Chapter 6 FORGERY.

Before leaving London, Rupert, at Despard's suggestion, had applied for an order to go over the convict prisons at Princetown. It arrived the morning following the interview with Sir Reginald Crichton.

Perhaps because he had lived under the shadow of the prisons all his life, the idea of visiting them (as strangers and tourists from the cities often did) never occurred to him. The great granite building standing on the top of the hill above the West Dart, ugly, ominous, a blot on nature, man's menace to mankind, had never interested him or caused him to think for a moment of the unfortunate beings who were incarcerated there. It was just a landmark, almost part of the life of the moorlands. He knew that originally, in the days long past, French prisoners of war had been kept there, the men against whom his ancestors had fought. It was some time after the war was over and peace declared that it had been rebuilt and turned into a penal establishment.

Despard wanted to go over it for reasons Rupert could not understand; but he agreed to take him with just the same tolerance with which Despard himself might have shown the Tower of London or Madame Tussaud's to his sister Marjorie.

As a matter of fact, now that the order had come and Despard was anxious to make use of it at once, Rupert felt grateful. It served as an excuse to spend the day away from the farm-and the Crichton family. They made him feel, if not exactly guilty, at least ashamed of himself. He had passed a sleepless night, and during the long, silent hours he had examined his conscience and not found it as clean as it had been the last time he slept in that little room overlooking the valley of the Dart.

Life in London was complex: by his own actions he had made it more complicated, and by his ignorance of men and women and the ways of the world. It seemed as if he had never had time in the city to examine himself or to consider his actions, scarcely time to think.

The only rest for the worker in London is excitement. Down here on the moorlands it was good to be alone-if one had eyes to see, ears to hear, and a soul to understand nature.

In London loneliness was a terrible thing: loneliness of streets that had no end, of walls that could not be scaled, of windows through which one might gaze and find no perspective.

A lonely man in London was very like a convict in Dartmoor prison. For so many hours of the day he was let out to work; for the remainder he could eat or sleep or gaze at the great walls of his prison and listen to the footsteps of those who passed along the apparently unending corridors-the streets of his city.

Rupert had at first found relaxation in seeing London from the top of a penny omnibus, in attending football matches, and occasionally visiting the pits of theatres. And then, as he made friends music halls and card parties became the attraction, with occasionally a race meeting near London, followed, perhaps, by a "burst" at a "night club."

And the harder he studied to pass his examination the more insistently did his brain demand rest, and, failing rest, excitement. Without pausing to think he had fed it, pandered to desires sometimes unnatural, always unhealthy, and generally expensive.

The meeting with Ruby Strode had come too late. At first she appeared in the guise of another form of excitement. But slowly, as he realised her worth and his own stupidity, and discovered that he loved her, he put on the brake.

But debts had accumulated; though he gave up card parties and wine parties he found that friendship with an actress of the Ingenue Theatre was an expensive luxury. Falling in love made him reckless; and when he knew that it really was love, pride prevented him from telling Ruby the position of his affairs. He left her to find out for herself.

There was one advantage in this. It had proved the sincerity of her affection. She had not realised the seriousness of the situation until the fatal day when Rupert took her down to the races, and laughingly told her that his future life and happiness depended on the favourite winning the big race of the day.

That it meant her future life and happiness, too, perhaps had not occurred to him. Men are inclined to overlook the women's point of view in these matters. He did not think, and not until the race was over and he was back in his lodgings in Westminster did he realise the havoc he had wrought on other lives-his father's, his sister's, and the life of the woman he loved.

Then the miracle happened. He burnt his boats behind him and left London with a light heart, quite certain he would never make a fool of himself again.

And now Sir Reginald Crichton made him realise that his folly might pursue him for some little time. Rupert had made the mistake of thinking that by repentance he could wipe out the past.

The start was made for Princetown shortly after breakfast-for which meal Rupert put in a late appearance. He was afraid to face his father. At the same time a feeling of resentment had grown in his heart, quite unreasonably he knew.

