tell Mr. Sinclair what he had heard, but went down to the village at once, that he might wire to the police station at Llantrug.

Needless to say, the matter was taken up immediately; most diligent and persistent enquiries were made, clever detectives were called in, and endeavored to get upon the track of Clegg and his assistants; but, unfortunately, so much time had been lost that the thieves had been able to escape with their plunder from the country, and no trace of their movements could be discovered.

The doctor was most anxious that Dick should not be allowed to dwell upon what had happened. He saw that he had received a great shock to his system, and that, if he were to recover his usual health and spirits, they must make every endeavor to prevent his thoughts constantly recurring to the painful events of those three terrible days.

But, without saying a single word to Dick of their intentions, Mr. Sinclair, Rupert, Val, and Forester determined to visit the loft and discover the entrance to the secret staircase. They went up together on the very day on which Dick told the doctor where he had been and what had happened to him.

They had no difficulty in finding the corner where the turret stood; but it was quite another matter to discover the way in which to open the trap door, through which they must pass in order to be able to get upon the winding steps. There was apparently no sign of it in that corner of the floor. They noticed that there were two short pieces of plank in the flooring, which appeared to have been joined to It longer planks running across the loft; but these seemed to be firmly fixed underneath the skirting board at the bottom of the wall of the room.

In this skirting board, however, they discovered a sliding panel, and when this had been pushed back, the two short boards could easily be removed from the floor, and the entrance to the staircase stood revealed. As they went down the narrow stone steps they realized what poor Dick must have felt, as he walked on and heard the footsteps following him.

At the bottom they came upon the underground chamber in which the treasure had been found. They could see the various holes and excavations which had been made by Clegg and his companions in the course of their search, and they agreed that Dick was quite right in imagining that the jewels had been discovered in different parts of this underground cell, and that they had taken several weeks in digging them up and carrying them away.

‘But,’ said Forester, as he was sitting that evening in his favorite place on the settle in the old kitchen, ‘we have not yet got to the bottom of the mystery. How on earth did those rascals know that this treasure was hidden in the Castle? And even if they did know that, how did they ever manage to discover in which part of the ruins it was to be found?’

They all agreed with the doctor that no solution of this difficulty had as yet come to light.

‘I think you must have told Clegg about that French ship, father,’ said Rupert, ‘when he was here in the spring, and when you took him round the Castle.’

‘Well, now I come to think of it,’ said the old man, ‘I believe I did. You see, he came with such a fair tongue, saying he was an antiquarian, and took so much interest in old places and old things, and he asked me so many questions about the Castle. Yes, Rupert, I believe I did tell him.’

‘Will you tell me?’ asked Don, who was sitting on the settle beside Forester. ‘I haven’t heard about this French ship.’

‘Well,’ said the old man, ‘it was in the days of old Sir John Mandeville, when he lived here in Hildick Castle. There was an awful storm one night, and this ship was wrecked just outside the bay.’

‘Where was it going?’

‘It was on its way to Scotland. James IV. was king then, the man that was killed on Flodden Field; you’ll remember about him, sir.’

‘Well,’ said Forester, ‘what was the ship going to Scotland for?’

‘It was this way, as far as I can make out, Our King Henry VII. had got his daughter married to King James of Scotland, and it seemed as if the two countries were going to be the best of friends. But Henry was a good fighter, and he picked up a quarrel with France, and he talked of going across the Channel to see if he couldn’t conquer France, as some of our other kings had done. The King of France, of course, was very mad with him and made up his mind to stop him, and he thought if he could only persuade the Scotch to join with him, and to come across the Border and attack the North of England, then Henry would have to keep at home and fight Scotland instead of France.’

‘Not a bad idea!’ said Don.

‘No; but the difficulty was that James’ wife was sister to King Henry. So the King of France puzzled how it would be possible to get him over to his side and make him help him. Well, he found out that the Scotch king was very poor. He had lived a merry life, and spent a fortune over his wedding; his father had left him a good hoard, but he had spent every farthing of it, and now he was very hard up, and when a man’s hard up, why, he’ll do almost anything! That King of France knew his man, and he felt sure that if he could only fill up King James’ treasury, why, then he could make him do just what he wanted! The big men in Scotland too, the lords and all the great folk, were as poor as church mice, so he packed up a lot of presents for them all, jewels and gold and silver, and all the rest of it. He didn’t like to send his ship, with these things on board, down the Channel, for he thought Henry might get wind of it, and seize it, so he sent it up our way, along the Irish sea to Glasgow.’

‘But it never got there after all?’

‘No; it was wrecked on the way, and most of the treasure went down in the storm. What was washed ashore old Sir John seized and brought up to the Castle here, and nobody knew what became of it after, or what he did with it.’

