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On the following day he opened a banking account with a thousand pounds to his credit, and the day following that he handed his resignation in as secretary of Wheal Gregory Mine.
He walked homeward slowly in the glow of the evening's sun, taking a wide sweep round by the coast. The sky was almost cloudless, but the warmth was tempered by a cool breeze from the West. A pathway skirted the edge of the cliffs which was rarely used by anyone after sunset, for the cliffs were treacherous and a false step might mean instant death.
On one of the highest points he sat down on the spongy turf and looked westward. The sun was sinking in a lake of burnished gold. The sea was like glass mingled with fire. He could not help wondering if these bright days and glorious sunsets were an augury of his own future.
As yet no cloud dimmed the brightness of his vision, no thought of failure flung a shadow across his path. He was as confident of success as he was that the Atlantic was rolling at his feet. It was this confidence that had blinded his eyes to the moral obliquity of his contract with Felix Muller.
"If I fail," he had said, "you shall have my insurance money," and he had said it in the most light-hearted fashion, for he never suspected for a moment that he would fail.
Moreover, if he did fail the defeat would be so crushing that he was quite sure he would not want to live. And as he had lost the faith of his childhood, and death meant only an endless and a dreamless sleep, dying gave him no concern.
But there was one thing he had never considered, and that was the rights of the insurance company. He did not see that it was a felony he proposed in case of failure. The idea had never crossed his mind. He had laid stress on his honour in making his appeal to Muller, and he failed to see that in case his schemes came to nothing he was proposing an act of deliberate dishonesty. He would save his honour at the expense of his honesty.
It was not of failure, however, he thought, as he looked towards the sunset. The future was opening out before his imagination in widening vistas of success.
"I shall astonish everybody," he said to himself, a bright, eager smile spreading itself over his face. "Muller believes in me, but he has no idea how great my scheme is. I don't see the end of it myself, for one thing will lead to another. Oh! I shall have a crowded life; for one success will beget other successes, and so I shall go forward – never idle – till my day's work is done."
He was roused from his pleasant reverie by a light footstep near him, and looking round quickly he saw the fair stranger who had interested him on two previous occasions. She did not hesitate for a moment in her walk, but came briskly forward till she was directly opposite where he sat.
"Pardon me," she said, in a voice that was distinctly musical in spite of its unfamiliar accent, "but can you tell me if there is a path anywhere hereabouts leading down to the beach?"
He was on his feet in a moment, and raising his hat he said, with a smile, "The nearest point is down Penwith Cove; that is at least half a mile further on."
"And is the path easy?"
"Quite easy."
"Not dangerous at all?"
"Not a bit," he answered, with a smile.
"You will excuse me speaking, won't you?" she said, with a mirthful light in her eyes. "I'm not at all sure that it's a bit proper. Sir Charles has read me several lectures already about speaking to people I don't know, but if I only speak to people I know I shall never speak at all when I'm out of the house."
"You are a stranger in St. Gaved?" he questioned, nervously.
"I come from across the water," she answered, with delightful frankness. "I never saw your country till four days ago."
"And do you like it?" he questioned.
"Well, yes – up to a certain point. I shall get used to it in time, no doubt. But at present it seems a bit dull and slow."
"You've lived in a city, perhaps?" – he was astonished at his boldness, but her whole manner seemed to invite conversation.
"That's just it," she replied. "And after New York this place seems a trifle dull and quiet."
"I should think so," he said, with a laugh. "Why, even natives like myself find it almost insufferable at times."
"Then why do you stay here? Why don't you go right away where the pulse of life beats more quickly?"
"Ah! that question is not easy to answer," he said, looking out over the fire-flecked sea. "Our home is here, our work lies here. Beyond is a great unknown. Many have gone out and have never returned."
"Got lost, eh?" she questioned, with a musical laugh.
"Lost to us who have remained," he answered. "Some have prospered, I have no doubt. Some have failed, and died in obscurity and neglect. Better, perhaps, endure the ills we have than fly to others we know not of."
"Well, yes, I guess there's truth in that," she answered, raising frankly her soft brown eyes to his. "Yet there's always fascination in the unknown, don't you think so?"