He had hurt the old man, as sometimes he affectionately called him. He had disappointed him. Not one word of blame had escaped John Dale's lips. As yet he had not questioned Rupert as to the manner of his life in London or asked the reasons which had made him run into debt. But Rupert knew what he felt. It was written on the wrinkled, care-worn face. He had aged in the past twelve hours.

Rupert did his best to dismiss Ruby from his thoughts. If his father discovered that he was engaged to be married there would be further complications, and the barrier which had so suddenly risen between them would grow.

And there were other reasons why he did not want to think of her; reasons he would not admit to himself, and yet which continually intruded themselves in his brain.

Absurd fears; doubts; unwarrantable suspicions.

"To look at you, my dear fellow, one would think you were being hauled off to Princetown to do seven years penal servitude. For heaven's sake buck up and say something."

Despard spoke; they were swinging along the moorland road at a good pace, just dropping down the hill to the valley through which the little Cherry Brook rushes to join the Dart.

Marjorie laughed. She was accompanying them as far as the prison, and while they went over it she was going on into the town to do some marketing. She was wearing a short, workman-like little skirt and high lace boots. She carried her hat in her hand and the wind blew through her hair; the sunshine made it gleam like dull gold.

"I believe Rupert's bored," she said, "and he's already longing for the excitement and gaiety of London. You must find it awfully dull here, Mr. Despard. You don't look a bit like the type of man who would enjoy roughing it-for that's what I suppose you call living in a farmhouse on Dartmoor."

"I'm having the time of my life," Despard replied cheerfully. "I was wondering last night whether I could persuade you to take me as a permanent paying guest."

"Like the people who stay at the post office and the inn during the summer months? Do you know," she said, looking at him out of her beautiful grey eyes, "I always feel so sorry for those people; they look unhappy and never seem to have anything to do but to drive about in brakes or motor-cars, or, if the day's wet, wander about holding up an umbrella. If I had to choose between the two, I'd rather be a convict in the prisons than a paying guest."

Despard shrugged his shoulders. "Well, one never knows one's luck. What do you say, Rupert?"

Rupert started. He had not been listening to the conversation. "I can't imagine what pleasure you think you're going to get in looking at a lot of poor brutes, half of whom will probably never know freedom again: thieves, murderers, robbers, and heaven knows what else. The Zoological Gardens in London are depressing enough, heavens knows; this will be worse."

"Not a bit of it," Despard replied. "I believe they're awfully well looked after. Sort of glorified rest-cure. As I said just now, one never knows one's luck. You and I might find ourselves en route to Princetown one day, handcuffed between a couple of warders. I always like to be prepared for eventualities. I believe convicts are allowed to choose the work for which they are best adapted or find themselves suited, so keep your eyes open this morning, Rupert, and pick out the softest job."

They paused for a few moments on Cherry Brook bridge, gazed into the pool on the left and watched the trout sporting. The waters sang as they tumbled over the granite rocks and swirled beneath the bracken and heather which overhung the peat banks. In the distance a sheep bell tinkled. Now and again one of the wild Dartmoor ponies neighed. The air was sweet with the faint smell of gorse.

Rupert sighed. He almost wished he had never left the moorlands. His father had doubtless sent him to London to make a gentleman of him with the best intentions in the world. But it was a mistake. They were moorland folk. The land belonged to them and they to the land. He was not suited to the city or the ways of the men who dwelt in it.

A mirthless laugh escaped his lips, and Marjorie looked at him and laid her hand on his. "What's the matter, Rupert? You're not worried, are you, dear."

"Oh, he's in love, that's all," Despard grinned. And he looked at Marjorie. "I suppose you've never been in love, Miss Dale, so you can't sympathise with that blessed but unhappy frame of mind."

They watched the course of the Cherry Brook as it wound in and out, to and fro, making a complete circle here, almost a triangle there, finally disappearing behind the ridge of hill. There was a wistful look in Marjorie's eyes.

"I think I've always been in love-in love with life. I suppose that sounds stupid, or sentimental, to you."

"Life will fall in love with you one day, and be revenged."

She shook her head. "For a woman life is love, and love is life. For a man I suppose it consists of fighting.... She gives life, he takes it."

