STAR-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 cutter _Witch_ lying at
her moorings opposite the house, or the rightly christened little
eighteen-footer _Dainty_, 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 when the 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 guilty of 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 the _Witch_ about 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 the _Witch_ run 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.
The _Witch_ flew 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 still pressed 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 the
_Witch_ ran 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. Guy especially
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 the
path 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 the _Witch_ will 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. "If we
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 the _Witch_ will 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 old _Witch_," 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 clasped her 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.