MERIEL MAKES AN IMPRESSION
Captain Marven was certainly not at ease in his own mind in regard
to the experience on his journey. He seemed to remember awaking, and
seeing in Guy's possession the despatch box that he carried. Yet in
view of the fact that it was still buckled to the strap, the suspicion
seemed absurd. As soon as he was alone he carefully examined the
despatch case. The seals were to all appearances intact. He missed
none of his personal belongings, and was ashamed of the suspicion
which prompted his hurried search through his pockets. Really he had
no reason to suspect Guy Hora of any ulterior object in hypnotising
him. He recalled all the circumstances. At his own invitation Guy had
travelled with him, he himself had pressed his companion to make the
experiment. He had lost consciousness while Guy was sitting opposite
him, and when he had regained it, Guy was still opposite him, and
certainly did not exhibit the slightest trace of trepidation. But what
had happened in the forty minutes interval which had elapsed between
the losing and regaining of consciousness. Guy had told him that
they had alighted at Cambridge and had drunk a cup of coffee at the
refreshment room. But was that all? He could not banish the thought
of the dream which had come to him during that hypnotic slumber, the
vision of Guy Hora bending over the despatch case doing something to
the seals, and of himself standing powerless to interfere with him. Was
it only a dream? Yet it were foolish to suppose otherwise. What could
the despatches he carried contain of interest to the wealthy young man
about town, who seemed to him so like what his own son might have been?
It was a puzzle which he could not elucidate, though it engaged his
attention during his long motor drive to the royal residence; it was
present in his thoughts when he placed the case in the hands of the
Secretary of State, who, warned by telegraph of his coming, was waiting
up for him, and he could not escape it even when he himself sought
repose. It was the first thought in his mind when he awoke the next
morning.
If he had been gifted with clairvoyant powers, he would not have
needed to flog his brains for a solution. Could he have seen Lynton
Hora gloating over the transcription of the cypher telegram which had
reached him that morning from Guy, Captain Marven would have had an
inkling of the truth. Could he later have seen Lynton Hora sending off
wires to brokers at Paris, Berlin, and New York, could he have heard
Lynton Hora instructing his London stockbroker over the telephone, he
would have been still nearer a solution. Finally, could he have heard
the Foreign Secretary's remarks later in the day, when a detailed
account of an unfortunate incident in the South Pacific, in which a
German gunboat and a British cruiser were concerned, appeared in an
evening paper, he would have known that in some mysterious manner the
information contained in the despatches he had carried had become known
to the world.
Yet, though he knew not, nor could have known, any of
these things, yet the vague uneasiness that there had been intention
in Guy's presence on the train was not easily dispelled. It begot in
him a still greater desire to learn something more of the young man
whose face haunted his thoughts, and when he returned to town the next
morning, carrying with him the answers to the stolen despatches, it
was with the fixed intention of cultivating Guy's acquaintance, if the
opportunity offered.
The chance he desired was not long presenting itself. A week had not
elapsed before they met again. The meeting was a purely casual one.
They recognised each other at the opera. Guy occupied a stall and the
Captain was with his wife and niece in a box. At the end of the first
act Guy left his seat. The Captain met him in the foyer.
"Been trying any more experiments in hypnotism?" was Marven's greeting.
Guy shook his head and laughed. "I haven't been upon any railway
journeys with unbelievers," he replied jestingly. He met the Captain's
glance fearlessly, and again Marven felt ashamed of his suspicions.
"I was just coming to pay my respects to Mrs. Marven and Miss Challys,"
continued Guy.
The Captain turned to accompany him. "You need not tell the ladies
how easily you bowled me out," he remarked. "I have been so blatantly
cynical on the subject always that I should never hear the last of it."
"Why, certainly not," answered Guy, smiling. The Captain's attitude
dispelled the last chance of his being connected in any way with the
acquisition of the information which, when it had been made public, had
created the most intense excitement. Clearly the Captain wished no one
to know that he had allowed himself to be placed in an hypnotic trance
while on duty, and Guy, for his own protection, was more than ready to
fall in with the suggestion to keep silence concerning the episode.
"After all, it is a purely personal matter of absolutely no concern to
anyone but our two selves," he added, as they reached the box.
Conveying his thanks with a nod, Marven opened the door, and, as Guy
entered, all thought of the Captain passed from his mind. Only once
previously had he met Meriel Challys, but the impression which she
had produced upon him was one that would not easily be eradicated.
He had first seen her floating towards him on some booby's arm at
Lady Greyston's dance. Who the booby was and what the booby looked
like Guy had not the faintest idea. He had no time to spare a glance
for anyone else, once his eyes had rested on her face. But the man
on whose arm she leaned so lightly must of necessity be a booby.
