GUY'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 the
_Witch_ home, 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 was
greater 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.
The _Witch_ rode 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 the _Witch_ had 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. She would 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, heading the _Witch_ so that
the sails flapped wildly. Guy had barely brought her up to the wind
before it veered again to the south. The _Witch_ leaned over under the
pressure, and, gathering way, set the foam swirling under her bows.
As the squall strengthened the _Witch_ began 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. The _Witch_ was 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 was given
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. The _Witch_ heeled 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 the
_Witch_ came 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, the _Witch_ scudded 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 the
_Witch_, 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.
The _Witch_ flew 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. The
_Witch_ drove 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 were
shattered; 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 translated
Meriel'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.