‘I suppose he had that underground chamber made for it,’ said Forester.

‘I suppose so, sir. They were wild days then, and no man’s property was safe, and Sir Harry D’Arcy had an eye on the treasure, and tried hard to get it. So old Sir John hid it, and soon after that he died, and in his son’s time the family moved away from Hildick Castle, and went to another estate grander than this, that King Henry VIII. gave them, and we Norrises came to live here, in this part of the old house.’

‘It’s a wonder they didn’t take the treasure with them,’ said Don.

‘It is a wonder, sir; but perhaps they did not know where it was. Old Sir John was a close and secret man, and the son was only young when he died. Anyhow the secret seems to have died out, and I’m quite sure my father and my grandfather never had the least idea that the treasure was still in the Castle, and I’m quite sure I hadn’t.’

‘Nor I,’ said Rupert; ‘it would have been found long ago, if I had got wind of it,’

‘Then how in the world did Clegg get to know it was here?’ said Forester; ‘and how, knowing this, did he manage to discover the curious place in which it was hidden?’

Those were questions which none of them could answer. Many years went by before that part of the mystery was solved. Old Mr. Norris had passed away, and Rupert’s children were growing up to manhood and womanhood, before any explanation was found of what had so much puzzled them. The solution came in the form of a letter addressed as follows:

MT. RUPERT NORRIS,

Hildick Castle,

Nr. Llantrug

Wales.

It was written on foreign paper, and the postmark upon it was that of Kimberley, South Africa. The letter was from a lawyer in Kimberley, who wrote to inform Rupert that, a few weeks before, he had made the will of a man who went by the name of Joseph Carrington. This man had since died, and now it was the lawyer’s duty to inform Rupert Norris, of Hildick Castle, that the said Joseph Carrington had bequeathed to him the whole of his personal estate, amounting to several thousand pounds.

Rupert was utterly astonished, for he had never even heard of a man of the name of Joseph Carrington; but when the lawyer’s letter went on to inform him that he had known the testator by the name of Clegg, and that the will had been made in his favor as a reparation for the inconvenience caused by him on the night of 31st August, fourteen years before, Rupert began to understand the reason of his unexpected legacy.

The lawyer enclosed a sealed envelope, which Clegg had requested him to forward to Rupert Norris after his death, and which, he had told the lawyer, would give Mr. Norris information which he might be interested to receive. Of what nature this information was, the testator had not disclosed to the lawyer, and he forwarded the envelope just as he had received it from Carrington.

When he had finished this letter, and had found out how much money had been left to him, and what steps he must take to become possessed of it, Rupert took up the enclosure and opened the sealed letter. Inside he found two papers. One of these was a statement written by Clegg, to the effect that his curiosity had been excited by Mr. Norris’ account of the shipwreck and of the treasure brought by Sir John to the Castle.

Then, soon after, he had bought, in one of the cottages on the Garroch, an old oak bureau. The woman who sold it to him said that she believed it was hundreds of years old, and that it had once been in Hildick Castle. She told him that her great-grandfather had bought it at a sale. He said that he took this bureau away with him, and paid the woman a five-pound note for it. When he reached home he examined it carefully; he was fond of old pieces of furniture, and he had a craze for hunting in them for secret drawers or other hiding-places.

At first it seemed as if this bureau would not prove to contain any private receptacle; but one day, to his great delight, he discovered one quite by chance It had evidently been unopened for years; no one had touched the spring since the days of old Sir John Manderville. He enclosed the paper which he found in the secret drawer, that Rupert might see how he had been guided in his search for the treasure. The paper referred to was yellow with age, and was torn in several places.

Rupert spread it out before him, and after puzzling for a long time over the old English in which it was written, he was able to read the following words:

To MY DEARE SONNE FOR GUIDANCE.

Would’st thou ye treasure find?

Do thou descend;

Lower, and lower still,

Then downward bend!

Search thou by day and night,

Till thou hast brought to light

Twelve heaps of jewels bright;

That is the end!

After reading this paper, it was easy for Rupert to see why Clegg, when he had carefully explored every nook and cranny of the Castle, came to the conclusion that none of the steps he had already seen were the ones which the writer of the paper urged his son to descend. He seems accordingly to have hunted about until he found some place where a secret staircase might have been made; and the turret had evidently appeared to him to be just the place for which he was looking. How he had discovered the way to lift the trapdoor they never knew; probably his previous experience in opening secret drawers had greatly assisted him in his search. Anyhow, he had somehow or other found out the sliding panel, and had managed to lift the door and to get upon the spiral staircase, and then, with the directions in his hand, all was easy.

