Chapter 1

A STRANGE COMPACT

"Well, of all the hare-brained proposals I ever listened to, this takes
the bun"; and Felix Muller adjusted his pince-nez and lay back in his
chair and laughed softly.

"But why hare-brained?" asked his companion, seriously. "Singular, I
admit it may be; startling if you like, but I do not see that there is
anything in it to laugh at."

"You don't?" and the lawyer's face became suddenly grave. "Do you
realise what your proposal implies?"

"I think I do," and Rufus Sterne's face flushed slightly; "but you are
thinking of a contingency that will never arise."

"Perhaps I am; but every contingency must be guarded against," and Felix
Muller took off his glasses and wiped them meditatively. "You say you
are confident of success, and I am bound to admit, from what I know of
you and your scheme, I think your confidence is well founded. But you
know as well as I do, that nothing is certain in this world but death."

"Well?"

"You may fail. Something may happen you cannot foresee."

"I grant it, as a remote--an exceedingly remote--possibility. But in
such an event you will be covered by my life assurance policy."

"But you may live for another fifty years."

Rufus Sterne shook his head and smiled gravely.

"If I fail," he said, "I shall have no further use for life. You need be
under no apprehension on that score. The money for which my life is
insured will be paid into your hands without any unnecessary delay. I
know the company."

"But it would be a direct contravention of the law, and would entitle
the company to refuse----"

"My dear sir," Sterne interrupted, sharply, "there are many roads into
the land of oblivion. Exits can be arranged, if the parties so desire,
in a perfectly natural manner. You need not fear that trouble will arise
on that score."

"Nevertheless, I confess I do not like the proposal."

"You seem to have grown suddenly very squeamish," Sterne said, with a
slight curl of the lip. "I have always understood that you set no
particular value on human life. Indeed, I have heard you argue that a
man's life is his own to do as he likes with--to continue it or end it,
as seems good in his own eyes."

"I am still of the same opinion. No, I am no sentimentalist. The rubbish
talked by parsons and so-called humanitarians makes me ill. All the same
I would prefer that someone else----"

"There is no one else," Rufus Sterne broke in, irritably. "You are my
last hope. A thousand pounds now will lead me on to fame and fortune.
You have the money. You can lend it to me if you like, and for security
I make you my sole legatee."

"But the money is not mine, and must be paid back by the 31st of
December of next year without fail."

"That gives eighteen months and more," and Sterne laughed. "My dear
fellow, six months or a little more will see the thing through."

"I like to see a man confident," Felix Muller said, a little uneasily.
"But there is such a thing as over-confidence, as you know. I should be
better pleased if you were a little less cocksure."

"But man alive, I have been working at this thing for years. I have
tested every link in the chain, if you will allow me to say so. I have
faced every possible contingency. I have gone over the ground so often
that I know every inch of the way. I have anticipated every objection,
every weakness, every flaw, and have provided against it. All I want now
is a thousand pounds in hard cash, and in a year's time I shall be able
to repay it ten-fold."

"You hope so."

"I am sure of it; as far as a man can be sure of anything in this stupid
world. The more or less unpleasant contingency that you persist in
looking at will never occur."

"But it may occur," Muller persisted.

"Well, if it does you will not suffer; and I shall be glad to hide
myself and be at rest."

"You say that now."

"Do you doubt my courage or my honour?" Sterne demanded, sharply.

"No, I doubt neither," Muller said, slowly; "but the instinct of life is
strong--especially in the young."

"When a man has something to live for--some great purpose to achieve, or
some proud ambition to realise, he naturally wants to live. But take
away that something, and life is a squeezed orange which he is glad to
fling away."

"People still cling to life when they have nothing left to live for,"
Muller said, reflectively.

"Sentimentalists and cowards," Sterne broke in, hastily. "Men who have
been robbed of their courage by priestly superstitions. But you and I
have thrown off the swaddling clothes in which we were reared. Your
German philosophers have not reflected and written for nothing."

"I am an Englishman," Muller broke in, hastily.

"I do not dispute it for a moment," Sterne said, with a laugh. "But let
us not get away from the subject we have in hand. The question is will
you accommodate me or will you not?"

"If I do not you will curse me to-day," Muller said, with a drawl; "and
if I do, you may curse me more bitterly eighteen months hence. So it
seems to me it is a choice between two evils."

"There you are mistaken," Sterne replied. "I certainly shall curse you
if you refuse me, but if you become my friend to-day I shall never cease
to bless you."

"Not if you fail?"

"Why will you persist in harping on that one string? I shall not fail.
Failure is out of the reckoning. I am as certain of success as I am of
my own existence."

"'Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.'"

"Please, Muller, don't quote the Bible to me."

"It is sound philosophy wherever it is taken from. Besides, the Bible is
good literature."

"So is Dante's 'Inferno.' But if you were dosed with it morning, noon
and night, for the space of fifteen or twenty years, you would be glad
to have a little respite. But we are getting away again from the subject
in hand. Let's stick to the one point till we've done with it. If you've
made up your mind that you won't help me, say so."

"My dear fellow, all that I've been anxious to do is to enable you, if
possible, to realise all that such a contract implies."

"Well, if I didn't realise it before, I do now. You've been very
faithful."

"And you still wish to enter into the arrangement?"

"Of course I do. What do you take me for?"

