Chapter Sixteen. The Light of Love.

It had been all summer—endless, cloudless summer in England, from the time of the violets to the now ripening corn. And there was no foreboding of storm or winter in the air that glorious day.

It was yet quite early in the morning, and high on the Hog’s Back, that ridge of the Surrey Hills that runs from Farnham towards Guildford, the gentle coolness of daybreak had not left the air.

Roddy and Elma had met for an early morning walk, she being again alone at the Towers. They had been walking across the fields and woods for an hour, and were now high up upon the hill which on one side gave views far away to the misty valley of the Thames, and on the other to Hindhead and the South Downs. The hill rose steep and sombre, its sides dark with chestnut woods, and all about them the fields were golden with the harvest.

They were tired with their walk, so they threw themselves down upon the grassy hillside and gazed away across the wide vista of hills and woodlands.

“How glorious it is!” declared the girl, looking fresh and sweet in a white frock and wide-brimmed summer hat trimmed with a saxe-blue scarf.

“Delightful! This walk is worth getting up early to take!” he remarked with soft love laughter, looking into her wonderful eyes that at the moment were fixed in fascination upon the scene.

Since that day months ago when he had declared his affection, he had never spoken directly of love, but only uttered it in those divers ways and words, those charms of touch and elegance of grace which are love’s subtlest, truest, and most perilous language.

Slowly, as she turned her beautiful eyes to his, he took her soft little hand, raising it gallantly to his lips.

“Elma,” he said after a long silence, “I have brought you here to tell you something—something that perhaps I ought to leave unsaid.”

“What?” she asked with sudden interest, her eyes opening widely.

“I want to say that I dislike your friend Mr Rutherford,” he blurted forth.

“Mr Rutherford!” she echoed. “He is father’s friend—not mine!”

“When I was at Park Lane the other night I noticed the marked attention he paid you—how he—”

“Oh! you are awfully foolish, Mr Homfray—Roddy! He surely pays me no attention.”

“You did not notice it, but I did!” cried the young man, whose heart was torn by fierce jealousy.

“Well, if he did, then I am certainly quite unaware of it.”

His hand closed fast and warm upon hers. “Ah!” he cried, his eyes seeking hers with eager wistfulness, “I do not wonder. Once I should have wondered, but now—I understand. He is rich,” he said softly and very sadly. “And, after all, I am only an adventurer.”

“What are you saying?” cried the girl.

“I know the truth,” he replied bitterly. “If you ever loved me you would one day repent, for I have nothing to offer you, Elma. I ought to be content with my life—it is good enough in its way, though nameless and fruitless also, perhaps. Yes, it is foolish of me to object to the attentions which Mr Rutherford pays you. He returned from Paris specially last Wednesday to be at your party.”

“I cannot understand!” she declared. “I do not want to understand! You are foolish, Roddy. I have no liking for Mr Rutherford. None whatever!”

“Are you quite certain of that?” he cried, again looking eagerly into her face with a fierce expression such as she had never seen before upon his handsome countenance.

“I am, Roddy,” she whispered.

“And you really love me?”

“I do,” she whispered again. “I shall be content anyhow, anywhere, any time—always—with you!”

He let go her hands—for him, almost roughly—and rose quickly to his feet, and silently paced to and fro under the high hedgerow. His straw hat was down over his eyes. He brushed and trampled the wild flowers ruthlessly as he went. She could not tell what moved him—anger or pain.

She loved him well—loved him with all the simple ardour and fierce affection of one of her young years. After all, she was not much more than a child, and had never before conceived a real affection for any living thing. She had not yet experienced that affinity which comes of maturer years, that subtle sympathy, that perfect passion and patience which alone enable one heart to feel each pang or each joy that makes another beat.

Roddy’s moods were often as changeful as the wind, while at times he was restless, impatient and depressed—perhaps when his wireless experiments gave no result. But it was often beyond her understanding.

Seeing him so perturbed, Elma wondered whether, in her confession of affection, she had said anything wrong. Was he, after all, growing tired of her? Had that sudden fit of jealousy been assumed on purpose to effect a breach?

She did not go to him. She still sat idly among the grasses.

A military aeroplane from Farnborough was circling overhead, and she watched it blankly.

After a little while her lover mastered whatever emotion had been aroused within him, and came back to her.

He spoke in his old caressing manner, even if a little colder than before.