He knew exactly in how many different portions he should unearth the treasure. As each of these came to light, he and De Jersey had removed what they found to Dan’s cottage. They had evidently been bringing one of these bundles to the cove on the night when Forester stayed with the dying man.

Dan never knew when they would come, for he could not tell how soon the next portion of the treasure would be discovered. He had been very reluctant to go for the doctor whilst Forester remained with his father, lest Clegg and De Jersey should arrive in his absence, bringing more treasure to the cottage; but he had been compelled at last to depart, and had gone trusting that no discovery would be made that night. Clegg, happily for himself, had left the bundle with De Jersey under the hedge outside, so that the doctor saw nothing of it when he opened the door.

So ended the story of the Hildick Castle treasure; but the old paper, with the writing upon it in ink which was fast fading away, was carefully preserved by Rupert as an interesting curiosity, and will be handed down as a family heirloom to generations yet unborn.

Chapter 19: What Do You Advise?

DICK soon recovered from the effects of his terrible adventure, and in a short time was able to return to the Castle, and to take his part in all that was going on. Now the doctor felt that the time had come for him to return to London. The cause for his delay was gone, and the sooner he put miles of distance between himself and Doris, the better it would be for him. He would go to the post office and send a telegram to his housekeeper; he would also order his cab, and the next morning he and Maxie would take the tent down.

On his way down the hill he called at the Castle for his letters as usual. Joyce ran to meet him, holding out her hand.

‘Two letters for you, Dr. Forester,’ she called out; ‘aren’t you lucky this morning?’

He took them from her, and opened them as he went down the hill. The first was in the illiterate handwriting of his old housekeeper. It told him that she had just received very bad news; her eldest son was dying in Newcastle, and was very anxious to see her again. As there was no time to ask the doctor about it, she had started at once for the North; she had locked up the flat, and told the policeman to keep an eye upon it; she hoped it would not put her master to inconvenience, but Dr. Fraser had told her that he did not expect Dr. Forester back for some time yet.

The second letter was from his partner, the Dr. Fraser whom Mrs. Timmis had named. He also mentioned the housekeeper’s departure, and at the same time urged him to stay at least another fortnight away. There was nothing in the world to do, Dr. Fraser assured him; nearly everyone was out of town, and those who were not away were quite well, and did not need looking after, so what could be the object of his returning? He reminded Forester how good he had been in relieving him, and doing all the work single-handed for three months in the spring, whilst he was recruiting in the Riviera after his illness; and he told him he was sure that a longer holiday was necessary after the shock and trouble he had experienced just before he left home.

‘You have borne it like a man, Forester,’ he said; ‘but these things take out of one; and remember we may have a hard winter before us.’

After receiving this kind letter, and after hearing of his housekeeper’s absence, Forester hardly knew what to do. He thought perhaps his best plan would be to pack up his tent and send it away, and then to go for a walking tour in North Wales. He had been there once when he was a boy, and he would like to see it again.

On his way down to the shore he met Don, in the best of spirits, as usual.

‘Isn’t it jolly that everyone’s well again, and that we’re going to have a ripping time to end up with?’

‘Yes, I hope you will, Don.’

‘And you too, Norman.’

‘Well, no; I’m thinking of ending my holiday in North Wales.’

‘Never!’ said Don. ‘Come, Norman, you couldn’t be such a brute as to leave us now. You couldn’t, you know; and we’ve got all sorts of picnics in the wind; we’re going to have an Ai time this next fortnight. Jack will be very mad with you, I know, when he hears.’

‘Where is Jack?’

‘Oh, he’s off to Llantrug; didn’t you know? His girl is coming this evening, and he’s gone to meet her.’

‘His girl? What do you mean, Don?’

‘Why, the girl he’s engaged to; he said he told you about it. It was to be a secret, and no one to know, and all that rubbish; but the old father is working round by degrees. He has been rather a stiff old fellow to deal with, but he has actually given leave for her to come here and stay with Doris.’

‘With Doris? With Miss Somerville, do you mean?’

‘Yes, of course. You see, they’re old friends; they were at school together, and very thick, you know. That’s how Jack got to know this girl; he met her first at their house, a long time ago—four or five years, I should think, when she was quite young, sixteen or seventeen, something like Dolly, with her hair only just up. Well, he was very much smitten with her then, and when he went to work in Manchester, lo, and behold, he found she was living close by, in the next parish, I believe, and of course after that they saw each other almost every day.’

‘But I thought you told me, Don, that Jack had always admired your cousin, Miss Somerville?’