"No doubt of it."
"That's the reason, I expect, why I'm just aching to explore these cliffs, and the caves of which Sir Charles says there's any number."
"That won't take you very long," he answered, "though it would hardly be safe for you to go alone."
"That's what Sir Charles says; but would you mind telling me just where the danger comes in?"
"Well, you see, the rocks are often slippery. And if you are not acquainted with the tides you might get caught."
"Ah! that would be interesting."
"Well, scarcely. Strangers have been caught and drowned before now."
"They could not swim?"
"It would take a very strong swimmer to clear St. Gaved Point and get into the harbour."
She turned her eyes in that direction and looked grave.
He studied her face a little more closely and allowed his eyes to wander over her graceful and well-knit figure. She was very simply dressed, without ornament of any kind. A large picture hat shaded her pale face. Her eyes were large and dark, her forehead broad, her nose straight, her lips full and red.
She caught him looking at her and he blushed a little. "I don't think I could swim that distance," she said, turning her eyes again in the direction of St. Gaved Point.
"I don't think you would be wise to attempt it." Then he blushed again, for she turned on him a swift and searching glance, while her lips parted in a smile that seemed to say, "I did not ask you for advice."
For a moment there was silence, then she said, "Do you know the sea has been calling me ever since I came."
"Calling you?" he questioned.
"Well, I mean it fascinates me, if you understand. I want to get close to it, to paddle in it. It is so beautiful. It looks so cool and friendly. Beryl says she cannot bear the sea; that it is not friendly a bit; that it is cruel and noisy, and treacherous."
"Ah! she has lived near the sea most of her life."
"And yet you can scarcely see it from the Hall."
"But it can be heard on stormy nights, and when a westerly gale is raging its voice is terrible."
"You have lived here all your life?" and her lips parted in the most innocent smile.
"Here, and in a neighbouring parish," he answered, frankly.
"And do you like the sea?"
"Sometimes. On an evening like this, for instance, I could sit for hours looking at it, and listening to the low murmur of the waves. But in the winter I rarely come out on the cliffs."
"I have never seen the sea real mad," she said, reflectively; "but I expect I shall if I stay here long enough."
"Do you expect to stay long?" he questioned. If she asked questions he did not see why he might not.
"Well, I guess I shall stay in England a good many months anyhow," she answered slowly, and with an unmistakable accent; and she turned away her eyes, and a faint wave of colour tinged her pale cheeks.
He would have liked to have asked her a good many other questions, but he felt he had gone far enough.
"I fear I shall have to go back now," she said at length, without looking at him, "or they'll all be wondering what has become of me."
"You could not easily get lost in a place like this," he said, with a laugh.
"No, nobody would kidnap me," she said, arching her eyebrows.
"No, I don't think so," he answered in a tone that was half-mirthful, half-serious.
She raised her eyes to his for a moment in a keen searching glance, then, with a hasty "Good evening," turned and walked away in the direction she had come.
He stood and watched her until she had passed over the brow of the hill in the direction of Trewinion Hall. Then he slowly resumed his journey towards St. Gaved.
That night he awoke from a dream with a feeling of horror tearing at his heart. He dreamed that his great scheme had proved a failure, and that Felix Muller stood over him demanding the immediate fulfilment of the contract.
So vivid had been the dream that, for the moment, he seemed powerless to shake off the impression. He sat up in bed, and stared round him, while a cold perspiration broke out in beads upon his brow.
For the first time he realised, in any clear and vivid sense, the nature of the compact he had entered into. The possibilities of failure had seemed so infinitely remote that he had never seriously tried to realise what failure would mean.
Now that awful contingency forced itself upon his heart and imagination in a way that seemed almost to paralyse him. It was as though some invisible but powerful hand had pushed him to the edge of a dark and awful precipice, and compelled him to look over. His knees shook under him, his head seemed to reel, he struggled to get back to safer ground.
The feeling of horror passed away after a few minutes, and he lay down again.
"Of course, I shall not fail," he said to himself. "The contingency is so remote that I need not give the matter a second thought."