“Forgive me, dearest,” he said softly. “I—I was jealous of that man Rutherford. That you really love me has brought to me a great and unbounded joy. No shadow has power to rest upon me to-day. But I—I somehow fear the future—I fear that yours would be but a sorry mode of existence with me. As I have said, my profession is merely that of a traveller and adventurer. Fortune may come in my way—but probably not. We cannot all be like the Italian beggar who bought the great Zuroff diamond—one of the finest stones in existence—for two soldi from a rag-dealer in the Mercato Vecchio in Ravenna.”

“You have your fortune to make, Roddy,” she said trustfully, taking his hand. “And you will make it. Keep a stout heart, and act with that great courage which you always possess.”

“I am disheartened,” he said.

“Disheartened! Why?”

“Because of the mystery—because of these strange mental attacks, this loss of memory to which I am so often subject. I feel that before I can go farther I must clear up the mystery of those lost days—clear myself.”

“Of what?” she asked, his hand still in hers.

“Of what that woman made me—compelled me to do,” he said in a harsh, broken voice. He had not told her he had discovered where he had been taken. He felt that he was always disbelieved.

“Now, Roddy, listen!” she cried, jumping up. “I believe that it is all hallucination on your part. You were kept prisoner at that house—as you have explained—but beyond that I believe that, your brain being affected by the injection the devils gave to you, you have imagined certain things.”

“But I did not imagine the finding of Edna Manners!” he cried. “Surely you believe me!”

“Of course I do, dear,” she said softly.

“Then why do you not tell who she was? At least let me clear up one point of the mystery.”

“Unfortunately I am not allowed to say anything. My father has forbidden it.”

“But what has your father to do with it? I know he has put the matter into the hands of ex-inspector Fuller. But why?”

“Father knows. I do not.”

“But he told me that much depended upon discovering her,” said her lover. “Why does he search when I know that she died in my arms?”

“You have never told him so. He wishes to obtain proof of whether she is dead, I think,” said the girl.

“Why?”

“That I cannot tell. He has his own motives, I suppose. I never dare ask him. It is a subject I cannot mention.”

“Why?”

“He forbade me ever to utter Edna’s name,” she replied slowly.

“That is very curious, when he told me that he must find her. And he employed the famous Fuller to search for trace of her. But,” he added, “trace they will never find, for she is dead. If I told him so he would certainly not believe me. They all think that I am half demented, and imagine weird things!” And he drew a long breath full of bitterness.

“Never mind,” she said. “It would be infamous to be melancholy, or athirst for great diamonds on such a glorious day.”

“True, my darling, true!” he said. “Let us sit down again. There! Lean back so as to be in the shade, and give me your hand. Now I want to kiss you.”

And taking her in his warm embrace, he rained kisses upon her full red lips in wild ecstasy, with low murmurs of love that were sweet in the young girl’s ears, while she, on her part, reclined in his arms without raising protest or trying to disengage herself from his strong clasp.

“I love you, Elma!” he cried. “That you have no thought for that man Rutherford who danced with you so many times on Wednesday night, who took you into supper and laughed so gaily with you, has greatly relieved me. I know I am poor, but I will do my very utmost to make good and to be worthy of your love.”

Again his lips met hers in a long, passionate caress. For both of them the world was nonexistent at that moment, and then, for the first time, her pretty lips pressed hard against his and he felt one long, fierce and affectionate kiss.

He knew that she was his at last!

Half an hour later, as they went down the steep hill and across the beautiful wooded country towards Haslemere, Roddy Homfray trod on air. For him the face of the world had suddenly changed. Theirs was a perfect peace and gladness in that morning of late summer. Elma, on her part, needed nothing more than the joy of the moment, and whatever darkness her lover may have seen in the future was all sunlight to her. Roddy’s glad smile was for her all-sufficient.

That day surely no shadow could fall between them and the sun!

As they walked along, Roddy suddenly exclaimed:

“What fools are clever folk!”

Surely his hours of melancholy had not returned, she thought.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because my enemies—my unknown mysterious enemies—your enemies—are fools, Elma, my darling.” And then perhaps for a moment they caught sight of each other’s souls.

“Perhaps they are. But we must both be guarded against them,” the girl said as he walked beside her.

“Guarded! Yes, Poor Edna has fallen their victim. Next, my darling, it might be you yourself! But of the motive I can discern nothing.”

