Sylvia's plans, so well laid and apparently so easy of execution did
not, to her chagrin, work out, for instead of awaking and demanding
supper Stanley Heath slept without a break until morning.
Had not Marcia insisted on leaving her door ajar lest the invalid call,
the girl might have slipped down stairs in the darkness and returned the
handkerchief.
As it was, fate forced her to put it into her bureau drawer and await
more favorable opportunity.
This, alas, did not come.
Sun was tinting the lavender sands to rose and gilding the water with
its first flecks of gold when she saw Marcia standing at the foot of her
bed.
"Mr. Heath has a high fever and can scarcely speak aloud," explained
she. "I'm afraid he is quite ill. I wish you'd call up Doctor Stetson."
"Mercy on us!"
The girl, drowsy and heavy-eyed, sprang out of bed.
"I'll be down in just a minute," she exclaimed. "How do you happen to be
up so early?"
"I've been up off and on all night," answered Marcia. "Mr. Heath was
restless and thirsty. About midnight I heard him tossing about, and
thinking he might be hungry, I heated some broth and took it to him."
"I didn't hear you. I must have been dead to the world. Why didn't you
speak?"
"There was no need of it. You were tired."
"No more than you."
"I was wakeful, anyway. I don't know why. Perhaps I had him on my mind.
If so, it is fortunate, for he did not call."
"I'm dreadfully sorry he feels so miserable."
"He won't admit it. He declares he is going back to New York today."
"But he can't--he mustn't."
"He is determined to. He says he has something very important to attend
to. Of course I have no authority over him but perhaps Doctor Stetson
can exert some. That is why I am anxious to reach him before he goes
out," explained Marcia, moving toward the door.
"I will call him right away."
"I'll go down and start breakfast, then. Mr. Heath is dozing. He has
promised not to get up for at least an hour. We must have the doctor
here within that time."
"I'll tell him to hurry."
Marcia tiptoed down the stairs.
The freshness of early morning was upon the day. Through the kitchen
window pale shafts of light shot across the floor, brightening the
colored rugs and making brass and copper glisten. Starting the fire, she
threw open the door to let in the salt breeze.
The dampness and chill of the night had disappeared and the air was mild
with the breath of coming spring. Mingling with the gulls' cries she
could hear the twitter of sparrows and the occasional chirp of a robin.
The village, still hazy in mist, was taking on sharper outlines and from
the bay the voices of fishermen and the chug of a motor-boat drifted
distinctly across the water.
Prince came bounding into the house from some distant pilgrimage of his
own, almost knocking her down in his eagerness for breakfast.
She glanced far up the shore and saw, serenely rocking with the tide,
_My Unknown Lady_.
As she whispered the name, she was conscious of hot blood rushing to her
cheeks.
How ridiculous! Stanley Heath was simply a stranger of a night, he was
nothing to her.
Well indeed was it, too, that he was not!
During her hours of sleeplessness the ardor of her faith in him had,
to a degree, cooled. True, she still maintained her belief in his
innocence; but that belief, she now realized, was only a blind unfounded
intuition. Both the circumstances and sober second thought failed to
back it up. The man's impatience to be gone, his complete silence
with regard to the jewels, although perfectly justifiable, did not
strengthen it.
Marcia conceded he had every right to keep his affairs to himself. She
was close-mouthed and therefore sympathetic with the quality in others.
But such an unusual happening! What more natural than that one should
offer some explanation?
Last night, transported by emotion to a mood superheroic, she had wished
none; nay, more, she had deliberately placed herself beyond the reach of
it. Today she toppled from her pedestal and became human, shifting from
goddess to woman.
Had Stanley Heath started to confide his secret to her, she would even
now have held up her hand to stay him.
It was the fact that through the dim hours of the night, while she sat
at his elbow trying to make the discomforts he suffered more bearable,
he talked of almost everything else but the thing uppermost in both
their minds. That was what hurt. She did not want to know. She wanted to
be trusted; to help; to feel his dependence upon her. Instead he held
her at arm's length.
Oh, he voiced his gratitude for what she had done. He did that over and
over again, apologizing at having caused her so much trouble. As if she
minded! Why, she was glad, glad to be troubled!
He spoke with almost an equal measure of appreciation of the crew who
had dragged his boat off the sand-bar, appearing to consider them also
tremendously kind--as undoubtedly they were! Still, they had not begun
to come into the close contact with him that she had.
Marcia caught herself up with a round turn. Here she was being
sensitive, womanish. How detestable! Why should Stanley Heath pour out
his soul to her? She had never laid eyes on him until yesterday. In a
day or two he would be gone never again to come into her life. She was
glad of it. It was better so.
She had just reached a state of complete tranquillity and happiness. Why
have her serenity stirred into turmoil and she herself transformed once
more from a free woman to a slave? Her mind should dwell no more on this
man or his affairs. If he decided to go back to New York today, ill as
he was, she would not attempt to deter him. His business was his own and
he must manage it as he thought best.
This decision reached, she drew in her chin, lifted her head a wee bit
and began to get the breakfast.
Even Doctor Stetson's arrival and his subsequent verdict that the
patient had bronchitis and would take his life in his hands should he
leave his bed, afforded her only scant satisfaction.
So she was to keep Stanley Heath under her roof after all--but against
his will. It was not a very flattering situation.
She sent Sylvia up with his coffee and toast, and began her usual round
of morning duties.
And then just as they were finished and the clock was striking eleven,
he called.