‘Did I? Oh yes, I remember, that picnic day. Well, he has always liked her, and they’ve been great friends ever since they were children; I told you about that photo, didn’t I? And I thought, well, we all thought, that perhaps it would end in his liking her in a different sort of way. You see, we knew nothing about this girl in Manchester; he kept it very close, only told us he had met a friend of Doris’, and so on. We never had the least idea of what was going on. Doris knew, though; she has known all along, and it’s Doris that has made it come all right now.’

‘How?’ Forester asked.

‘Well, you see, Miss Leslie always wrote to Doris they’ve been almost like sisters, they go to stay with each other every year for a month at a time. Soon after we got here, Doris got a letter from this poor girl saying how unhappy she was, and how she loved Jack, and how her father would not let her speak to him nor write to him; but she sent him her love in Doris’ letter, and she said she thought if he would write once more to her father, and would tell him that he would be patient, and would not want to get married till he had a living, perhaps her father would come round. So Doris told Jack, and he wrote, and the day of the picnic he got an answer. That was why he kept Doris behind; he wanted to read the letter to her; he knew how glad she would be. And then in the afternoon they were talking it over in the wood when we thought they were in the Castle; and then Doris said she would write and ask Miss Leslie to come and stay with her here. Wasn’t it good? Mr. Leslie knew that Jack was taking the duty here, so we were afraid he would say no; but a letter came a few days after to say she might come for the last fortnight, and Jack has been so excited about it he’s nearly been off his head! Dear old chap, I’m awfully glad for him.’

Forester felt like a man who has just waked up from a bad dream. Was it possible that he was free to let Doris know of his love for her? But, no, it could not be; Don must have made some mistake. Surely Jack had himself told him that it was Doris whom he loved.

‘Don,’ he said, ‘I can’t make this out at all. Jack most certainly told me, that night he walked up the hill with me, that he was engaged to Doris.’

‘So he is!’ cried Don; ‘so he is! But not to our Doris, but to Doris Leslie. Isn’t it funny the two friends should have the same name, and not such a common name, either?’

Forester did not answer; his heart was beating too quickly for him to be able to speak, and he felt as if his voice would not be as steady as he would like it to be.

But he made up his mind that a walking tour in North Wales would not be the most desirable way of ending his holiday, and he did not call on Maxie that morning, or make any arrangement for dispatching his tent the following day.

Yet, although the relief was great which the doctor experienced when he discovered that he might love Doris without any feeling of treachery to his old friend Jack, he, at the same time, had very little hope that his love would be returned. She had known him for such a short time, and it was not everyone that loved at first sight almost, as he had done. Then she had seen him at his very worst, moody, depressed, unsociable, and altogether disagreeable and unlovable.

Forester had an extremely low opinion of himself; he knew his own faults and failings and weaknesses and he, at the same time, underrated his own abilities and the better parts of his character. Was it likely that a girl like Doris would ever care for him? No, it was not likely; and he ought not to give her the pain of refusing him. He shrank from giving anyone pain; he would go anywhere and do anything rather than go where he was not wanted, or do that which would bring trouble upon others. And he knew her well enough to know that, if she refused him, it would cause her pain; her eyes would be full of sympathy and sorrow. Why should he bring a shadow over her happy life?

Moreover, he felt, and felt very keenly, that he was heavily handicapped. He would have to tell her his past story; he would have to let her know that he had been within a fortnight of being married to another. How fickle she would think him. How she would despise him for so soon thinking of anyone else. How she would wonder that he could ask her to accept such secondhand affection. Very few girls would care to come to a home that had been got ready for someone else, or to take a love which had been thrown aside by another as utterly worthless.

And she would never know—he would never be able to explain to her the truth as it really was; he would never make her see that his feelings for her were utterly and entirely different from any he had ever felt before, that he had not known what real love was until he met her. She would never believe, she would never understand; how could she? No, the longer he thought of it, the more he felt that his love for her was hopeless. It was not Jack now that stood in his way, it was his own utter unworthiness.

Forester wondered at himself that he had ever dreamt it barely possible that she might return his love. She had spoken kindly to him, but she had done that to everyone. She had been sorry for him out of the sweet unselfishness of her heart; but she had never done or said anything which was any proof that she loved him. Of what utter folly he had been guilty when he had imagined that it was Jack who came between them! Jack had nothing whatever to do with it. Jack was engaged to someone else and yet Doris Somerville was as far removed from him as ever.

He could not go down to the shore that day; he would go back to his tent, and try to argue himself into a reasonable view of things.

However, the next morning, Jack came up the hill bringing, Doris Leslie with him, that he might introduce her to his friend. She was a bonny, bright girl, with a sweet face and a dimple in her rosy cheek. but to the doctor’s mind she would not bear comparison with Doris Somerville. How could Jack be so blind, he wondered.

After they had left him, Forester watched them wandering over the moorland together, happy in each other’s presence. Well, he was glad his dear old friend had a bright life before him!