"Rather a queer point of view," Despard laughed.

"But life is queer, isn't it?" she answered gravely. "If all one reads is true. The greatest nations are the most densely populated, where all the men bear arms-and the women bear children that the men who are killed may be replaced! It does seem a waste, but I suppose one day we shall find something better to do."

"Let's get on," Despard suggested. "You've got a pretty stiff hill to tackle. And I'm a town bird, remember, and can't go the pace you can."

He rather wished that Rupert had stayed at home so that he could have had a tête-à-tête with Marjorie.

Rupert did not seem inclined to take the hint he had given him the previous evening; possibly he knew his reputation with women too well to trust him.

To Despard, Marjorie Dale was unique, and her beauty refreshing after the faded and painted women he knew in London. She was a strange mixture of innocence and fearlessness which appealed to him strongly. The fact that he could not understand her was an added attraction. Not an easy woman to make love to, and he knew she would be a very difficult woman to win.

For the moment he only wanted to amuse himself, but to do that with any measure of safety or success he knew he would have to superficially play the game. That was why he had hinted to Rupert that he was falling in love with Marjorie.

They reached the prison gates just before mid-day. The town itself lay a little distance beyond, with a couple of hotels and a little railway station, and quite a good sprinkling of shops. The two men agreed to meet Marjorie an hour later, and Despard insisted on lunching at the principal hotel.

They watched Marjorie out of sight. Ringing the bell outside the great gates, a porter appeared from his lodge, examined the order, and admitted them.

They were kept waiting a little while in the porter's lodge. Eventually a warder appeared and asked them to sign their names in a large book which was kept there for the purpose. They had to fill in their places of residence, their professions, and various other details.

"I almost feel as if I were signing my own warrant," Despard chuckled. He looked at the warder. "I suppose we shall be let out again?"

"We shall be only too happy to let you go, sir," the man replied without moving a muscle of his clean-shaven, emotionless face.

Despard linked his arm through Rupert's as the chief warder led them across the great stone square and put them in charge of a subordinate.

"For heaven's sake smile, man, or they'll really think you've done time here. That's exactly what you look like."

"I can't see that there's anything to smile at. Other people's misfortunes never amuse me."

"Think of your own, then," Despard replied, "that will cheer you up. By the way, have you heard from Ruby since you left town?"

Rupert's cheeks flushed. He was saved the necessity of replying, by the warder halting them outside another gate. It was opened with much jangling of keys.

Though the sun was shining outside it could not penetrate here. The building was almost entirely of granite, cold and grey. There was no relief for the eye anywhere; just harsh granite underfoot, overhead, and on all sides. Rupert, free man though he was, felt a strange sense of repulsion, a childish desire to beat against those granite walls, to try and break them down, to escape.

The whole time he was in the building, anywhere within the surrounding walls of the prison, he felt as if he were a prisoner. Now and then he heard the warder explaining. He found it difficult to pay any attention to him.

Despard, on the other hand, was interested in everything, asking innumerable questions, watching convicts at work and inspecting their work. Almost every kind of trade seemed to be carried on within the prison walls. Tailors, saddlers, shoemakers, basket-makers. The men sat or stood in rows, each one a certain distance apart from his fellows; and in the middle and at the end of each row was a warder.

Absolute silence reigned, a silence that to an imaginative person like Rupert could be felt, almost seen. It seemed to be part of the stone corridors, the granite walls. And granite appeared to be beaten into the convicts' souls until the expression of it was graven on their faces. Like their walls they were cold, grey, silent. Here and there a few retained traces of humanity; others suggested primeval men of the stone age, though they wore no hair on their faces and their heads had been shaven until nothing but innumerable spikes stood erect from the scalp.

Each man bent over his work as if he were absorbed in it. Rupert, watching closely, noticed their eyes roved here and there, moving quickly, sometimes fearfully; like the eyes of an animal ever on the watch. Sometimes their lips moved, too, though not a sound escaped them.

They passed into the kitchens-here there was blessed warmth again and the smell of newly-baked bread-through innumerable corridors and passages.

