CHAPTER XXV

AMONG THE PINE TREES

This morning I heard noises about the house quite early and heavy footsteps in the drive. I was awake—it was only a few minutes since I had been sitting at the window watching the day break over the sea, and I had the curiosity to look out. I think that something must have told me what it meant, for my heart sank even before I had any idea of what was going on. There were two sailors from Lord Lumley's yacht in the bay, carrying great hampers down from the house. I guessed it all in a moment; he was going away.

I put on my dressing-gown and sat down in a low chair to watch. Through a chink in the blind I could keep it lowered and still see quite plainly. Presently I saw him appear in his yachting clothes, with oilskins on his arm. Would he glance up at all, I wondered. Yes; at the bend in the shrubbery he turned and looked for a full minute up at my window. It was all I could do to keep from waving him to come back. How pale he was, and how dejected his walk seemed. My eyes grew dim, and there was a lump in my throat as he turned and walked away. Would it have made any difference, I wonder, if he had known of my being there; if he could have seen my poor, sad, tear-stained face? I think that it would.

He has gone. I have seen the last of him. Am I glad or sorry, I wonder. Glad that my task has become so much easier, or sorry for my own unreasoning, selfish sake. Why should I be a hypocrite? These pages are to be the mirror of my heart. To others my whole life is a lie. I write here so that I may retain some faint knowledge of what truth really is. I am sorry—desperately, foolishly sorry. I know that my cheeks are leaden, and my heart is heavy. There is no light in the day; none of that swift, keen struggling with myself which his presence always imposed. He is gone, and I miss them; I should have laughed a few short days ago to have believed this true. But it is true!

The first bell has gone, and I have drawn up my blind. The promise of that blood-red sunrise has been fulfilled. I wish that he had waited another day. I have an idea that there is going to be a storm. There is a pale yellow light in the sky which I do not like, and, as far as one can see, the waves are crested with white foam. It is an ugly sea and an ugly sky. I wish that I were going with him, and that a storm might come and we might die together. I would not mind his holding me in his arms then. We would die like that, and death would be joy.

At breakfast I was able to take the news of his departure without making any sign. I fancy that Lady St. Maurice was watching me when she made the announcement. If she was expecting to read my thoughts and fears she was disappointed. She could have seen nothing but the most utter indifference. I felt that my mask was perfect.

But as the day wore on my task grew harder. The wind, which had been blowing hard all the morning, became a hurricane, and even in the house, with closed doors and windows, we could hear the far-off thunder of the sea sweeping in against the cliffs. Every one in the household became strangely restless and anxious. Lord St. Maurice, with a field glass under his arm, went out upon the cliffs, and he returned hatless and with his coat ripped up, shaking his head with ill-affected cheerfulness. There was no sign of the Stormy Petrel.

"Lumley would make for Yarmouth harbor directly he saw this beast of a gale blowing up," he declared, walking up and down the morning room with troubled face. "He is a little careless, but he is an excellent sailor, and he must have seen that there was dirty weather brewing. It isn't as though it were a sudden squall, you know, or anything of that sort. There was plenty of warning. All the same, I wish he hadn't started. It was very foolish, and I don't like such whims. I didn't hear him say anything about a cruise yesterday. Did you, Adrienne?"

Was it my fancy, or did Lady St. Maurice indeed glance at me as she answered:

"No, I heard nothing. Late last night he came to my room and told me that he had given Groves some orders, and that he should leave quite early this morning."

Lord St. Maurice frowned.

"It is most extraordinary," he said. "He gave you no reason whatever, then?"

"None!"

"Did he say where he was going to? We were shooting together all yesterday afternoon, and he said not a word about going away. On the contrary, he arranged to go to Norwich on Thursday to look at some horses."

The Countess shook her head.

"I know no more than you do, Geoffrey. I asked him where he was going, and he did not seem at all sure. He said that he would write if he remained away more than a day or two. You know how uncertain he is."

"It is very inconsiderate of him," Lord St. Maurice declared, leaving the room abruptly. "I am surprised at Lumley."

Lady St. Maurice and I were alone. She was pretending to read and I to work. So far as she was concerned, I could see that it was a pretence, for she held her book upside down, and for my part, I did not make a correct stitch. I knew that I ought to have been calm, that I was imperiling my secret every moment. When at last she spoke to me, I made a great effort to control my tone.

"Lord Lumley said nothing to you, I suppose, Margharita, about going away?"