The doctor felt restless that morning; he was tired of sitting at his tent door smoking like an old Bedouin Arab, as he had done the greater part of the day before. He would walk to the end of the promontory, he said to himself, and get down upon the shore and watch the waves.

How lovely everything looked that morning!

Autumn, with her artist hand, was coloring the bracken on the hillside with every gorgeous tint imaginable. The long streamers of the brambles were decked in their most flaunting colors. The heather was dead and brown, but the ling was still in flower. And what was that? Actually a piece of white heather, still growing under the shelter of the furze bush! Why did he stoop to gather it? Why did he slip it in his pocket? It could never be of the slightest use to him. He had better have left it to grow under the furze bush.

He climbed down the steep, rugged path that led to the shore; he threaded his way between great masses of rock and huge boulders that seemed to have been hurled there by some giant hand. Then he came out upon a stretch of pebbly beach, broken here and there by grey slabs of rock. There was the view which Doris had drawn, looking its very best as he came upon it, the coloring more vivid than ever. And there was Doris, sitting on the rock in her old place finishing her picture. He surely did not guess she would be there, or he would never have come that way. But as she was there, what more natural than that he should sit down beside her to watch the finishing touches being inserted; or that, finding himself in the old place and finding her at the old occupation, they should gradually slip back again into the old familiar companionship that they had enjoyed, before the shadow of Jack’s supposed love came between them?

So an hour passed away in pleasant talk of many things, and then he suddenly said—

‘Miss Somerville, I’m going to ask your advice.’

‘My advice?’ she repeated.

‘Yes, about a friend of mine. He wants to know what he ought to do in a certain matter, and I thought you would perhaps help me to answer him.’

‘What kind of matter?’

‘Well, rather a private matter; he does not want everyone to know about it, but I am sure I may ask you. My friend—'

‘Perhaps you had rather I did not know his name,’ she said. ‘I quite understand.’

‘Well, I’m sure he would not mind; his name is Stewart, and he’s in great difficulties just now.’

‘About money?’

‘No, not about money; he has a very good practice.’

‘He is a doctor, then?’

‘Yes, a doctor, like—like I am.’

‘I understand,’ she said; ‘and this friend (Dr. Stewart I think you said), is in some difficulty?’

‘Yes, he doesn’t know how he ought to act, and I don’t quite know how to advise him; do you see?’

‘Yes, so far; but what is his difficulty?’

‘May I tell you his story, Miss Somerville, and then I think you will be better able to understand. He was born in a little village in the West of England. His father had been the doctor of the place, and he died when Stewart was only a boy. He was very little away from home, for there was a Grammar School in a town three miles off which he attended, and he used to cycle there and back every day. His mother was a good woman, but she spoilt him a bit; he was her only child and she thought no one was like him.’

‘Is she alive?’

‘No, she died last year.’

Forester’s voice was not very steady when he said this.

‘You knew her?’ said Doris, in sympathetic tones.

‘Yes, I knew her; she was a good friend to me. It was not a large village, and beyond the parson’s and the lawyer’s there were no big houses. The parson was an old bachelor, taken up with his books and his sermons, and my friend saw very little of him. The lawyer was a wealthy man, who had retired from practice and lived in a large house just beyond the village. He was a kind of squire of the place; his name was Pargiter.’

‘Had he any family?’

‘Yes, he had one daughter; her mother was dead, but an aunt lived there and brought her up; her name was Letty.’

‘Letty?’

‘Yes, her proper name was Lettice, but we—they called her Letty.’

‘You knew her then?’

‘Yes, I knew her; I went there sometimes. Well, these two children played together from their earliest years; sometimes they agreed; sometimes they quarreled, and then after a time made it up again. They were fond of each other, just as any brother and sister might be They were companions, you see, and had no one else, so that they had to make the best of each other. When Stewart had a holiday from school he spent it with Letty, and they cycled together, and played cricket and tennis together, and alternately pleased and teased each other. That was all right, you see, as long as they were children; but time went on, and Stewart went to a medical college and was working up for his different exams. He did not go home for a long time, and when he did go, Letty was abroad; her father had sent her to a finishing school in Paris. He did not see her again till two years ago.’

‘And then?’

‘Well, then they were both grown-up, and they had seen more of the world, and it was rather different.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, Stewart wanted to take up the friendship on the old lines, just where they had left off, as it were; but it wasn’t very easy to do that.’

‘What was she like?’

‘Very beautiful; her hair was really golden; you don’t often see golden hair, do you? And her eyes were a lovely blue, more violet than blue, I think.’

‘And your friend fell in love with her?’ Doris said. She was bending over her picture now, putting in the foreground, but her hand trembled a little, he noticed.

