CHAPTER XVIISTAR-DUST
Whitsea lies on the estuary of one of those Essex rivers which flow into the North Sea through a wilderness of shallows. The visitor who goes to it expecting to find any one of the ordinary attractions of the average seaside watering-place may make up his mind to be wofully disappointed. But the visitor with a delight in the unconventional and the unhackneyed need not fear boredom. The salt marshes which border the river for miles have a wild beauty entirely their own. Flowers grow there as if the sea were no enemy to them. Then the six miles of sheltered water which lie between Whitsea and the sea give protection from wild weather, which the yachtsman is not slow to appreciate. So when the days begin to lengthen the Whitsea River begins to be alive with sailing craft, and when the summer days really come, it has a population which lives entirely upon the water.
At Whitsea the Hall was the most prominent residence, even as Captain Marven was the most distinguished inhabitant. It was just a simple, kindly English house, at one with its simple, kindly English inhabitants. The life there was a revelation to Guy. Never before had he known what it was to be an inmate of a pure unpretentious English country home.
"You will find us dull, I am afraid," had been Mrs.Marven's warning when she had invited him, "for excepting some sailing and later in the year a little rough shooting Whitsea has no attractions."
Dull! Guy had never found a life so full. Every moment of the day provided a new item of interest.
The house itself was a haven of peace. The long, low white stone structure stood on a little knoll looking with all its many eyes in the face of the southing sun. It was girt about with an old garden where the scent of roses disputed with the perfume of carnations for supremacy, a garden where tall white lilies stood sentinel over serried ranks of sweet peas, and gazed down unmoved upon the riot of colours that filled the borders. Beyond the garden a meadow dropped down into the saltings, and beyond the saltings the sea wall kept the tides at bay, and ever the sweet fresh breezes dinted the surface of the water and lifted the petals of the roses and whispered stories of the ocean in the ears of those who walked in the garden, tempting them to venture forth in search of the places where they were born.
Daily two of the inmates of the Hall responded to the temptation. Meriel loved the sea. Guy was equally fervent in his adoration, and there, ever before them, was the means of gratifying their desires in the shape of the graceful ten-ton cutterWitchlying at her moorings opposite the house, or the rightly christened little eighteen-footerDainty, which ever seemed to chafe at the chain which saved her from going adrift. Oftentimes Captain Marven made one of the party, more occasionally Mrs. Marven accompanied them, but there were occasions when Meriel and Guy found themselves alone. Then whenthe breeze sang in Guy's ears, and the spray tasted salt on his lips, he felt a mad impulse to sail on and on with his precious cargo right away out of the old life into a totally new one.
The two young people were drawn very close together in those days. Meriel took no pains to conceal the pleasure she found in Guy's companionship. Guy made no effort to disguise the fact that life held only one hope for him. If there was a doubt at the back of his mind that the hope was foredoomed to be disappointed, he put it away. He would be happy while he might. Sorrow was for the sad days of autumn. There was only one jarring note in the symphony. It was a trifling one and did not affect Meriel. On the first day they went for a sail they passed an excellently appointed steam yacht lying at anchor in the fairway of the river. A figure immaculately clad in blue jacket and white flannels raised a bridge-cap as they passed.
"Hildebrand Flurscheim, by all that's holy," remarked Guy.
"Still searching for his missing pictures," said Meriel laughing.
The thought was an unpleasant one. But Guy was not allowed to forget it. Flurscheim found out that the Marvens were at their house and he called, and, undeterred by a cool reception, called again. Guy could not help but realise that if his host and hostess had been aware that he was the burglar who had raided the connoisseur's treasure-house, the coolness accorded Flurscheim would be nothing to the reception he might expect.
But Captain and Mrs. Marven would have both been horrified at the mere suggestion that Guy could be guiltyof such a deed. They were fully cognisant of the love-story developing under their eyes, acquiescing smilingly. They anticipated an idyll. They had watched Guy carefully, and they had seen no fault in him. He had an unblemished university career and was apparently sufficiently endowed with this world's goods. He seemed chivalrous, honourable, and, above all, deeply in love. Thinking of the days of their own wooing, they anticipated a happy union.
