CHAPTER XXGUY'S LAST THEFT
While Inspector Kenly was hastening to London events at Whitsea were shaping themselves to the bewilderment of a number of the inhabitants of that pleasant little yachting resort. There was electricity in the air afflicting everyone with a vague disquietude. Meriel, thinking over Guy's wild outburst after his passionate declaration of love, felt a strange dread of what the day should bring forth. Guy, fearing the result of the confession he had promised to make, could see no sun behind the gathering clouds. Mrs. Marven, noticing a new-born constraint between the two young people, began to think that she had misread the signs which had seemed confidently to predict a love-match. Captain Marven, less dubious on this point, felt only vaguely uneasy. He therefore decided that the electricity was not produced by mental disturbance, but was purely atmospheric.
"There is thunder in the air," he declared, and counselled the members of his household not to get far away from home.
But on the physical horizon there was no cloud. Guy, wishing to be alone once more with Meriel, proposed that they should bring theWitchhome, and Meriel, fearless of the sun and longing for an end to her suspense, acceded to the suggestion.
After an early lunch they started. The heat wasgreater than ever, but Guy was heedless of it. He pulled at the oars as if physical exertion was a panacea for a troubled mind. Meriel, watching him from the stern as the dingey cut the water, rejoiced in his strength. At least her lover was a man.
She wondered greatly what was on his mind. She was no petticoated ignoramus of the world. She knew that men were sometimes caught in feminine entanglements, and were sometimes even ashamed of their folly. It might be that Guy had been so caught, and felt in honour bound to acquaint her with his difficulty. She did not want to hear. It was quite sufficient that he should desire that she should know the worst of him. When he spoke she would stop him. She was quite sure, even as she had said on the previous evening, that nothing that had happened in the past could make any difference.
TheWitchrode to her anchor, with her stern pointing to the sea, for the tide was still ebbing when they reached her side.
Meriel felt Guy's hand tremble as it clasped hers to assist her aboard. She knew that the time had come when Guy would speak. She could have cried aloud to him to remain forever silent, for a fear came upon her that it was no youthful indiscretion which her companion proposed to reveal, but something vital to their joint happiness, something searing to their love. She put the thought aside. Her love was her life: more, for it would endure after life itself had departed.
"Are you listening, Meriel?" asked Guy a little later.
He had set the mainsail, and in the shadow it cast on deck he had arranged cushions for her. She looked up at him in mute answer.
"Meriel, don't look at me, your eyes will make a coward of me," he said. "Look out on the horizon. Do you see the white sail yonder? That boat is coming on the first of the tide. By the time she reaches us you will have no wish to look upon me again."
She denied the statement vehemently.
"I know what I have to tell you," he answered steadily. "But first I should like you to know something of the beliefs in which I was brought up."
He told her first of Lynton Hora's enmity with the world, told her of his philosophy, of his conception of mankind as a fortuitous aggregation of warring atoms, each hypocritically desirous of concealing his real intent from his neighbours.
"This I believed till I met you, Meriel," he said.
"But if that is all——" Her voice died away. Looking at him, she saw his face had hardened.
"It is not all." He told her of his early training, of the practical exposition of Hora's philosophy.
Meriel no longer looked at her companion's face. She began to feel horror growing upon her. She gazed now at the white sail. It was perceptibly nearer.
He carried the story of his life on to the point where he left the University, told her how, merely in obedience to his father's advice, he had not, during those days, practised the principles in which he had believed. Hope began to grow again in her heart. She murmured, "Go on," eagerly.
He told her of his earnest desire to win the approbation of his father, depicted for her the glamour which the adventurous aspect of his profession presented. Abruptly he told her of his first enterprise.
Meriel's heart almost ceased to beat. The white sails of the oncoming boat fascinated her. They were very near now.
"That is not all, yet," he said. "There is one other thing you must know." Paltering not at all, excusing himself in no way, he told her the history of the stolen despatches.
He had not looked at her at all during the narration, but now he ventured one glance. Her face was unnaturally pale.
"You know now why I could not ask you to marry me," he said. "I cannot ask you to marry a thief. Yet, I want you to believe that, thief though I am, I could not steal your love. You must believe that of me. It is true." She heard him, but she made no answer. The boat she had been watching had crept up until it was level. It passed. She shivered in spite of the heat.
Guy had moved quietly away. She saw that theWitchhad swung on the tide. She watched him weigh the anchor and get the boat under way with a curious fear in her heart; a fear for herself. In looks, in bearing, in his manner, he was every inch a man, a man that she loved. But he was a thief, the thief who had treacherously robbed the man who had been a father to her, a thief for whom the police were searching, a thief who might any day stand in the dock as a felon.