‘No, he didn’t fall in love with her. He liked her, and he admired her hair and her eyes; but she was not his ideal by any means. She was too cold and calculating, and sometimes he thought her rather selfish. Still, she was the nicest girl he knew, and he thought it was Paris that had spoilt her, and that she would be different when she had been at home for a time.’

‘Was she?’

‘He thought she was, and she seemed very fond of him, and when he was at home he saw a great deal of her. But I don’t think he meant things to go any further, at least not at present.’

Forester stopped.

‘Yes?’ said Doris presently. ‘Will you tell me the rest?’

‘Well, it’s rather hard to tell; to make you understand just how it was. Her father interfered. He wanted her to get married, and he thought Stewart would be a good match for her. So he asked him what he meant by paying so much attention to Letty, and he told him that he thought, after he had gone so far, they ought to be engaged.’

Doris had stopped painting, though she was still bending over her picture. At last she said, as if with an effort, ‘Do go on.’

‘There isn’t much more. Stewart went and made a fool of himself.’

‘They were engaged?’

‘Yes, they were engaged, and were to be married in six months. He got the home ready, and bought the furniture, and the presents began to come in; but she told him that, before she was married, she wanted to go to stay with some friends of hers in Paris. He thought it was a funny time to go away, and he said so; but she told him, in her wilful way, that she had not long now to please herself, and she should do as she liked till she was married. Her father seemed rather annoyed with her, but she got her own way, as she generally did.’

‘Was she away long?’

‘Yes, some time. Stewart kept writing to her to urge her to come home. He wanted to consult her about things in the house and the different arrangements for the wedding, but she put off her return from time to time. She told him she was getting her trousseau and her wedding dress in Paris, and could buy much prettier things there than in England. He got very few letters from her, and they seemed to get shorter and shorter, and then they ceased altogether. He wrote and wrote, but no answer came for ten days or more. It was getting close upon the day fixed for their wedding; in about a fortnight she would be his wife. He wrote once more, a very strong letter, urging her again to come home, and asking what she meant by not answering his letters. And then—’

Forester stopped a minute as if he found it hard to go on.

‘Yes?’ said Doris gently.

‘Then he got a letter telling him she was not coming home, for she was engaged to a French Count, and was to be married to him the following month. She told him she had never really cared for him, and she would only have made him miserable, so he ought to be very grateful to her for breaking it off.’

‘It was dreadful!’ said Doris, almost in a whisper.

‘Yes, so he thought—then; and she sent back all his letters and presents, and said he must not write to her again, as Count D’Enville would object to it. He didn’t want to write to her again, as you can imagine.’

‘What did her father say?’

‘Oh! he was very angry, of course, and declared he knew nothing at all about it. Whether he did or not I really can’t say.’

Doris was not even pretending to paint now; she was looking away from Forester and over the sea; but he noticed, as he turned to her for a moment, that she had tears in her eyes.

‘Shall I go on?’

She did not answer.

‘Shall I go on, or had you rather not hear any more?’

‘I should like to hear,’ she said, in a low voice, ‘Well, then, I will go on. He had a terrible time. He knew then what a fool he had been, and he determined to forget the past if he could. But it wasn’t easy to do that; everything in the house reminded him of it, and he thought he would get away. So he went—Well, never mind where he went, but he got right away from it all. And then—Miss Somerville—Doris; shall I go on?’

She did not answer this time even by a whisper: but covered her face with her hand, that he might not see the tears.

‘Then,’ said the doctor, ‘he suddenly found his ideal; he suddenly discovered what love was, real love I mean; he knew now that he had never loved Letty; he had been fond of her in a way; he had admired her, but he had never really loved her. But now he did love; he loved so much and so deeply that he knew that, if she did not care for him, he would never, all his life, love anyone else. She was the one he had dreamed of and pictured to himself as the wife he would like to have, and he marveled that he had been such a fool as even to imagine that he cared for Letty.’

Again a long pause.

‘Shall I go on?’

Again she did not answer, so Forester went on without leave, this time in the present tense.

‘But he has no reason to think she loves him; she is very sorry for him; she gives him kind, helpful words of sympathy, but he has seen nothing in her to give him any real hope. And then he shrinks from telling her he loves her, because there is that story of the past to be explained. She will think him changeable and faithless; she will never be able to see how it really was. And so he is afraid she will have to tell him that she can have nothing to do with such a man as that. And he wants to know, he wants me to ask you, what you would advise him to do. Shall he go away, and never cross her path again? Or shall he try to tell her? What do you advise, Miss Somerville—Doris?’