A week passed, the second week was near its end, when a shadow was cast on the sunlight of Guy's happiness, and again the gloom was produced by a letter from Hora, forwarded to him from his chambers.
"We shall be home on the Monday," wrote the Commandatore. "Please come and see me on the Tuesday at latest, for I have now completed my plans, and nothing remains but to put them into execution. Again let me remind you to do your best to cultivate the Marven people, if the opportunity arises. Any knowledge you may acquire concerning them is likely to prove useful."
Guy took the letter with him into the open, where he tore it into tiny fragments and scattered them to the breeze. Cornelius Jessel from Guy's bedroom window watched the flying fragments longingly. So also did another man who, seated on the sea wall some hundred yards away, was just near enough to realise what Guy was doing. But neither Cornelius nor the stranger made any efforts to recover the fragments. Detective Inspector Kenly had no desire to call attention in so pointed a fashion to the fact that he was visiting Whitsea.
Guy was unaware of the dual observation, even as Jessel was unaware that his late landlord was so near to him. His action was merely prompted by an outbreak of anger at the despicable part he was expected to play. He did not at first remember that he had not told the Commandatore of his projected visit. His anger passed, for he thought that the expectation was founded on a misapprehension. But the reiteration of Hora's intention, his renewal of the belief that he, Guy, would be as ready as heretofore to participate in the carrying out of his plans warned Guy that he must no longer delay coming to an explanation with the Commandatore. Hora had named a date. That date would suit Guy as well as another. It would not be fair to his father to delay any longer.
Guy was unusually silent that morning, and when Meriel joined him she was surprised that he should be so preoccupied. She feared to rally him on the subject, for she suspected a reason for his preoccupation which she would not name to herself.
They went aboard theWitchabout nine o'clock. There was a fair wind from the north, the tide had just begun to ebb and there was every promise of an ideal day. Gradually Guy's preoccupation melted away. It was impossible to remain preoccupied on a brilliant summer morning in Meriel's presence. By the time they had cast off their moorings he was chattering away freely as ever. Hora was forgotten for a while. He was remembered later.
"I must be going back to town on Tuesday," Guy said in reply to a suggestion of some proposed trip for the ensuing week.
"Going back to town," remarked Meriel. There was more than surprise, there was regret in her tone.
"I shall hate to do so," said Guy, "but I had a letter from my father this morning and he particularly wishes to see me."
Guy's voice had unconsciously hardened as he spoke. His brow was knitted and his lips were compressed. He looked up and he caught sight of a something in her eyes which chased away the frown.
"Of course, you must go then," said Meriel.
Guy responded to the regretful note in the girl's voice.
"You will be sorry to lose me?" he asked eagerly.
The ghost of a blush fluttered for a moment on her cheeks.
"We shall all be very sorry," she answered equivocally. Guy was about to press the personal question home, but the sails shivered. Meriel glanced upward. "Give me the tiller," she said. "You are steering awfully badly this morning. Why, you've let theWitchrun right up into the wind."
Guy laughed as he vacated his post at the helm. For the moment he was satisfied. He had seen an answer in Meriel's eyes to his unspoken question which set his mind at rest. Before the day was out that question should be answered, but the time was not yet.
TheWitchflew along, bending over to the breeze. The river widened and the banks fell away. The cutter begun to curtsey to the waves, and now and again a spatter of spray was tossed high in the air. Guy took the tiller again and Meriel unpacked the luncheon basket. With appetites sharpened by the breeze they picnicked on deck. They stillpressed onward until the houses on the white cliff before them begun to be plainly visible. Meriel looked at her watch.
"We are very near Clacton, and it is two o'clock," she remarked. "Isn't it time we thought about returning?" she added regretfully.
The summer breeze began to show a disposition to change, veering to the east. Guy put the helm down and went about. The wind veered still more, though it still held. Guy gave the mainsail more sheet, and theWitchran merrily before the breeze over the slackening tide. An hour passed and the wind became perceptibly lighter. The afternoon sun shone down from a cloudless sky, while a purple heat haze gathered on the horizon.
