"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,