There was a feeling in the air along that dark shore which accorded well
with Stratton's sensations. The solemn melancholy of the place was
calming; and as he watched the sheet of spangled gold before him softly
heaving and appearing to send the star reflections sweeping at last in a
golden cream upon the sands, life seemed, after all, worth living, and
his cares and sufferings petty and contemptible.
He wandered on close by the sea, where it broke gently in phosphorescent
spray, till he was abreast of the cottage under the cliff where
Brettison lodged with their charge. There was a feeble light burning,
and it shed out its glow through the open door, while lamps glimmered
from higher up the cliff, where three or four miniature chateaux, the
property of Parisians--let to visitors to the lovely little fishing
village--were snugly ensconced in the sheltering rocks.
There were voices just above the cottage, and a woman's speaking
volubly, and he fancied he recognised that of the nurse, but felt that
she would hardly have left her patient, though there was no reason why
she should not, for Barron would have been in bed an hour or two, and it
was absurd to expect her to be always on the watch.
Stratton felt a strong desire, almost irresistible, as he gazed at the
light from the cottage door, to go up, enter, and gaze at the man who
had come between him and happiness. He took a few steps forward under
the influence upon rum, but only to stop and think, as the voluble voice
above still went on in its peculiar French.
"It would not be safe," he thought, with a shudder. His presence had
influenced the man imperceptibly when waking, might it not also as he
slept?
Stratton drew back, and continued his walk along the shore, enjoying the
coolness of the fiery looking water which washed over and about his
feet, full, as it were, of phosphorescent creatures, while here and
there to his right, where the sea lay calm amid the rocks, the water was
covered with what resembled a golden, luminous oil, which flashed softly
at times with a bluish tint.
"Brettison is right," he said to himself. "Life is grand, and it is our
petty cares which spoil it. Not petty, though, mine," he added, with a
sigh. "Ah! what it might be if I could but hope."
He drew a long, deep breath, and then made an effort to forget the past
in the glory of the present. He bared his head to the soft, warm night
air, and walked slowly on, gazing up into the depths of the vast arch
above his head, where stars innumerable shone on and on till they
resembled golden dust. The grandeur of the scene impressed him, and,
feeling his own littleness more and more, he resolved to cast his old
despondency aside and make a fresh start from that moment, accepting all
his worries as the share apportioned to him, and cease to nurse them to
the exclusion of the good.
He could not help a bitter smile crossing his lips the next minute as he
stopped short; for there, dimly seen before him, were two figures gazing
out to sea, and so occupied by their own thoughts that they had not
noticed his approach. They were talking in a low voice of the sea and
the phosphorescence--nothing more; but the tone of their voices!
The old, old story breathed in every modulation, and Stratton sighed and
drew silently away among the rocks farther from the sea, unnoticed by
the pair, who turned and began to retrace their steps toward the lights
he had left behind.
They were silent now; but just as they passed him--their figures looking
like one shadow between him and the luminous sea--the man said softly:
"I often feel as if it were a sin to be so happy when I think of them."
"Yes."
They passed on, while Stratton felt as if he had suddenly received a
tremendous blow, and he staggered back a step or two with his hands to
his brow.
Guest and Edie there! Had he gone mad?
He remained for a few seconds, as if paralysed, before he could collect
himself and follow the figures, which had now passed on and been
swallowed up in the darkness. A cold perspiration broke out upon his
face, and he walked on to overtake them--hurriedly now; but by degrees,
as he drew near enough to make out their silent, shadowy figures,
seeming to glide over the soft sand, he grew a little more calm.
For he felt that the fact of his dwelling so much upon the Jerrold
family had made him ready to jump at the conclusion that this was Edie
and her lover. He could not distinguish face or figure in the gloom,
and he had only had the man's voice to suggest the idea--the woman's was
but a whisper. They were English, of course; but what of that? It was
a foolish mistake; for it was utterly impossible that Guest and Edie
could be alone there that night upon those sands.
All the same, he followed to see where they went, shrinking from going
closer, now that he felt less sure, in dread lest he should seem to be
acting the part of spy upon two strangers; while if it were they it
would be madness to speak. There was only one thing to be done: warn
Brettison, and get their charge away at once.
There before him walked the pair so slowly and leisurely that he had to
be careful not to overtake them. They were nearing the cottage with the
open door, but the loud voice he had heard in passing was silent now,
and the stillness was oppressive--the beating of his own heart and the
soft whispering "whish" of the feet on the loose sand being all that was
audible to his ears.
It now occurred to him that, by a little management, he would be able to
convince himself that this was only a mad fancy; for the couple must
pass the open door, and if he struck off a little to his left, so as to
get nearer to the sea, he could hurry on unseen, and get opposite to the
door, so that when they passed the light he would have them like
silhouettes for a moment or two, quite long enough to make out their
profiles.
He set about carrying his plan into effect, and in a minute or so was
abreast of the pair, but they were quite invisible now; and, feeling
that he had gone too far, as soon as he was opposite to the lighted door
he began to advance slowly, expecting moment by moment to see the two
figures move into the light; but they did not come.
They must pass the door, he felt, for he could recall no way up the
cliff, the house perched up there being approached by a broad step-like
path from the rough roadway leading up the ravine which came down to the
shore with its stream, beside which, on either side, many of the
cottages were built.