"Remember, I am no sentimentalist, and whatever may happen to you, I
shall be compelled in the end to claim my bond."

Sterne laughed a little bitterly. "You do not mean to insult me, I know.
Nevertheless your words imply a doubt that I cannot help resenting. If
the worst comes to the worst, you will have no need to _claim_ your
bond. You will get your own back without effort, and with compound
interest."

"I have no desire to insult you, certainly. But equally am I desirous of
preventing any misunderstanding later on. In a business transaction of
this kind one cannot be too explicit. The time-limit I am compelled to
insist upon."

"It is quite ample," Sterne broke in, impatiently. "I shall know my fate
long before the end of next year."

"I hope you will succeed even beyond what you hope for."

"Let me tell you for the twentieth time that I am bound to succeed. When
shall I have the money?"

"The day after to-morrow."

"That will do. Now I am a happy man."

"I hope you will never have cause to regret the bargain."

"You shall not, in any case."

The lawyer smiled, and lowered his eyebrows. "From a professional point
of view," he said, reflectively, "it is not, of course, good business."

Sterne looked up suddenly. "I see what you mean," he said, after a
pause. "You are not covered against any failure of courage or honour on
my part?"

The lawyer nodded assent.

"I appreciate your trust in me," Sterne replied, with a touch of emotion
in his voice. "I do indeed. You are lending me the money without any
legal security."

"And the money is not mine," the lawyer added.

"I understand; and when the time comes you shall be rewarded," and
Sterne rose to his feet and picked up his bowler hat, which had been
lying on the floor.

The lawyer rose also, and held out his hand to his client. "The money
shall be ready for you the day after to-morrow." So they parted.

Rufus Sterne went out into the street feeling as though all the world
lay at his feet. No thought of failure crossed his mind. The thing he
had been working for for years was at last to be realised. His invention
would not only put money into his own pocket, but it would revolutionise
the chief industry of his native county, and find work for thousands of
willing hands.

In imagination he saw himself not only prosperous, but honoured and
respected and hailed as a public benefactor. He had a long walk over the
hills to the village in which he resided, but it seemed as nothing to
him that evening. His heart was beating high with hope, his eyes
sparkled with eager anticipation.

From the crest of the second hill the wide sweep of the Atlantic came
into view, and for several minutes he stood still, with bared head. He
had spent all his life in sight and sound of the sea, and he never tired
of it. Relatives, friends, acquaintances by the dozen, slept their last
sleep far out in its cool embrace. He had a feeling sometimes that he
would like, when his day's work was done, to pillow his head among the
seaweed and sleep for ever, while the waves sobbed and sang above him.

The sun was slowly sinking in a sea of molten gold. The window-panes of
the scattered farmhouses were flashing back the evening fire. From the
valley behind him came the bleating of lambs and the answering call of
the mother sheep, and with the cooling of the day a breeze stirred
faintly in the tree tops and through the hazel bushes.

He replaced his hat, and was about to continue his tramp when he was
arrested by the sound of carriage wheels behind him. A sharp bend in the
road hid the vehicle from sight, but he knew it would be on him in a
moment. So he stepped aside, as the road was narrow, and waited for it
to pass.

The horse came first into sight, and then the Squire's waggonette. Two
people sat on the front seat, the coachman and a lady. The back of the
vehicle was piled almost to the level of their heads with luggage. The
horse came on slowly, which gave Rufus Sterne an opportunity of scanning
the face of the lady.

"Evidently a stranger," was his first reflection. "Greatly taken with
the view of the sea," his second. After that his reflections were of a
very mixed character.

Two or three points, however, stood out in his mind with great
distinctness. The first was the lady was young--"not more than twenty if
she is a day," he reflected. The second was that she belonged to a type
he had never seen before. "She's not Cornish, that's certain," he said
to himself. "I question if she is English." The third was that she was
most becomingly dressed. Whether she was richly or expensively attired
he did not know. He had had no experience in such matters. But that her
dress became her there could be no doubt. The hat she wore might have
been designed by an artist for her alone. On some people's heads it
might look a fright, but on the head of this fair creature it was a
picture.

He stood so far back in the shadow of the hedge that she did not notice
him. Besides, her eyes were fixed on the distant sea, which flashed in
the sunset like burnished gold.

"Isn't it just too lovely for words?" Whether she addressed the
coachman, or whether she was speaking to herself, he did not know. But
her words fell very distinctly on his ear, and touched his heart with a
curious sense of kinship or sympathy.

"No; she's not English," he said to himself. "An Englishwoman never
speaks with an accent just like that. But wherever she comes from she's
the loveliest creature I ever saw. I wonder who she is?"

He came out into the middle of the road, and followed in the wake of the
vanishing vehicle. After a few minutes it disappeared completely, and he
did not see it again.

"I wonder who she is?" The question occurred to him several times as he
tramped steadily on in the direction of St. Gaved. It even pushed into
the background his recent interview with Felix Muller, and the strange
compact he had made.

The twilight was deepening rapidly by the time he reached the cottage in
which he rented two tiny rooms. A frugal supper was laid ready for him
on the table, but there was no one to give him welcome, no one to say
good-night when he retired to rest. Yet no feeling of loneliness or
friendlessness oppressed him. He felt that the day had been an eventful
one, and that a future of unmeasured possibilities was opening up before
him.