She went up, cheerful but with her head still held high, and paused on
the threshold.
Glancing at her he smiled.
"You look like a bird about to take flight. Won't you sit down?"
She went nearer. Nevertheless she did not take the chair he indicated.
"I see you are busy," he said. "I thought perhaps your housework might
be done by this time and you might have a moment to spare. Well, I
mustn't interrupt. Forgive me for calling."
"I'm not busy."
"You seem hurried."
"I'm not. I haven't a thing in the world to do," Marcia burst out.
"Good! Then you can stay a little while," he coaxed. "Now answer this
question truthfully, please. You heard what Doctor Stetson said about my
returning to New York today. I don't want to be pig-headed and take a
risk if it is imprudent; that is neither fair to others nor to myself.
Still, it is important that I go and I am anxious to. What is your
advice?"
"I think you are too ill."
A frown of annoyance wrinkled his forehead.
"If you will consent to stay where you are a few days, you will then be
all right to go," she added.
Obviously the suggestion did not please him. However, he answered more
mildly:
"Perhaps you're right. Yet for all that I am disappointed. I want very
much to go. It is necessary."
"Can't anything be done from here?" queried she.
"Such as--?"
"Letters, telegrams--whatever you wish. I can telephone or telegraph
anywhere. Or I can write."
Surprise stole over his face, then deepened to admiration.
"You would do that for me--blindfolded?"
"Why not?"
"You know why."
"I simply want to help. I always like to help when I can," she explained
hurriedly.
"Even when you do not understand?"
Piercingly his eyes rested on her face.
"I--I--do not need to understand," was her proud retort.
For the fraction of a second, their glances met. Then she turned away
and a pause, broken only by the crash of the surf on the outer beach,
fell between them.
When at last he spoke his voice was low--imperative.
"Marcia--come here!"
She went--she knew not why.
"Give me your hand."
Again, half-trembling, half reluctant, she obeyed.
He took it in his and bending, kissed it.
"I will stay and you shall telegraph," was all he said.
She sprang to fetch paper and pencil, as if welcoming this break in the
tension.
"I'm afraid I cannot write plainly enough with my left hand," he said.
"Will you take down the message?"
"Certainly."
"_Mrs. S. C. Heath_"
Her pencil, so firm only an instant before, quivered.
"Have you that?"
"Yes."
"_The Biltmore, New York City._"
"Yes."
"_Everything safe with me. Do not worry. Marooned on Cape Cod with cold.
Nothing serious. Home soon. Love. Stanley._"
"Got that?"
"Yes."
Had something gone out of her voice? The monosyllable was flat,
colorless. Heath looked at her. Even her expression was different--or
did he merely imagine it?
"Perhaps I would better just glance over the message before you send
it--simply to make sure it's right."
"Let me copy it first," she objected.
"Copy it? Nonsense! What for? Nobody's going to see it."
He reached for the paper.
Still she withheld it.
"What's the trouble?"
"It isn't written well enough. I'd rather copy it."
"Why?"
"It's wobbly. I--I--perhaps my hands were cold."
"You're not chilly?"
"No--oh, no."
"If the room is cool you mustn't stay here."
"It isn't. I'm not cold at all."
"Will you let me take the telegram?"
She placed it in his hand.
"It is shaky. However, that's of no consequence, since you are to 'phone
Western Union. Now, if you truly are not cold, I'd like to dictate a
second wire."
"All right."
"This one is for Currier. _Mr. James Currier, The Biltmore, New York
City. Safe on Cape with My Lady. Shall return with her later. Motor here
at once, bringing whatever I need for indefinite stay._
_Stanley C. Heath_
"Got that?"
"O.K.," nodded Marcia.
This time, without hesitation, she passed him the paper.
"This, I see, is your normal hand-writing," he commented as he placed
the messages side by side. "I must admit it is an improvement on the
other."
Taking up the sheets, he studied them with interest.
"Hadn't I better go and get off the messages?" suggested Marcia, rising
nervously.
"What's your hurry?"
"You said they were important."
"So I did. Nevertheless they can wait a few minutes."
"The station might be closed. Often it is at noontime."
"It doesn't matter if they don't go until afternoon."
"But there might be some slip."
He glanced at her with his keen eyes.
"What's the matter?"
"Matter?"
"Yes, with you? All of a sudden you've turned easterly."
"Have I?" Lightly, she laughed. "I probably have caught the habit from
the sea. Environment does influence character, psychologists say."
"Nevertheless, you are not fickle."
"How do you know? Even if I were, to change one's mind is no crime," she
went on in the same jesting tone. "The wind bloweth whither it listeth,
and the good God does not condemn it for doing so."
"But you are not the wind."
"Perhaps I am," she flashed teasingly. "Or I may have inherited
qualities from the sands that gave me birth. They are forever shifting."
"You haven't."
"You know an amazing amount about me, seems to me, considering the
length of our acquaintance," she observed with a tantalizing smile.
"I do," was the grim retort. "I know more than you think--more, perhaps
than you know yourself. Shall I hold the betraying mirror up before
you?"
"The mirror of truth? God forbid! Who of us would dare face it?" she
protested, still smiling but with genuine alarm. "Now do let me run
along and send off the messages. I must not loiter here talking. You are
forgetting that you're ill. The next you know your temperature will go
up and Doctor Stetson will blame me."
"My temperature has gone up," growled Stanley Heath, turning his back on
her and burying his face in the pillow with the touchiness of a small
boy.