Still they did not come, but Stratton waited patiently, for, lover-like,
they might be hanging back for a few moments before approaching the
light.
At last a dark figure in front of the doorway was plainly enough seen,
and Stratton leaned forward with eyes dilated, but only to utter a
muttered interjection, for the figure he saw was undoubtedly Brettison,
as he stood there apparently peering about in the darkness.
Another moment or two, and still no sign of the figures he sought, and,
wondering whether they could have passed through some miscalculation on
his part, he stepped forward quickly to make sure, when he became
visible to Brettison, who joined him at once.
"There you are, then. I was getting uneasy. One of the fishermen saw
you go along in this direction, and I was beginning to think that I must
get some of them to come and help me search for you."
"Why?" said Stratton harshly.
"Because the coast is dangerous, and there is always the risk of anyone
being surrounded by the advancing tide."
"Tide is going down," said Stratton quietly. "See anybody pass?" he
continued as he debated whether he should take Brettison into his
confidence, while all the time he kept a sharp look about him.
"No, not a soul. The most solitary place a man could select for a
stay."
"Is there a way up into the village beyond the cottage here?" said
Stratton quietly.
"Yes, but it is only a sort of flight of steps used by the people here.
It would be farther round, too. Better keep to the beach."
As he spoke Brettison walked by his side, and tried to edge him away
from the light, speaking in quite a whisper the while, as if afraid that
their voices might reach the occupant of the cottage.
And meanwhile Stratton was still debating within himself as to whether
he should tell his companion of the startling adventure he had had. But
feeling more and more that the idea was only coloured by his
imagination, and knowing in his heart that the old man would smile and
point out the impossibility of such an encounter, he determined to be
silent till the morning--if he could not learn anything about any
visitors who might be staying there.
Twice over as they walked he was on the point of speaking, but checked
himself, and then the opportunity was gone, for Brettison held out his
hand.
"Good-night, my boy," he said; "you are tired. There, go to the inn and
have a good night's rest."
"One moment, Brettison," said Stratton, arresting him. "You do not
think it possible that--"
He stopped short: he could not say it. The idea was absurd.
"Well, think what possible?" said Brettison, smiling.
"That he is likely to turn dangerous?"
"I have no fear of him whatever," said the old man. "There, don't
fidget; good-night."
Stratton went on to the inn, wishing that he had spoken to Brettison,
after all; and he had hardly taken his seat before he sprang up again to
go back to him. Before starting he summoned the landlady to question
her about visitors to the place, but only to find in a few minutes that
her knowledge was confined to those who came to her hotel. There were
people who let their houses and took in lodgers, she knew--yes, but she
had no patience with people who played at keeping an hotel.
Stratton went out once more into the night with the intention of going
straight to Brettison, telling him his suspicions, and asking his
advice; but he shrank from the task; and on the impulse of the moment
turned off to go and explore the village on the chance of happening upon
something which would give him a clue.
Five minutes devoted to his task was sufficient to satisfy him of the
hopelessness of the task, and he returned to the inn agitated, weary,
and trying to make some plan as to his proceedings as soon as it was
light.
"The post!" he said to himself. He would be able to learn there; and
half disposed to hire some vehicle and go across ten miles to the town,
he entered the doorway, to start once more, this time with a thrill of
certainty.
For, as he advanced, he saw at the end of the passage a man in
conversation with the landlady. He was making inquiries about a boat
for a sail next day. The next minute he turned to leave, and came face
to face with Guest.
"Great Heavens!" cried the latter hoarsely; "you or your ghost. O Mal,
old man, if it is you how could you be so mad?"
"Mad? Mad?" stammered Stratton. "What do you mean?"
"Why, as to follow me?"
"I--I did not know you were here."
"Oh, hang that, man. I told you in my letter."
"What letter?"
"The one I wrote and pushed into your letter-box after coming twice to
tell you."
"Letter?"
"Why, of course. You had it or you couldn't have come here."
Stratton's hand went to his breast, and the next minute he drew out a
soiled letter doubled up into three from the pressure of his pocketbook.
"You wrote this letter to me to tell me you were coming here?" said
Stratton in slow, strange accents.
"Of course I did, and I tell you that you have done a mean, cruel thing
in following me. It can do no good; Sir Mark will be furious, and it is
cruel to Myra."
"Myra--Myra here!" gasped Stratton as he reeled against the wall.
"Don't make a scene, man," said Guest in a low whisper. "Of course; I
told you she was coming, and how the old man insisted upon my coming
too. Why, you haven't opened the letter!"
"No," said Stratton in a hoarse whisper.
"Then how came you here?"
"I--Heaven only knows!" said Stratton. "It is beyond me."
Guest looked at him curiously, as if he doubted his word.
"We only came to-day. Had to stop at place after place; Myra is so weak
and ill."
Stratton groaned.
"Yes," said Guest; "that's better. Now look here. You and I will start
off at daybreak for home. It's hard on me, but it must be done."
"Yes. I saw you two--on the sands to-night. I was not sure. But tell
me, where are they staying?"
"At a little chateau-like place on the cliff; they got it through a
woman they knew at Saint Malo a couple or three years ago. She was
servant there. She is nurse now to an invalid gentleman staying at a
cottage just below."
Stratton stood gazing at his friend as if he had been turned to stone.