"Luckily we turned back when we did," said Meriel. "We shall hardly get home on the tide even now. Hadn't we better set the spinnaker?"
Guy acceded to the request. The breeze freshened again, and for another hour the water rippled musically under their bows. Then the breeze died away completely.
Guy shrugged his shoulders. "There's nothing for it but a policy of masterly inaction," he said. "Don't you think it is time for a cup of tea?"
He relinquished the tiller to his companion and dived below to light the stove, and place the kettle upon it. By the time the kettle boiled an absolute calm had fallen, the sea might have served as a mirror, the sails hung straight and still, the heat had become almost oppressive.
Neither Meriel nor Guy were troubled. They were together, and although the boat seemed motionless they were drifting homewards. Guyespecially was in no anxiety to return. Tea drunk and the cups washed and put away, Guy brought cushions from the cabin and made a comfortable couch on deck for Meriel, while he sat by the helm looking down upon her.
Their talk became personal. Meriel's confidences were those of a pure-hearted girl, and Guy, listening, longed to repay confidence with confidence. If he only dared! But his risks were too great. How could this pure girl be brought to comprehend his point of view? Yet he knew that some day he must make the effort. Perhaps if she cared enough for him she might strive to understand. If she cared enough! Yes, that was the whole question. Her views were so totally opposed to those which he had imbibed from his earliest youth, those which he knew now to be hopelessly wrong—not through any intellectual conviction, but merely by his intuition of what would be his companion's attitude towards them. He would make her understand how he came to have held such views and where they had led him. But not if she did not care. He could not win her under false pretences. She must know all about him, exactly what he was, the hidden life which none save Lynton Hora and Myra knew. Yet first he must know if she did care for him, otherwise such confidence would be treachery to Hora. His thoughts constrained him to silence. When his replies became monosyllabic Meriel looking up saw that his countenance had become overcast. She, too, became silent.
The boat drifted.
Meriel lay back on the cushions. Her eyes half-closed. She wondered what thought could be troubling her companion. She glanced up again and met his eyes.
"Something is troubling you," she demanded suddenly.
"Yes, something is troubling me," answered Guy moodily. With an impulsive gesture the girl held out her hand. Guy grasped it. The little sunbrowned hand was not withdrawn.
"Can I help?" she asked quietly.
"I cannot tell," he replied. "Until——" The moment had arrived when he felt that he must give utterance to his thoughts or remain forever silent. He braced himself to the effort. His voice was almost harsh.
"Meriel," he said. She started at the sound of her name on his lips. "Meriel——" He paused.
There was no coquetry in her nature. She understood the unspoken thought as clearly as if it had been vocalised in a flood of eloquence.
"Guy," she answered shyly.
The one musical syllable was sufficient. Their glances met. Each read in the other's eyes the words they longed to hear. Lips closed on lips.
The sun shone down fiercely. The boat drifted.
"Then you do care for me?" Guy asked presently.
"Do I care?" Meriel looked happily into his face. "If anyone were to tell you that the sea had become dry you might sooner believe the tale than that I should have ceased to care for you."
"That is love," said Guy. "I know, for my love for you is also greater than the ocean."
She was seated beside him. One hand was on the tiller, the other encircled her waist and she leaned her head on his shoulder with a sigh of content. The westering sun was dropping to the horizon, and on thepath of gold it painted on the waters the boat still drifted. Was this to be the omen of their future lot? In his rapture Guy thrust away all disturbing memories. He loved and he was beloved. Nothing could alter that one fact. The whole world was transformed for him. The sun dropped lower still. A rosy flush crept into the sky. The sea, unflecked by a single ripple, glowed with opal fires. Nothing broke the stillness. Meriel, too, lived her brief hour in love's fairyland.
The boat still drifted. The mouth of the Whitsea River was narrowing in upon them. The sea wall stood up blackly against the pellucid sky. The sun went down behind the purple bank of mist. The colours faded. The sweet grey calm of summer twilight spread its mantle over the water. From somewhere on the shore a sandpiper called to his mate.
Meriel awoke to reality with a start.
"We shall never make our moorings to-night, Guy," she cried. "It must be eight o'clock, and we are quite four miles from home."