They were shown into a cell, A.C. 2061. "Just room enough to die"-as Despard humorously expressed it.

The cells in which the majority of prisoners were confined were built in the middle of a square, the floors rising one above the other, all securely railed off, so that one warder on guard above, could command a view of every cell in the square.

Rupert felt a sense of relief when they reached the porter's lodge again. They had to wait a moment while a gang of convicts marched in through the courtyard. They were accompanied by warders with loaded carbines. They had been at work out on the moorlands, quarrying and farming and digging peat.

"Well, I hope you're satisfied," Rupert said, when they found themselves walking along the road towards Princetown. "I felt a beast all the time. I only wonder the poor brutes didn't get up and go for us."

"Oh, they're happy enough," Despard said carelessly. "But, I confess it's good to be outside again in the air and the sunshine, and, by gad! it has given me an appetite. I hope the local hotel can provide us with something to eat."

They met Marjorie just outside the market-place, and though all she wanted was a little bread and cheese and a glass of milk, Despard insisted on ordering a big luncheon and opening a bottle of champagne.

"We want something to take the taste of the granite out of our mouths," he laughed.

Rupert's spirits rose when they started to walk back to Blackthorn Farm. Marjorie found an opportunity of telling him that she had bought herself some material for a new dress, and made several purchases for her wardrobe out of the money he had given her. Her pride and pleasure in having money to spend made him realise how selfish he had been, and he again made a solemn vow that when he returned to London he would work day and night and not spend a penny more than was necessary.

Ruby would help him in that, he knew, and he would no longer have any shame in appearing before her in his true light.

He had been afraid that when she knew he was a poor man he would lose her. And but for her he would now be ruined!

That evening after supper John Dale drew his son aside. Rupert realised that an interview was inevitable, and though he dreaded it he knew that the moment had come. He expected some kind of a lecture, a warning on the folly of gambling and living beyond his means, and an appeal as to his future conduct. He knew his father would not be angry, probably would not even blame him for what he had done. He almost wished he would. It would be easier than kindness and the pain and disappointment he saw in the old man's eyes whenever he looked at him.

To his surprise Dale made no reference to the past. He simply told him that Sir Reginald had received a letter that morning from his bankers, and he outlined the contents.

The cheque which Rupert had lost and which had since been altered from five to five hundred pounds, had been brought to the bank by a messenger boy, who was given the amount in gold and notes.

On enquiry at the office from which the messenger had been despatched, it had been ascertained that a young man had handed the cheque in to the office in an envelope addressed to the bank, and he had called later on for the money, which had been handed him.

Rupert listened with a sense of relief. "Have they traced the man?" he asked.

Dale shook his head. "Not yet. But, of course, now the affair is in the hands of the police. The manager of the district messenger office where the message was handed in described him as a tall, fair man with a slight moustache, well dressed, and, as far as he remembered, wearing a tall silk hat, and a light overcoat." Dale laid his hand affectionately on his son's shoulder. "Last night, at one dreadful moment, I had a feeling that Sir Reginald suspected you, my boy, so this is a great relief to me."

Rupert laughed a little uneasily. "I suppose it did seem rather queer my losing the beastly cheque and Sir Reginald knowing we were so awfully hard up for money. But you see, father, it arrived at a critical moment, just when I was awaiting the result of my exam., knowing I was dreadfully in debt, and I had made up my mind to risk everything by backing the favourite in the big race. The money I had in hand was borrowed money. I know now it was rotten of me and I'm awfully ashamed. I promise you I shan't make a fool of myself again. I've-I've plenty of money to go on with, and if you want any--"

Dale shook his head. "I'm old-fashioned, I daresay you'll laugh at me. If I were a rich man I don't say I wouldn't do a bit of gambling myself occasionally. But we're poor, and perhaps that makes me extra proud. Keep your money, my boy; pay all your debts, but don't ask me to take any. I couldn't take money that you had won like that. You had no right to take the risk; therefore, to me it almost seems as if you had no right to the money. But it's too late to go back now, so use what's left, but use it carefully for your own sake."