"Guy is a thief! a thief! a thief!" She had to repeat the words to herself again and again lest she should forget. Yes, he had been quite right, she could never marry a thief. She supposed that she ought to be thankful to him for having told her before she had married him. Shewould have married him if he had not told her. But he was wrong in saying that he could not steal her love. He had stolen it. If she had known from the first she would never have given her heart to him. But he had come and taken it away, and now that he had given it back to her——
Guy had come to the tiller. She roused herself and looked into his face.
"It is not true that you did not steal my love," she said. "You took my heart from me, and you have broken it, and now you bring me back the pieces and say you did not steal it." She spoke dispassionately, as one who would argue the point.
Guy wondered at the tone until he saw the dazed look in the girl's eyes.
"Meriel," he cried, "for God's sake don't look at me like that. Say something, anything, if only it were to curse me. I had to tell you, even though I knew that the telling would end my life's happiness."
"I had no reason to think that you were anything but an honourable man. I had never mixed with any but honourable men, and so I suppose I was deceived," she answered wearily. "I don't suppose I ought to blame you."
She turned away, and going forward leaned upon the staff-rack where she was hidden from his sight by the intervening sail. Tears had come to her relief at last.
The boat drifted on with the tide. The sky was becoming overcast and away in the north a heavy bunch of clouds was gathering. A sudden breeze ruffled the surface of the water, and died away as swiftly as it arose. A puff filled the sails. It came from the south, another puff followed it from another quarter, headingtheWitchso that the sails flapped wildly. Guy had barely brought her up to the wind before it veered again to the south. TheWitchleaned over under the pressure, and, gathering way, set the foam swirling under her bows. As the squall strengthened theWitchbegan to talk, and Guy cast an anxious look aloft. The squall died away and once more the boat drifted. But the ten minutes' breeze had brought them near home. They were amongst the other boats moored in the river opposite the quay.
Meriel had not moved from her place forward. Her tears had ceased to flow. In a few more minutes she would have said good-bye to Guy and to love. She looked up. TheWitchwas drifting past Mr. Hildebrand Flurscheim's yacht, and the connoisseur was on the deck. Meriel recognised him at the same moment that she was recognised. "Good afternoon, Miss Challys. Look out for the storm, Mr. Hora," cried Flurscheim.
Was there a spice of mockery in his voice, or was it her fancy? Meriel could not be certain. There had been a smile on Flurscheim's face. Supposing he suspected that Guy was the man who had robbed him of his treasure, Guy would be arrested. She knew in that moment that all that he had told her had made no difference to her affection. She knew that she loved him, thief as he was, that she would do anything, make any sacrifice, to rescue him from the result of his misdeeds. She left her post and went aft to Guy's side. A distant flash of lightning illuminated Flurscheim's face. He was still smiling as he gazed in their direction. She wondered whether Guy had observed the Jew's expression. If so, he had paid no heed to it. His whole attention wasgiven to the boat, though now and again he cast an anxious glance at the sky.
"Here comes the breeze again," he muttered. He gave a sigh of relief as the sails filled. "Five minutes of it, and we shall escape the storm," he said. TheWitchheeled over till her rail was awash and the foam creamed away in their wake.
Meriel looked back at Flurscheim. He waved his hand, and even as he waved it he overbalanced and fell forward into the water. She gave utterance to a sharp cry of alarm.
"What is it?" shouted Guy, for the rushing of the wind made ordinary speech impossible to be heard.
"Flurscheim is overboard," she gasped.
Without a moment's hesitation Guy put the tiller down, and, as theWitchcame up into the wind, he glanced in the direction to which Meriel pointed. A dark object was being borne swiftly along on the tide. Guy kept the tiller down until the boat was before the wind, and giving the mainsail more sheet, theWitchscudded back in the direction she had come. But the dark object had disappeared.
"Can you manage the tiller?" shouted Guy.
Meriel nodded.
"Bring her up into the wind the moment I tell you," he said. He cast loose the painter of the dingey towing aft, and stood with it in his hand, watching patiently. The dark object reappeared not a dozen yards away. He had already kicked off his boots. He dropped the painter.
"Now," he shouted to Meriel, and took a header straight into the tossing water.
