A Sovereign Remedy Part 42

The sharp rug of a running rope recalled him to the present; the loop of the sheet was slipping as the breeze freshened.

It was freshening indeed. Behind him lay quite a squall, crisping the ripples to little indignant waves, and over in the south-east a cloud, pale-grey but threatening, already showed as a widening arch from the horizon. One of the swift spring storms was coming up apace, and he must run for it for all he was worth. There was no more time for dreams; every ounce of the squall that goes before the storm must be made use of if he was to send his valentine.

But he would send it safe enough, unless the wind shifted. After a while, during which the boat, hard held, flew through the waves, and the blue cloud to the northward rose higher and higher on the horizon, the wind did shift just at a point or two towards the south, and he in his turn had to shift his tiller so as to keep that extreme north-eastern headland before him. So it became a harder tussle than ever between him and the wind to keep full way on the boat. She was carrying more sail than was safe, but he could not afford to lose a moment of time; although, all things being equal, he had still a fair chance of making the land.

Another slight shift! and now before him--a gleam of light on the land that was already shadowed by the coming storm--he saw a creek of white sand slightly to westward of him, where he could at least have a chance of beaching his boat, where, for the matter of that, if the worst came to worst, he would at least have a better chance of not being dashed to pieces if he tried to swim. Beyond, the coast was cliff-bound, rock-bound.

Would she take so much? He let the sheet slip through his fingers half inch by half inch, gauging the wind's pressure on the sail cautiously.

Yes! she would take it. He could make the creek if all went well.

But he had reckoned without the current which here, close to the land, began to gather itself for a headlong race round that eastern cliff; so inch by inch the boat's prow slid from the white streak of safety to the rocks.

Would she stand another inch of rope?

She stood it, and leapt forward like a greyhound, giving to the full sweep of the storm which at that moment, with a crash of thunder, broke over them; then righting herself and careering before it like some mad thing, her way redoubled by the fierce wind which sang in Ned's ears, as, clinging to one taffrail with his hand, he stood almost on the other. There was no time now even for thought; the feeling of fight came in its place, since to steady the tiller for the creek one moment, and give to the huge rollers the next, was enough for soul, and brain, and body.

Then on the crest of a wave he saw the creek in front of him, but saw also that a giant roller just behind him must swamp the boat unless he steered straight towards the rocks on the north-east. They were sharp, jagged rocks, like teeth just showing above the boil of the waves. How far out did the reef run? What length was that ravening jaw?

Who could say? The next instant, with his boots kicked off, and the thwart, on which he had kept an eye this while past, held under his arm-pits by his outstretched arms, as a buoy, he had leapt into the roller as it lifted the boat. The water felt warm to him, spray and wind-chilled as he was; warm, but rough, as it seized him, ducked him, cuffed him, bruised him; all but broke him, ere with a mighty rush it flung him forwards. Ye G.o.ds! what it was not to be quite sound--to have an arm that could not stand a strain! Still that awful something against which he had struck in the downdraw had been warded off somehow and ...

Then once more the following roller, stronger of the giant twins which hunt the wide wastes of water in couples, overtook him, caught him, buffeted him, knocked him senseless, so, with a wild shrieking scramble of pebbles and coral sand, swept him up to the very last corner of the creek. His head, as he lay stunned, was within an inch of a jagged needle-point of rock which would have crashed into his skull as if it had been an egg-sh.e.l.l.

It was full five minutes ere another giant wave reached out for him and felt him about the feet. But by this time that was enough to rouse him. He stirred, sat up, and half-mechanically withdrew himself stiffly beyond any further touch. He was bleeding from cuts in the hands and on his knees; but that seemed to be all the damage done.

Except for the boat, of course ... What of the boat? It was matchwood already amongst those devilish rocks to the eastward.

"That was a nearish squeak," he murmured softly as he rose, and limping a little, sought shelter among the clefts of the cliff from the blinding torrents of rain.

An hour or so afterwards, however, having with easy grace and some small knowledge of Turkish and modern Greek hired a gaily caparisoned mule from a neighbouring farmer, he rode up the Knights' Street quite cheerfully, dried and warmed by the sun, which, after the brief storm, had shone out again radiantly, carelessly.

He had settled what the valentine was to be from the very moment that the idea of it had entered his head, but it took him fully half an hour to see it safely through the hands of the Turkish officials, and then they charged him for a message in cipher.

Yet it was only a very simple quotation:--

'Haply I think on thee, and then my state; Like to the lark at break of day uprising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate.'

He did not even put his name to it, for it seemed impossible to him that she should not know who sent it.

By this time it was close on four o'clock, and he computed the difference in longitude by his watch.

"She ought to get it at latest by four," he said to himself as he strolled off to the old church to live awhile amongst the ghosts of the Crusaders and the Knights Hospitalliers of St. John.

As a matter of fact it was a quarter to four when the brick-dust coloured envelope was put into Aura's hands, but she was still looking at it with a certain scare in her eyes and a certain flutter at her heart when Ted came down from her grandfather's room at four o'clock.

Of course she knew who had sent it. No one but Ned would have thought of anything at once so consoling and so disturbing. To rise from earth and "sing hymns at heaven's gate" was quite in order; but how about the "Haply I think on thee"?

"What's that?" asked Ted kindly, as he sat down beside her on the sofa, which had been imported into the bare, empty room for the invalid's use. "Anything I can do?"

