A LITTLE SUNSHINE
After luncheon, Geoffrey was leaning over the stone balustrade of the
terrace waiting for Vera. Beyond a slight restlessness and extra
brilliancy of the eye she was better. She had proposed a ramble along
the cliffs and Geoffrey had assented eagerly.
His anxiety was fading away like the ashes of his cigarette. At first he
had been inclined to imagine that Vera's indisposition had been a move
on the part of the unseen foe. But he put this idea from him as
illogical. The enemy was not in the habit of using the gloved hand like
this. He struck down fiercely and remorselessly.
"No," Geoffrey murmured aloud; "Vera could not have been spared!"
A gentle hand was laid upon his arm. Marion stood beside him. They were
alone at that angle of the terrace and unseen from the house.
"You are right," said Marion. "Don't worry about that any more."
Geoffrey nodded approvingly. He slipped his arm round Marion's waist and
kissed her in a brotherly fashion. Marion inclined toward him with
half-closed eyes and a brightened color. Her limbs trembled; the
pressure of her lips was warm and sweet.
"Dear little sister," Geoffrey murmured. "What should we do without
you?"
Marion drew herself away abruptly. She rested her clasped hands over the
stone balcony so that Geoffrey should not see their unsteadiness; her
flushed face was half averted. It was a taking, a perfect picture.
"What would Vera say?" she asked.
"As if Vera would mind! Don't we all love you the same? And how many
times has Vera seen me kiss you? If there were no Vera, little sister,
then you may be sure that I should have kissed you in a different way!"
Marion laughed at the easy impertinence. That Geoffrey had no real love
or passion for anybody but Vera she knew perfectly well. She laughed
again, but there was nothing spontaneous in it; indeed, anybody but a
youthful egotist in love could have detected a certain jarring note of
pain.
"Here is Vera," said Geoffrey. "Let us ask her."
They put it to her merrily. They might have been in a world beyond all
sorrow or suffering. The music of their fresh young voices floated in
the air. Then Marion bent over the balustrade and watched the lovers out
of sight. Her face grew hard; a veil of heavy years seemed to have
fallen over it.
"If he only knew!" she said; "if he only knew! Why are clever people
often so foolish? And why do they commit follies with their eyes wide
open? Well, it doesn't matter, for you will never know, dear Geoffrey,
how passionately and devotedly I love you. And you never, never know
when temptation and inclination and opportunity go together. And I don't
believe that anybody could resist temptation if he or she were certain
not to be found out!"
"I am perfectly sure they wouldn't."
Marion turned with a stifled cry on her lips. Ralph Ravenspur was behind
her. The expression on his face was wooden and emotionless.
"I hope you have not been listening to me," she said reproachfully.
"I have been watching you, or rather feeling your presence for some
time." Ralph admitted. "I have been here since those young people went
away. But you said nothing; at least nothing I heard until that bit of
worldly wisdom dropped from your lips."
"It was an unworthy thought, Uncle Ralph."
"It might be unworthy of you, my dear, but I fancy it is true. Even the
very best of people give way to temptation. Put it away from you; don't
dwell upon your temptation, or it may get you into trouble."
"My temptation! Do you mean to say you know what it is?"
"I do," said Ralph. "You are deeply in love with your cousin Geoffrey.
There is wild blood in your veins, and that blood will out unless you
keep your feelings well under control. Ah, you may stare and look
dismayed, which I am sure you are doing although I cannot see you. Yes,
there is always the temptation to pray that the family foe might remove
Vera from your path."
A piteous cry came from Marion's lips. Who was this man who knew so much
and could probe her secret soul? Yet he was blind; he could not see. Was
it possible that some such horrible thoughts had crossed Marion's mind?
Atrocious thoughts will come to the best of us unasked for, unsought.
"Oh, you are cruel!" she said.
"Perhaps I am," Ralph admitted. "You see, I live in a dark world of my
own and I have small belief in the virtues of my fellow-creatures. But
you are an angel and I have amused myself by searing your wings."
"Is that because you think my secret is a shameful one?"
"Not in the least. Who can help the wayward driftings of a woman's
heart? And, anyway, your secret is safe with me."
He felt for Marion's fingers and put them to his lips. Before the girl
could reply he had drifted away, apparently feeling his way into space.
And for a long time Marion stood there gazing out to sea.
Meanwhile the lovers had forgotten everything but the beauty of the day,
and that the world was for themselves alone. The sun shone for them,
for them the blue sea thundered in white battalions against the cliffs;
for them the lark poured out its song at the gate of heaven, and the
heather bloomed on moor and headland.
They strolled along until they came to a favored spot where the gorse
flowered in yellow fires, and the crushed wild thyme was pungent under
their feet. Here Geoffrey threw himself on the turf and Vera reclined by
his side.