"Nothing whatever," I answered quietly. "He would be scarcely likely to mention his plans to me and not to you or Lord St. Maurice."

I was forced to look up, and I met her eyes fixed upon me with a look which I had seen there once or twice before. It was almost a look of fear, as though she saw in my face something which aroused a host of sad, dimly-veiled memories. Was she wondering whether the presence of a Marioni in her house boded ill-fortune to herself and those who were dear to her? It may have been so.

She did not answer immediately, and I took advantage of the pause to leave the room. I could not bear to talk to her.

Ought I not to have been glad at all this—to have watched her pale, suffering face with satisfaction, and even with inward joy. Was she not in trouble greater than any I could bring upon her, and, indeed, had I not had a hand in it? Was it not I who had driven her son out into this danger? Should I not have rejoiced? Alas! alas! how could I, when my own heart was beating fast in a very agony of sickening fear.

My little pupil was away for the day—gone to play with the clergyman's children down in the village, and my time was my own. I was thankful, for I could not possibly have forced myself into the wearisome routine of lesson hearing and teaching. Solitude was my only relief.

The day wore on. Servants had been sent to every point along the coast, and the harbor master at Yarmouth had been telegraphed to every hour. I stood by my window, looking out in the fast gathering twilight, until I could bear it no longer. Dashing the tears from my face, I caught up a thick cloak, and running softly down the back stairs, left the house unobserved.

At first I could scarcely stand, and, indeed, as I turned the corner of the avenue and faced the sea, a gust of wind carried me off from my feet, and I had to cling to the low iron railings for support. The thunder of the storm and the waves seemed to shake the air around me. The sky was dark and riven with faint flashes of stormlight, which slanted down to the sea. By hard struggling I managed to make my way on to the cliffs, and stood there, looking downward, with my arm passed round a tall fir sapling for support. What a night it was! The spray of the waves breaking against the cliff leaped up into my face mingled with the blinding rain, and dimmed my vision so that I could only catch a faint view of the boiling, seething gulf below. Beyond, all was chaos; for a gray haze floated upon the water and met the low hanging clouds. And clear above the deep thunder of the sea came the shrill yelling of the wind in the pine groves which fringed the cliffs, sounding like the demoniacal laughter of an army of devils. Shall I ever forget the horror of that day, I wonder! I think not! It is written upon a page of my memory in characters over which time can have no power.

And in that moment of agony, when my thoughts were full of his peril, I wrestled no longer with my secret; I knew that I loved him. I knew that he was dear to me as no other man could be. I knew that I was face to face with a misery unchanging and unending.

Were not the fates themselves fighting against me in my task? That it should be, of all men upon this earth, he, the son of the woman whose death would be at my door. A murderess! Should I be that! The wind caught up the word which had burst from my pale lips, and I seemed to hear it echoed with fiendish mirth among the bending tree tops of the plantation. A murderess! and of his mother, the mother whom he loved so fondly! If he should know it! If the day should come when my sin should be laid bare, and he should know that he had given his love to such a one. Sin! Was it a sin? Was my love turning the whole world upside down? Had it seemed so to me before? Was it sin or justice! Oh! to whom should I look for strength to hold me to my purpose. To pray would be blasphemous. For me there was no God, no friend on earth, no heaven! I could only think of that one shattered life, and hug it to my memory.

I wandered backward and forward in the storm, drenched and cold, yet all unmindful of my state. I could have borne no roof over my head in those hours of my agony. The thought of his danger maddened me. Even though I knew so well that he could be nothing to me; that if he knew the truth, he would loathe me; that soon the day would come when I should scarcely dare to raise my eyes to his before we parted forever. All these things seemed to make me long the more passionately to look once more into his face, to know that he was safe. It was my fault that he was in this danger. Horrible thought!

I was exhausted; worn out in body and mind by the sickening fears which no effort of will seemed able to quell. Even my limbs at last gave way beneath me, and I sank upon my knees, holding my face in my hands. Had the edge of the cliff been a little nearer, could I have done it without any physical effort, I had been content to close my eyes, and throw myself into the sea. If there are no joys in death, at least there is rest.

Then a voice came to me.

"Margharita!"

I leaped up from the wet ground with wildly-beating heart. Was it some mocking trick of the storm—that voice in my ears, that dear, dear voice? My eyes seemed dilated, and through the deep gloom I saw a tall figure striding toward me. Then I know that I cried out and called to him by his name; and alas! by the tone of my voice, and the light that flashed into my face, my secret was gone! For evil or for good he knew then that I loved him!