That again was so like him; always thinking of material help in everything.

"Nothing," she replied, hurriedly crumpling up the paper, and thrusting it under the sofa cushion. "Nothing, at least of any consequence." She was wearing the diamonds now, and they flashed on her finger, bringing the sunburn brown of her hand into greater prominence. "You look worried, Ted," she went on. "You don't think grandfather is worse, do you? He was very disturbed, I know, but----"

Ted shook his head. "Not worse, certainly. I left him asleep. Besides, the doctor says there is no immediate danger of any sort. But I am worried. The fact is, my darling"--his arm was round her, but not too aggressively, for, in truth, though he loved her dearly, his world held many other interests besides love--"this sort of thing cannot go on. This is the third time I have been sent for since the New Year. I don't grudge it, dearest, one bit. There is always the joy of seeing you; but if Hirsch hadn't been kindness itself I couldn't have managed it. And it doesn't really do the dear old man any good. Here he is to-day fretting himself ill about my having to go away, about our being married. So I was wondering, dearest----"

"Yes, Ted," she put in calmly.

Ted took his arm away, and sat resting his head in his hands and looking vexedly into the fire. "It is a good deal to ask of us--especially to ask of you," he went on; "but you see I must go off this evening, so it wouldn't make any real difference, since we are bound indissolubly to each other as it is--aren't we?"

He took her left hand and kissed the diamond ring as he spoke.

"Of course we are," she a.s.sented. "Go on, Ted."

"So--if you will consent--I could fetch the rector--he is a surrogate, I find; but, as a matter of fact, I got the license at Blackborough--and we could be married before I go. Don't look so startled, my dearest! It shan't be if you don't wish it. And I hate asking for it, only I believe it would really quiet the dear old man, and give him a better chance--and me too, of course, for this sort of thing is a little--just a little--well! limiting. And, as I say, it would make no difference--except perhaps that I should find it harder than ever to leave my wife."

His voice sank to almost playful tenderness, his arm stole round her waist again, and she rose hurriedly.

"But--but is this possible?" she asked incredulously. "I thought there was so much formality----"

He smiled tolerantly. "Not at all! a special license is all that's required, and I have that; so if you--you dear, solemn thing!--will really consent to do without a wedding----"

She looked at him, startled. "But surely we are going to be married?"

He laughed loudly. "Of course we are. I meant the bridesmaids and the cake and the orange-blossoms and all that. I don't want them, darling, if you don't. It's enough for me to have you."

She set the question and his kiss aside as of no value whatever. "Then I think you had better get the rector if you can, Ted," she said thoughtfully. "I expect it will make a great difference to him--to grandfather, I mean--and to you also. And you've been so awfully good!

Will you tell grandfather?" she added with a little blush as she released herself from her lover's thanks.

"Well, you see," he confessed, "I've half-promised him already--that is why he went to sleep. You are always so reasonable, Aura, I felt I might count on you----"

And then the sight of her standing there so sweet, so kind, so absolutely unconscious, seemed to overwhelm him, and he cried pa.s.sionately, "Oh, my dear, my dear! I hope I shall make you happy--but you are a thousand times too good for me."

He told himself so over and over again as he hurried on his bicycle to the rectory, and he swore to himself almost incoherently that although the rush of mere moneymaking had absorbed much of his waking life, it should never invade the corner that was sacred to his love. And as he said this he turned his head suddenly towards the winter woods, for in his ears that mellow blackbird call to the wilds seemed to sound, as it had sounded that evening when, all unwitting, he had sold his soul to Mr. Hirsch.

When he had gone on his mission Aura drew out Ned's valentine again, smoothed it over, and looked at it once more. For the first time in her life she felt the need of some one--some woman to whom she could talk. Finally she folded up the telegram, put it on the mantelpiece, and went into the kitchen. There was always Martha, and Martha's sound common-sense was a byword.

"Martha," she said, after standing for a few moments watching the deft hands dab b.u.t.ter over paste, and roll it in with swift decision--it was almost like watching the mill which grinds small! "I want to ask you something; but you must promise not to mention it even to Adam."

"Even to Bate!" echoed Martha with a sniff. "If I'd my choice, Miss H'Aura, I'd as lief mention it to the town-crier. Not that Bate doesn't mean well. It ain't his fault being born so; but there, one must just take holt of men as they're made, and be thankful they is no worse."

Why this should have heartened Aura up it is hard to say, but it did.

She actually smiled. "What I wanted to ask was this, Martha. In your experience--do you think it hurts a man very much to be in love--I mean, of course, to be in love with some one who doesn't want--I mean who won't marry him?"

Martha poised the rolling-pin on one hip, her hand on the other.

"Hurt 'em!" she echoed. "Lord sakes, no! It's the makin' o' them. Bate wouldn't be 'alf so spry at his years if he 'adn't bin wantin' to marry me any time this fourteen year back. That's why I won't 'ave him even now, Miss H'Aura. 'Bate,' says I, 'if I was to take you now, you'd get fat an' lazy. You wouldn't rise no more. You'd be like whipped eggs as is let stand, all gone to froth an' water.' No! Miss H'Aura, men is like heggs, they want beatin' 'ard all the time, else they'll never rise to better things."

The rolling-pin came down on the pastry with more decision than ever, and Aura laughed out loud. Something in the very phrasing of the last words comforted her.