Rupert bowed his head. He made up his mind to make a clean breast of everything, to tell his father about Ruby Strode and his love for her. But just as he was about to speak Dale interrupted him.

"I'm afraid you'll have to start by going back to town to-morrow morning. Sir Reginald left to-day and he said he was afraid it would be necessary for you to go up. It will only be for a couple of days, I expect, and you'll come straight back here, won't you?"

Rupert nodded. "Of course-I'll go if necessary, but I can't see why I should be wanted. I've told Sir Reginald all I know."

Dale cleared his throat uneasily. "It's not Sir Reginald, it's the officials at the bank and-Scotland Yard has charge of the affair. They want you to give them an exact account of your movements, what you did and where you went on the day you received and lost the cheque. It's the least you can do under the circumstances, my boy. You see, if the money's not recovered, I shall have to make it good."

Rupert nodded and said no more. His heart sank again. Yes, unless the bank recovered the money, whether his father was legally liable or not, Rupert knew that if it meant selling the old homestead and everything he possessed in the world to pay Sir Reginald, he would do so.

After all, perhaps he had won only to lose.

Before going to bed that night he knocked at the door of Marjorie's room, and he sat on the edge of her bed just as he had been accustomed to do in the old days when they were boy and girl together with not a thought in the world to trouble them, happy and contented in the life and work of the moorlands.

At first they talked of little things, things which had lost their importance to Rupert, but still went to make up life for Marjorie. Then she fell to questioning him, asking him about his life in London, and if he were happy.

"Somehow, you've changed," she confessed. "You don't look as well or so jolly as you used to. There's nothing seriously wrong, is there, old boy?"

He shook his head. "I'm all right. I've a secret which I want to tell you soon, but it's one that makes me happy, and I hope it will make you happy, too.... Of course, now you'll guess, but don't say anything. While I'm away I don't want you to be too much alone with Despard. He's all right, but he's a man's man-the sort of fellow who makes love to every pretty woman he sees. He can't help it, you know."

Marjorie sat up in her bed and laughed. "Is that a man's man?"

Rupert did not reply, but continued: "Last night, as I was coming back from Post Bridge Hall, I saw you and young Crichton pass me on the bridge. I don't want to interfere, dear, but, somehow, I wondered whether-it looked as though you cared for one another, perhaps--"

Marjorie's cheeks grew the colour of red roses. And, looking at her, as she sat up in her little white bed, with her auburn hair falling in wild disorder about her shoulders, her sun-kissed arms and neck warm against the white lace of her nightgown, he realised for the first time with something like a shock how very beautiful she was. Being a brother he had taken her for granted. He had only looked at her with a brother's eyes. Now he saw her as a man sees a woman; young, in the first flush of youth with warm blood in her veins, a body moulded and made for love.

"Yes, we do love one another," she whispered. "He wants me to marry him one day, but I haven't promised yet. Our positions are so different. I'm not good enough for him."

Rupert laughed. "You, not good enough!"

Marjorie nodded. "That's just what he said when I told him. But it's true. I'm only a farmer's daughter; he's the son of a gentleman. Don't say anything more, dear," as Rupert was about to reply. "Time will tell. If we really care for one another we can both wait until we're quite sure."

Bending down Rupert kissed his sister very gently. There were tears in his eyes. He rose from the bed and blew out the candle and the room was in darkness.

"To tell you the truth, I've been a bit of a rotter since I've been in London," he said, finding it easier to speak in the darkness. "Owing to my stupidity and selfishness, I've got to go up to town to-morrow, but it will only be for a couple of days, and when I come back I'll tell you my secret. For I've fallen in love, Marjorie. I'm beginning to feel as you do-that I'm not good enough for her.... She's wonderful."

He groped his way towards the door and opened it.

"I'm glad, dear," Marjorie whispered. "Good-night."

"Good-night," he replied as he shut the door quietly and went to his own room.

Perhaps it was true. Marjorie was only the daughter and he the son of a farmer. That was why he had made such a mess of things in London. But his eyes had been opened just in time. Love had opened them.

A farmer's son. But his father's ambition should be realised. He would learn to be a man and a gentleman.