And yet the impression of that dream was destined to remain with him in spite of all his efforts to shake it off.
CHAPTER III
THE VALUE OF A LIFE
During the next few weeks Rufus Sterne was kept so busy that he had very little time for either retrospect or anticipation. His great complaint was that the days were all too short for the work he wanted to crowd into them. He had told Felix Muller that six months would see his scheme well on its way to completion. But he had not been at work many weeks before he began to fear that twelve months would be much nearer the limit. Contractors were so slow, workmen were so careless, and accidents – none of them serious – were so numerous, that delays were inevitable, and the days grew into weeks unconsciously.
He maintained, however, a brave and hopeful spirit. Delays and disappointments were, no doubt, inevitable. No one ever carried out a great scheme without encountering a few disappointments. Later on, when victory was assured, they would seem as nothing, and would be quickly forgotten.
He saw no more of the beautiful stranger who had so much interested him. For several days he kept a sharp look out, and wondered if by any chance he would cross her path. Then he heard that Sir Charles and all his family had gone to London till the end of the season, and he assumed that she had gone to London with them.
He had had a second interview with Felix Muller, which had left an impression that was not altogether pleasant. Muller was in his most cynical and ungenerous mood. He had not a word of encouragement to give to his client. On the contrary, he appeared to take a delight in pricking Rufus with pointed and unpleasant suggestions.
"It is well, no doubt, to hope for the best," he said to Rufus; "but it is equally well to be prepared for the worst."
"I really think you would not trouble much if I should fail," Rufus said, in a tone of irritation.
"Then you do me an injustice," was the suave and tantalising answer. "If you were to fail I might have trouble in getting my own."
"You mean that I would back out of the contract at the last?"
"No, I don't mean any such thing. I know you are not only a man of honour, but a man of courage; but if you should bungle – "
"Look here, we need not go any further into details," Rufus said, impatiently. "My point is you are not a bit troubled about me as long as you get your money back."
"Oh, but I am! I would rather you prospered than that you failed, any day. Still, if in the order of chance you should fail – well – ," and he shrugged his shoulders, "It would be in the eternal order, that's all."
"You would not fret, of course?"
"My dear fellow, why should I? We must all pass out into the great silence sooner or later. And now, or next year, or next century for that matter, matters little. You and I have got beyond the region of sentiment in such things. Nature sets no value on human life. We take our place among the ants and flies, and the human is treated as remorselessly as the insect. The wind passeth over both, and they are gone."
"Yes, that is true enough," Rufus answered, looking out of the window.
"Besides," Muller went on, as if he read his thoughts, "in the business of life we are bound to take risks."
"You mean money risks?"
"Not only money risks. A man who drives to market, who explores a mine, who crosses the sea in the interests of commerce, who fights for his country, not only risks his property, but he risks his life."
"Not always intentionally."
"Well, not always, perhaps. But in the greatest and noblest enterprises, yes. And what is more, it is counted to a man an honour when he risks his life in a great cause. If you become a martyr for a great ideal I shall revere your memory."
Rufus winced, and looked uncomfortable. "I am not risking my life in the public interest," he said, "but in my own."
"It all amounts to the same thing," Muller said, cynically. "You are part of the public, and anything that benefits a part benefits, more or less, the whole. I am taking risks myself on the same chance of doing good."
"Doing good to whom?"
"To myself in the first place. Charity should always begin at home."
"And don't you think also that it should stop there?"
"Well, in the main, I do. I am no sentimentalist, as you very well know. Every man for himself is the first law of life."
"So while Nature sets no value on human life, you think that each individual should set great value on his own?"
"No, I don't. Everything depends on the individual, or on his circumstances. If a man thinks his life is worth preserving, well, let him preserve it by all means. But if he thinks it is worthless, why should he not let it slip?"
"There seems no particular reason," Rufus answered, reflectively.
"There's no reason at all," Muller went on, dogmatically, "while a man is doing something, something useful I mean, something that is of benefit to himself and to others, he ought to keep agoing as long as he can. But when he is a failure, when he becomes a burden to himself and his neighbours, it is cowardly to hang on, and why should anybody fret because he makes himself scarce?"