He could touch her hands and toy with the little ripples of her hair. To
watch the play of those pretty features and look back the love he saw in
those great starry eyes was a thing without alloy.
"Ah, me, if we could always be like this!" Vera said.
"You and I would be happy in any circumstances," said Geoffrey
thoughtfully. "Only I should like to see something of the world."
"What, go away and leave me all alone, dearest?"
Geoffrey smiled at this innocent coquetry. He touched the smooth satin
cheek caressingly. Vera only wanted him to disclaim any such intention
and he knew it, too. There was no deception about the matter, but they
were none the less happy for that.
"Of course not," Geoffrey declared. "I should take you with me wherever
I went. If we could only get the bar removed I should like to travel. I
should like to see men and cities, and measure my strength with my
fellows. I should like to go into Parliament. Ah, if we could only get
the bar removed!"
"If we only could," Vera sighed. "But I can't imagine that they will
touch us. We are so young and so innocent of wrong-doing. And yet this
morning----"
Vera paused, half afraid of betraying Ralph Ravenspur's confidence.
"Only this morning you were a bit afraid. Confess it."
"I was, Geoff. I felt strange when I awoke in the night. I felt cold and
like death when I awoke to-day, and then I fainted."
"But you are all right now, darling," Geoff said anxiously.
"Yes, dear, I never felt better. Still, it was a strange thing
altogether. I was well when I went to bed, but in the night I had a
curious dream. It seemed to me that I was lying half asleep with a
singular pricking sensation of my lips and face. And then an angel came
down and laid some white powder on my pillow, a white powder that looked
like a mixture of salt and powdered glass. Almost immediately the pain
ceased and I slept again. Then I awoke finally and had that fainting
fit. Don't you think it was a queer thing?"
"Yes, but what had the dream and the powder to do with it, little girl?"
"I was coming to that, Geoff. After I got better I remembered my dream
and looked at the pillow. You smile, thinking that only a woman would do
that. Sure enough there was some trace of gritty powder there, and I
collected it in a tissue paper. Directly I got it to the light half of
it melted; it seemed to dissolve in light like water. And here it is."
Vera produced a tiny packet from her pocket and opened it. There were
several grains of some sharp powder there which, as Geoffrey held them
in his hand, dissolved to nothingness. His face was very pale.
"Darling, this is a dreadful thing," he murmured. "I fancy----"
He paused, fearful of alarming Vera. He saw the hand of fate in this; he
saw the sword that was hanging over that beloved young life.
A passion of anger and despair filled him, but for Vera's sake he
checked the feeling. And it seemed to him as if he had passed in a
minute down a decade of years; as if in that brief space he had left his
boyhood behind and become a man.
"This must be looked into," he said sternly. "Every precaution----"
"Has been taken," Vera said quietly. "We have a protector among us,
dearest. One who is worth all the precautions put together. Do not fear
for me and do not ask me any questions, because I must not answer them.
But I am safe."
Geoffrey nodded. The cloud slowly lifted from his forehead. Vera was
speaking of her uncle Ralph and there was no reason to ask any
questions. Was it possible, Geoffrey wondered, that Ralph Ravenspur had
gone to the heart of the mystery, that it was wrapped up in his life,
and that he had come home to solve it?
But of this he said nothing. He resolved to render every assistance.
This vile thing was the work of earthly hands and earthly ingenuity
could solve it. Never was there cipher invented that was incapable of
solution.
Geoffrey drew Vera to his side and kissed her passionately. For a little
time she lay in his arms in absolute content. Her smiling eyes were
clear, her features placid. In any case she feared no unseen danger.
There must be some great sheltering power behind her, or she had never
looked so sweet and placid as that.
"I could not do without you, darling," Geoffrey said.
"And you are not going to do without me," Vera smiled. "There is much
yet to be done, but it is going to be accomplished, dearest. Something
tells me that the hour of our freedom is at hand. And something also
tells me, Geoff, that you are going to have a great deal to do with it."
They came back at length up the slope leading to the castle. And there
Ralph came upon them in his own noiseless, mysterious fashion. He clung
to them until Vera had entered the house and then led Geoffrey to the
terrace.
"There is nobody within earshot of us?" he demanded.
Geoffrey assured him that there was not. He was impressed with the
earnestness of his uncle's manner. He had never seen him so moved
before.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked.
"Much," was the whispered reply. "If you are bold and resolute."
"I am, I am. I would lay down my life as the martyrs of old did to solve
the mystery."
"Ah," Ralph said, in a dry, croaking whisper. "I felt sure I could trust
you. There is a great danger and it is near. In that danger I want a
pair of eyes. Lend me yours."
"Dear uncle, I will do anything you please."
"Good. I like the ring in your voice. At half-past eleven to-night I
will come to your room. There I will confide in you. Till then, absolute
silence."