"I should be quite content, dear," he answered, "to drift along forever."
"You would tell another tale when you came to examine our store of provisions," she answered merrily.
Guy looked at his watch. "The tide will run for another half hour," he said. "No, unless a breeze should spring up theWitchwill never make Whitsea to-night."
"We shall have to leave her," answered Meriel promptly.
"Why not wait for the next tide?" urged Guy.
"No, Auntie will be so anxious," the girl replied. "Ifwe drop anchor here and stow away comfortably we can easily row home in the dingey."
Guy stood up and glanced around the horizon. The air was perfectly still. There was not a movement in the sails.
"We'll let her drift so long as the tide makes, and meanwhile I'll make things snug," said Guy. The blocks creaked musically as he gathered in foresail and jib. The topsail fluttered to the deck. It was warmer work getting in the mainsail and darkness was gathering rapidly. But the canvas was stowed away at last, the halliards made fast, every rope coiled away in its place.
"The tide is on the turn," said Meriel. "If we can edge in a little nearer the south shore theWitchwill lie as safely as she would on her moorings."
Guy hauled up the chain and cast the anchor loose. "When you are ready, dear," he said.
"You may let go," she cried a minute later. The anchor dropped with a heavy splash and the rattle of the chain as Guy paid it out seemed almost a desecration of the silence. When the anchor held, Guy once more went below to trim and light the riding lamp. By the time his job was finished and the lamp was swung, the sky had gained a deeper tint of blue and the stars had begun to sparkle. He drew the dingey alongside and held out his hand to Meriel.
"You must let me take one oar," she said as she stepped into the boat. "It will be a stiff pull against the tide."
"When I am tired I'll tell you," he answered. He looked regretfully at the cutter as he dipped his oars.
"It seems ungracious to leave her," he said, "since the happiest moments of my life have been passed aboard her."
"Good oldWitch," replied Meriel softly.
Night's mantle of darkness and silence enwrapped them. The stars studded the moonless sky, the plunk of the oars in the rowlocks and the drip of the water from the blades alone disturbed the perfect stillness. The boat drove onwards, leaving a trail of light in its wake. The darkness had made yet another of nature's marvels manifest. The water was full of phosphorescent light. Guy rested on his oars. Meriel lifted a handful of water and poured it back into the sea. It was as if she had poured out a handful of gems. She threw a handful of the diamonds in the air, and every gem as it fell again into the water struck gleams of light from the surface. They leaned over the side of the boat, and here and there in the blackness the lights sparkled for a moment and were hidden again.
"The water is full of star-dust," said Meriel. "See!" she added eagerly. Guy followed the direction of her outstretched finger.
A phantom form lighting its way beneath the surface sailed by, a myriad of the sparkling points accompanying it.
"Even the sea has its spirits," she remarked.
"On a night like this it is possible to idealise even a jelly fish," he answered whimsically.
He took again to the oars. Few words were spoken between them.
They came at last to their landing place. Guy made the boat fast and joined Meriel on the bank. He claspedher lightly in his arms. "Tell me you love me, Meriel," he demanded almost fiercely.
Her assurance was whispered only, but Guy recognised an intensity as great as his own. He held her closely to him.
"I have something to—say," he told her. "I cannot ask you to marry me,"—the words were wrung from him—"until I have told you something about myself which you do not suspect."
She did not move in his embrace. He could see her eyes shining in the darkness.
"Nothing you could tell me would make any difference, Guy," she answered.
A sharp pain stabbed his heart. "I am not worthy, Meriel," he said. "And I fear that to-morrow you will tell me so."
"As if it were possible," she answered.
"I have been very happy to-day," he continued. "Such happiness cannot last. When you know what I am in reality you will be glad to forget me."
This was more than the detraction of the ardent lover. Meriel realised that there was the note of real suffering in his voice. She waited almost with dread for him to continue. And Guy was upon the point of pouring out his whole story. But the chance passed. A voice hailed them from the lawn of the Hall.
"Is that you, Meriel?"
"Auntie is watching for our return," she said shyly. "Come."
Guy followed her along the path to the house.
"To-morrow," he said and she understood.