“I! What have I done?” cried the girl, looking straight at him. “No, surely I can have no enemies.”

“We all have enemies, darling. Ah! you do not yet realise that in our life to-day falsehoods are daily food and that a lie is small coinage in which the interchange of the world, francs, marks, dollars, or diplomacy, is carried on to the equal convenience of us all. Lying lips are no longer an abomination. They are part of our daily existence.”

“You are horribly philosophic, Roddy!” she said with a laugh. “But I quite understand that it is so. The scandals in politics and in society prove it every day.”

“Yes. And let us—both of us—now that we love each other, be forewarned of the mysterious evil that threatens.”

“How?”

“I can’t tell. Yet I have a vague premonition that though the sun shines to-day, that all is bright and glorious, and that the clear horizon of our lives is speckless, yet very soon a darkness will arise to obscure further the mystery of that night in Welling Wood.”

“I sincerely hope not. Let us leave the affair to Inspector Fuller,” said Elma. “He was down to see my father the night before last. I do not know what was said. I left them together in the library when I went to bed.”

“You heard nothing?”

“Only as I came in I heard Fuller mention the name of your friend Andrew Barclay, who has gone to Marseilles to see the Moorish Minister.”

“Yes, Barclay is certainly my friend. But how could the detective have possibly known that?”

“Detectives are strangely inquisitive people,” remarked the girl, as hand in hand they went down the hill.

“That is so. And I only hope Mr Fuller will discover the truth concerning poor Edna Manners. Ah! I recollect it all so well. And yet the recollection goes giddily round and round and round in a sickening whirl of colour before my blinded eyes. It is all horrible! And it is all hideous and incredible. She died! I dashed to raise the alarm—and then I know no more! All I recollect is that I grovelled, frightened, sobbing! I saw the shimmering of sun-rays through the darkness of leaves. I was in a strange garden and it was day! And always since, whenever I have closed my eyes, I can see it still!”

“No, Roddy,” she urged. “Try to put it all aside. Try not to think of it!”

“But I can’t forget it!” he cried, covering his face with his hands. “I can’t—I can’t—it is all so terrible—horrible.”

In sympathy the girl took his arm. Her touch aroused him. Of a sudden all the strength of his being came to his aid.

“Forgive me, darling! Forgive me!” he craved.

And together they crossed the low old stile into the road which led down through a quaint little village, and out on the way to Haslemere.

On that same morning at noon Richard Allen again stood in the dining-room at Willowden, when Gordon Gray, alias Rex Rutherford, entered. He was in a light motor-coat, having just returned from his tour to Scotland.

“Well, Dick!” he cried cheerily in that easy, good-humoured way of his, that cheerful mannerism by which he made so many friends. “So you’ve had luck—eh?”

“Yes, after a narrow escape. Got caught, and had to fight a way out,” laughed the other.

“Not the first time. Do you recollect that night in Cannes two years ago? By Jove! I thought we were done.”

“Don’t let’s talk of nasty things,” his friend said. “Here’s the precious little map—the secret of the Wad Sus mines.”

“Splendid!” cried Gray, taking the small piece of folded paper to the window. “By Jove! it gives exact measurements in metres, and minute directions.”

“Yes. And the old Minister has in his possession a great emerald taken from the ancient workings.”

“We ought to get that. It will show bona fides when we deal with the concession. It would be better to buy it than to get it by other means. If it were stolen there would be a hue-and-cry raised. But if we could get it honestly—honestly, mark you, Dick!—we could get the official certificate saying where and when it was found.”

“True!” remarked Allen, who chanced to be standing near the window and whose attention had suddenly been attracted by a movement in the bushes on the opposite side of the lawn. “But don’t move, Gordon!” he cried quickly. “Keep quiet! Don’t show yourself! Get back behind the curtains. There’s somebody over in the bushes yonder, watching the window! Just by the yew-tree there. Watch!”

In an instant Gordon Gray was on the alert. For some moments both men stood with bated breath, watching eagerly.

Suddenly the figure moved and a ray of sunlight revealed a woman’s face.

“By Gad! Dick! Yes, I’ve seen that woman somewhere before! What can be her game? She’s evidently taking observations! Call Freda and Jimmie, quick! We must all get out of this at once! There’s not a second to lose! Quick!”