She turned round. He could see the tears now; but he saw something else in her eyes, something he had never hoped to see there. She put her hand on his and she said—

‘I think he had better try to tell her. I think he has told her; hasn’t he?’

Chapter 20: Goodbye to Hildick

IT was a bright September morning. The air was clear and bracing, and the sunlight was falling on the woods with a lingering fondness, as if it would cheer the trees, the leaves of which were already beginning to show signs of decay, by reminding them of the bright sunlight of returning spring, when they would once more renew their youth and beauty.

The doctor stood at the door of his tent, and gazed at the lovely view from it with many feelings of regret for it was his last day at Hildick. He had had, fortnight of perfect enjoyment and happiness, such as he had never dreamt of before.

The picnics Don had planned had taken place, and had been as great a success as glorious weather and a merry party of friends could make them. Then there had been quiet walks with Doris over the hills and by the side of the waves. Each day he had learnt to love her better; each night he had thanked God with a full heart for giving him such a wonderful joy. The days had flown as on the wings of the wind, and now the golden time was over, and he must return to the prose of everyday life. Work was waiting for him, and he must go back to it with fresh vigor and energy.

The night before he and Doris had had their last walk on the shore, and had sat once more, side by side, on the rock from which she had painted her picture. That picture was finished now, and Forester was taking it back with him to London; it would always be one of the greatest treasures he possessed. He had exchanged it for the little bit of white heather, the last on the moorland, which had been of use after all, and which Doris had told him she should keep as long as she lived.

As they sat on the rock that last evening, she had asked him with a merry laugh whether he had any other friend who would be glad of her advice; she was quite ready to give it to him if he wished for it.

‘But, Norman, why did you call yourself Stewart?’ she asked.

‘Because it is my name; didn’t you know? It was my mother’s maiden name. So you see I was quite correct. Are you glad you gave poor Stewart the advice you did?’

Doris’ answer, whatever it was and however it was given, fully satisfied Forester. It was very wonderful to him that she loved him, but he had no doubt whatever about it, or that she was as thoroughly happy as he was.

There, where he had first told her of his love, they had sat together hand in hand, and had watched the stars come out over the sea.

And then they had walked back to Hildick, and had said their real goodbye. They knew they would meet again in the morning; but Doris and her father had to start early, to catch the morning train, and all would be hurry and bustle, and they would not have a moment to themselves.

The doctor was up early that morning. He was to be the last to depart, for he had to take down his tent, and therefore could not leave Llantrug until the evening. All the rest were going before nine o’clock, and he must hurry down the hill to see them off. As he passed the Castle, Joyce ran out to meet him with her dogs on the leash all ready for their journey.

‘Dr. Forester,’ she said, ‘we’re all ready, and the coach has come. I’m so sorry to go!’

He went into the Castle yard, and saw Val strapping up rugs and umbrellas on the grass, and Dick and Billy helping to lift the luggage into its place. It gave him a feeling of sadness to see the happy party breaking up.

Old Mr. Norris was leaning on his stick by the door, and Jemmy the lamb was standing by his side. The Sinclairs all came to speak to him and to thank him again for what he had done for Dick.

Then he hurried down the hill and helped and her father with their last preparations for the journey. They were sharing a waggonette with the Mainwarings, and it was already at the door. Jack and Doris Leslie were on the box seat, and he went to say goodbye to them. How quickly the parting was coming on! Now the luggage was in its place, now the driver was on the box, now Doris and Mr. Sinclair had taken their seats. One last pressure of the hand, one last long look into her eyes, the wheels began to move. They were off!

He ran ahead to the corner to see them pass; he climbed on the wall to wave to them. Don called to him that he was the last of the Mohicans, and told him he would have the shore all to himself. The waggonette was turning into the long white road across the marsh. Now he could see it clearly, now it was hidden by rising ground, now it was once more in sight. He climbed the sandhill for a better view. They were waving still; she could still see him. They had reached the long winding hill leading up from the bay. He could no longer catch sight of them. Yes, there was a break in the trees! He could catch another glimpse of the carriage. Did she see him? Surely that was her hand waving! Now they were gone he would see them no more.

But here was the lumbering of the coach; the Sinclairs were coming down the hill. They shouted a hearty goodbye as they passed. Joyce made the dogs wave their paws as they sat beside her. He watched again, and waved again, till they too were out of sight.

Now he was alone, the last of the merry party, and a feeling of loneliness crept over him. But he had no time to think of his loneliness, for he could see Maxie and the donkey nearly at the top of the hill. He must hasten back, to take down his tent and to pack up his belongings. It was easier to pull down than to put up, and the work was soon accomplished, the packages were corded, the tent pole and pegs were stowed away. He was going to the Castle for dinner, it had been a long promise that he should have his last meal with them in the ancient kitchen.