Guy had not trusted to Meriel in vain. When he rose to the surface and shook the water out of his eyes he saw that the yacht was lying-to not half a cable's length away. He had barely time to appreciate the fact when the object he had dived for floated towards him. He caught a glimpse of a despairing face, and the next moment he had grasped Flurscheim by the collar and was striking out strongly in the direction of the dingey, drifting, like themselves, with the tide, only a few yards away. Flurscheim had struggled when Guy had first gripped him, but his struggles had soon ceased. Guy got him to the side of the boat, but could not hoist him aboard. He threw one arm over the stern and hung on, supporting Flurscheim with the other hand. He had not to wait very long. The accident had been observed from the deck of the connoisseur's yacht, and two of her crew, tumbling hastily into their own dingey, came swiftly to the rescue. Flurscheim was hauled aboard; Guy followed, and as he bent over the Jew his eyes opened, and a glance of recognition came into them.
"Not much the worse for your ducking, eh, Mr. Flurscheim?" asked Guy.
The connoisseur struggled into a sitting position. He held out his hand mutely. Guy took it for a moment in his, then turned to the men who had come to their assistance.
He pointed to the drifting dingey. "If you'll get hold of that, I'll pull myself aboard," he said quietly. "Mr. Flurscheim will be all right." He was obeyed, and a minute later he stepped aboard theWitch, and, once more taking the tiller, brought her up to the wind and steered for home.
Meriel said nothing—what could she say? To her Guy's action was heroic. His coolness, the absolute confidence with which he had set about the work of rescue, the ease with which he had performed the task he had set himself, revealed qualities which filled her with admiration. Yet the man who possessed these qualities was a thief. No, there was nothing she could say.
TheWitchflew homewards, and the Hall came into view.
"Will you take the tiller again, Miss Challys?" he asked, as the boat neared the buoy.
She took it from him mechanically. He went forward, hauled in the foresail, and, as the boat came about, dropped the peak. TheWitchdrove leisurely on to her moorings, and in a couple of minutes she was fast. There was no time to waste. Meriel hastened to his assistance. She worked side by side in stowing away the canvas. The storm held off, though the clouds had nearly covered the sky by the time everything had been made snug aboard.
"Come," said Guy, as he drew the dingey alongside. Meriel stepped into the boat, and a dozen strokes took them to the bank.
"We shall just manage to get home before the storm breaks," he continued, as he handed her ashore, and, following, made the painter fast to the guide rope.
He was right in his estimate, though they had to hasten their footsteps to gain shelter, for almost as soon as they had reached the top of the wall the lightning blazed out, and the thunder crashed at the same moment. Meriel had been on the verge of hysteria. The atmospheric tumult had come at a time when her nerves wereshattered; she wanted to shriek, but her muscles seemed to fail her.
"A near thing," said Guy. The equability of his voice gave Meriel renewed confidence. She looked up at his face and wondered that it was flushed with delight. She stumbled, Guy's hand steadied her. He caught her up in his arms, and carried her onwards. She felt a delicious sense of safety, and immediately the thought followed—he is a thief. They came to the lawn gate, and he set her on her feet.
She forgot the storm. She laid her hand on his arm. "Tell me it is untrue," she cried.
He took both her hands in his. "I love you, Meriel," he said simply. "I wish I could say, 'Yes, it is untrue,' but I cannot." He took her arm, and hurried her across the lawn until they stood beneath the porch. There, with one piteous glance, she left him without another word.
His eyes followed her along the passage, then he turned and went out into the storm. He was the only living thing abroad, and he rejoiced in the solitude. He had no fear of the revolting elements. Their mood suited his. He would have welcomed the flash which should scar his body, even as the lightning of his emotions had seared his soul. He had told himself that his story would kill the love that he had seen springing up in Meriel's heart, but all the while he had hoped that it would survive the stroke he would deal at the root. How much he had hoped, he had not realised until he saw the anguish on her face, until he saw that she had shrunk from him. He could have borne anger, taunts even, but silence—the silence of contempt, for so he translatedMeriel's attitude—that filled him with bitterness. There was no hope for him. He was overwhelmed with youth's Byronic despair. Heedless of his path, he went onward. The thunder crashed, later the rain fell, but he pressed onwards blindly.
The awakening came when the storm, passing away, gave place to a golden sunset. Guy found himself far away from sight of human habitation, with the sea on one hand and on the other the saltings stretching away to the horizon. The passing of the storm brought no renewal of hope to him. He was wearied mentally and physically. He knew the direction in which Whitsea lay, and he turned his face towards it.
It was dark by the time he arrived at the Hall, and he heard the dinner gong as he entered the door. He did not obey his first impulse to shirk facing the inmates of the house. He threw off his rain-sodden clothes, and put on conventional dinner attire so swiftly that he was ready before the second gong sounded.
"Meriel will not be down," said Mrs. Marven, as he entered the drawing-room. "The storm has given her a headache. I am so sorry, as it is your last evening."
Guy could only murmur something unintelligible while he told himself bitterly that the girl would not even look upon him.