Any mere man could be nothing but a booby in comparison with any
personality so exquisitely ethereal as that given by nature to
Meriel Challys. Guy had determined to take the place of that booby
himself. He had enquired amongst his friends until he had obtained
the introduction he desired. He had received one waltz and he had sat
out one square dance in the plumbago bower at the end of the long
gallery. He would never forget the fair picture she made, draped
in maiden garb of white, her dazzling skin and hair framed in the
tender blues of the drooping blossoms. It had been an effort for
him to speak to so distractingly beautiful a subject, and it had
been only the fear lest she should think him moonstruck which
had forced him to unlock his lips. No wonder that the despoiling of
Mr. Flurscheim's treasure-house had been postponed. Indeed, had the
treasures been spread before him at that moment, Guy would have passed
them by unnoticed.
That first impression of instinctive reverence had not endured. A
fervid disciple of Hora's cynical philosophy could not remain for long
in a state of ecstatic adoration of one of the sex provided "for the
relaxation of the warrior."
But now, entering again into her presence, his first impression was
revived with redoubled intensity. Again he saw her coming towards him.
He remembered the Tennysonian line which flashed into his memory at
first sight of her:
"Robed in white samite, mystic, wonderful."
No, that did not do justice to Meriel Challys, and yet it might,
perchance, describe her in some moods, he thought; and though there was
nothing mystic in her mood when Guy had been introduced, yet the swift
impression was mayhap nearer the truth than the later one.
Mrs. Marven greeted him warmly. They chatted a little while,
then, as Guy turned to the girl, she became a silent observer.
The family likeness which her husband had observed in Guy was
equally apparent to herself, but she had not given words to the
vague thoughts which had risen up in her mind when she had first
seen him at Lady Greyston's dance. Such thoughts were best crushed
down at once--they only invited disillusionment. Not for
worlds would she have suggested to her husband that the young man had
awakened in her the crushed down maternal instinct. The mere hint would
have made him uneasy. She even dreaded lest he should have recognised
for himself certain physical resemblances which certainly existed
between her husband and Guy. She had no idea that he had recognised
them, and was as loth as her husband himself to give words to her
imaginings, for precisely the same reasons which imposed silence upon
him. Each in point of fact had felt the promptings of the parental
instinct, and each in tenderness for the partner of his and of her
sorrows and joys forebore to awaken by a word the memory of the great
sorrow which had early cast its cloud over their married life.
Lynton Hora had always been hopelessly wrong when he had imagined
that but for the rivalry of Marven he would have won the affection
of Beatrice Challys. So far as he was concerned she had always been
heart-whole. But from the day she had met Dick Marven there had
only been one mate for her in the whole wide world. The affection
had been mutually bestowed. Marven lived for his wife, even as
she lived for him. In each of their thoughts the one object for
consideration was their _alter ego_. Marven would have sacrificed
anything to save his wife a momentary pang, physical or mental.
She would have inflicted any torture upon herself that he might be
spared even momentary uneasiness. But this kindly consideration
for each other's feelings did not always prove unexceptionable in
practice. Impalpable, diaphanous, there was a barrier of reserve
ever between them from the day their first born and only child had
been mysteriously spirited away. In so far Hora's scheme for
revenge had been successful in action. It had shadowed the lives of
both the parties upon whom his blow had fallen, and, though in tender
consideration for each other, his action had brought them closer
together, yet it had also operated in placing between them the barrier
of a subject they dared not discuss.
The maternal instinct, deprived of its natural outlet, of necessity had
found another vent. Robbed of her son, Mrs. Marven had taken to her
heart a brother's child, who had been orphaned early in life. The girl
had repaid the devotion lavished upon her, and, if Mrs. Marven could
never quite banish the regret for her lost son, she would always have
heartily admitted that Meriel Challys had brought sunshine again into
her life. Meriel was all that a daughter could be, and a very tender
sympathy existed between her and her aunt.
Naturally the latter could not have failed to observe the admiration
which Guy Hora exhibited toward Meriel. It was patent in his every
glance, and he made no effort to conceal it. He approached Meriel with
the proud assurance of the man who feels that he has the right to lay
the tribute of his admiration at the feet of the woman whom he admires,
and is not ashamed of letting the whole world perceive upon whom his
choice had fallen.
Mrs. Marven liked the attitude, which was so different to that of
many of the admirers whom Meriel had already, in the course of
her first season, gathered in her train. It awakened memories,
too, of the days when Richard Marven had wooed her. His face
had worn the same unconscious air of adoration. Almost Mrs.