What a welcome they gave him, how brightly the pewter was shining on the dresser, how spotless was the sanded floor, how savory was the rabbit-stew prepared by Mary’s clever hands! The old man was full of regrets at his departure.

‘You’ll come again, doctor, I hope,’ he said, ‘and don’t be long about it, that I may be here to see you.’ Forester thanked them all for their goodness to him; he told them it was the happiest holiday he had ever spent in his life.

They all came with him to the door, even Jemmy the lamb was there to see him off. They stood watching him as he went down the hill. He looked back at the old Castle standing in the autumn sunlight. The ivy hanging from the walls seemed to him like green streamers waving goodbye to him. A white pigeon was sitting on the top of the turret; a number of swallows were flying out from the ruins; they were gathering for their journey southwards and were saying farewell to Hildick Castle. He must do the same, for his cab would soon be at the corner waiting for him.

He looked once more; and then he turned his back on the old ruin and ran down the hill.

Here he found he had half an hour to spare, for the horses required a longer rest after their fourteen miles run from Llantrug; the driver assured him they would be in plenty of time for the train.

He went down to the shore to pass the time. How desolate it all looked! There on the shingle were the blackened stones left by the bonfire. What a jolly supper that had been! There was an old hockey stick left behind on the sand, a memento of many an exciting game. There was the breakwater where, only yesterday afternoon, they had sat to watch the high tide rushing in over the rocks!

The shore was deserted now; the merry party was gone. The waves were bringing in the sea urchins, but no one was there to pick them up; the bathing place was empty, the rocks by the church were forsaken. Only the seagulls were there, and they were strutting about on the damp sand, rejoicing in having the shore to themselves.

Forester sat down to watch them, and he found himself on the very seat on which he had sat that first day at Hildick. It all came back to him now, he could recall exactly how he felt then, utterly discontented and miserable, sick of everything and of everybody. He remembered all that happened that day; he could see again Mr. Somerville’s face as he sat there reading the newspaper; he could see old Treverton in his boat on the bay; he could see himself taking up his half of the Standard, turning it over carelessly, not expecting to find anything of interest in it. He could see the names which caught his eye on the first page—

D’ENVILLE—PARGITER.

He remembered the pain it had given him as he read the announcement of her wedding. He had known it was to take place, he was quite prepared for that; but seeing it in black and white, in that copy of the Standard, had come upon him as a kind of shock, he hardly knew why. He had been glad to leave the shore that day, and climb the hill and get away from everybody.

Now he could look back upon that trouble, not only calmly and without a single pang, but gladly and with the deepest thankfulness. What would his life have been with Letty? From what misery had he been saved! And in the place of that worthless affection, what had God given him!

Forester looked up at the blue sky and gave thanks that he had ever come to Hildick. He marveled when he thought of all that he had found there. He had found that which the wisest of men calls ‘a good thing,’ namely, a true and loving wife. But he had found more, infinitely more; he had found his Guide.

Before, he was like a ship without a rudder, blown hither and thither by every wind, carried along first in one direction and then in another by every varying current, tossed about and almost shipwrecked in the waves of this troublesome world. Now, the Pilot had come on board; his Guide was there. He had no fear now of the winds or waves, of hidden rocks or adverse currents. His Pilot knew them all, and would steer him safely through.

The hymn they sang last Sunday in church was still ringing in his ears; he could still hear Doris’ sweet voice close beside him as she sang it—

‘Jesus, Saviour, pilot me

Over life’s tempestuous sea;

Unknown waves before me roll,

Hiding rock and treacherous shoal;

Chart and compass come from Thee

Jesus, Saviour, pilot me.’

He felt sure that prayer would be answered, and as he left the shore and turned his back on the bay, he could truthfully echo the words of the verse that Doris had finished for him—

‘And with my God to guide my way,

‘Tis equal joy to go or stay.’

THE END

Doctor Forester

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: The Garroch

Chapter 2: Amongst the Ruins

Chapter 3: An Old Friend

Chapter 4: Were They Footsteps?

Chapter 5: The Old Watch-Tower

Chapter 6: The Artist

Chapter 7: Sunday at Hildick

Chapter 8: A Midnight Visitor

Chapter 9: A Strange Night

Chapter 10: White Heather

Chapter 11: A Meeting Disturbed

Chapter 12: Who Chose the Hymn?

Chapter 13: Where Can He Be?

Chapter 14: Watching the Tide

Chapter 15: Who Shall Tell?

Chapter 16: At the Tent Door

Chapter 17: The Spiral Staircase

Chapter 18: The Secret Drawer

Chapter 19: What Do You Advise?

Chapter 20: Goodbye to Hildick