Marven's heart stood still, as she watched Guy's face as he stood
leaning forward looking into Meriel's eyes, answering her
smiles with his own; the likeness was so vivid to the memory she bore
in her heart. She would have liked to step forward and claim him. Her
heart cried out "My son, my son," but the words died on her lips. She
crushed them back, though the effort left her lips pale.
Meriel, looking towards her, noticed the pallor and with a hasty, "You
are ill, Auntie," was at her side.
"I find the theatre a little close," murmured Mrs. Marven. "If we might
have the door of the box open a little." She refused all suggestions
that they should leave the opera house, and, before the attempts to
persuade her were completed, the curtain was rung up, the lights were
lowered, and the opera proceeded.
Guy remained in the box. Mrs. Marven sat back in the shadow studying
his face intently. When the second act ended, she had regained
full control of her emotions, and could make light of the supposed
indisposition with which she had apparently been attacked. She pressed
Guy to remain in the box for the remainder of the evening, and he was
nothing loth to accept the invitation.
There, then, he remained, unconscious that he was the centre of
interest to the two elder members of the party, unstirred by any
instinctive emotion towards them, and with every thought, every
faculty, strained to make the most of the flying minutes which gave him
Meriel's company. He was unable to solace himself with the assurance
that she responded to the emotions which were aroused in himself by
her presence. She was purely natural, no spice of affectation spoiled
her glance or her smile. Indeed, at times she seemed to be unconscious
even of his existence, enthralled in the melody of the music,
responsive only to the rhythm of the throbbing strings. Guy could
hardly understand her rapture. Romeo et Juliette, even with world-famed
artists to sing the title rôles, had already ceased to awaken him to
passionate wonder. The naïveté of the girl's enjoyment surprised him,
and he wished that she might for once have forgotten the music for him.
Yet, if he had possessed the power to peer into the girl's heart, Guy
would have found that his own image was already stamped there; that it
was his presence which was the inspiration to enjoy; that, unknowingly,
imperceptibly, the tiny seed of love had been planted in her maiden
bosom, needing but the passage of the hours before it should spring up
into the perfect plant of a pure woman's first love. But, though Meriel
knew not of the implantation, she was conscious of the additional
thrill in her delight. The whole world was now become perfect to her.
She thought the sense of beatitude was the product of the sensuous
melody of the opera.
There was no discordant note anywhere. The evening promised to pass in
joy unalloyed. A fly dropped into the ointment. She looked up and met
the glance of Hildebrand Flurscheim. To her it was at first the mere
casual glance of a complete stranger from a near box. But there was
something compelling in it. When she glanced in his direction again
he was still gazing steadily at her. She drew herself back into the
shadow. But the exhilaration of spirit had passed. She felt compelled
to look again in the direction of the stranger. He was still watching.
When the act was ended, she turned almost petulantly to Guy.
"Can you tell me who that man is? The Jew staring at us
so persistently from the fifth box on the right?" she asked.
Guy glanced in the direction she indicated, but before he answered
Captain Marven spoke:
"The fifth?" he said. "That's Flurscheim, the chap who lost the
Greuze the other day. It's reported," he added meditatively, "that
he has sworn that he will devote the whole of the rest of his life
if necessary to tracking down the rascal who has robbed him of his
picture."
There was a smile on Guy's face as he answered: "He doesn't expect to
find it at Covent Garden, does he?"
Despite the smile, however, he was conscious of a vague sense of
uneasiness at the persistent scrutiny which Flurscheim was bestowing
upon the box. There are times when the fear of being found out bears
a marvellous similarity to the prickings of conscience, and certain
inward twitches which he felt made him supremely uncomfortable.
Hitherto he had always been able to justify his actions by means
of Lynton Hora's philosophy, but now he realised in a flash that
he would not longer be satisfied by justification in his own eyes.
Could he justify his deeds to the satisfaction of the pure-browed
girl by whose side he stood? Would she accept the doctrine that
since virtue consisted in a thirst for danger and a courage for the
forbidden, the highest virtue was to be found in the breaking of
laws? He knew instinctively that she would not, that in her eyes
he would appear no heroic figure engaged in single combat against
a host of enemies, but the despicable figure--a furtive, cringing,
creeping figure--the despicable figure of a thief.
He left the box with his thoughts in a turmoil. He scarcely observed
the particular warmth of the farewells with which both Mrs. Marven
and Captain Marven took leave of him. He hardly noticed that Meriel's
hand had lingered a moment in his grasp. He felt that he must be
assured that Flurscheim had not been watching him.