Читать книгу Wadsworth Camp Mysteries - Charles Wadsworth Camp - Страница 8

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Convinced that he could not sleep, Miller lay brooding over Anderson’s story, sympathising under the stress of this night more and more with Anderson and Molly. Towards morning, however, he must have dropped off, for, when he opened his eyes, the low sun was shining through the port. The charnel house atmosphere had been dissipated. The Dart lay on an even keel. Tony was up. The welcome odour of coffee entered the stateroom.

Slipping on his bathrobe. Miller hurried to the deck, jumped overboard, and fought that racing tide until it was on the point of vanquishing him.

When he was dressed Tony brought him his coffee. He sat on deck sipping it, calmly appraising his surroundings, almost gleefully aware of the retreat of last night’s fancies.

He could see the fisherman’s boat now, anchored a third of a mile away, close to the shore of the island. It was, as Anderson had said, low, filthy, ancient; but its deck was empty, its owner nowhere to be seen.

Miller’s eyes followed the tangled shoreline in the hope of glimpsing the coquina house. But the thicket was unbroken as far as two gigantic mounds of white sand which stretched eastward from near the river end of the island and evidently separated the river and the inlet. From the tide Miller knew there must be an opening to the sea somewhere down there. Probably the inlet made a sweep to the east and ran out between the mounds and the dunes. The tradition that buccaneers had used the inlet was perfectly understandable to Miller. Screened from the marshes by the island and from the sea by the dunes, with a heavy fall of tide, it had been an ideal spot for the careening of pirate craft.

The sun was higher now in a clear sky behind the dunes. The white grains and the polished sea shells here and there glinted jewel-like in its rays. On the summits tufts of long, slender grass waved languidly in a light breeze. It was already warm.

Tony came in and took the cup and saucer. He was about to descend when he paused with a long intake of breath. That same pallor came into his face, that same fixed terror into his eyes as he stared across the dunes.

“What are you gaping at now?” Miller asked good-naturedly.

The lips opened. Tony whispered :

“Look! In—in white!”

During that outburst of yesterday there had been, Miller recalled, something about a woman in white, presumably the shade of the Algerian. He smiled.

“Come, Tony! Not by broad daylight. You only make yourself ridiculous.”

“Look!” Tony repeated. He pointed.

Miller gazed across the dunes, shading his eyes. There was something there, close to the sea; something white; something that moved—a woman or a girl.

He sprang up. Laughing, he jumped to the lower deck and drew in the dingy.

“There’s one ghost I’ll lay for you, Tony.”

“Don’t go,” the native begged.

Miller stepped into the boat, pushed off, and with a few strong strokes reached the dunes. He was curious. He reacted to an exciting impulse. Who was this early morning adventurer in white who moved across an empty shore! It might be the girl of whom Anderson had spoken—that ” queer” girl about whom he had maintained so puzzling a reserve.

He hurried among the dunes, no longer able to see the figure in white. But he remembered where it had stood, not more than a quarter of a mile away. He crossed rapidly in that direction, pausing only when the advisability of caution impressed him. It would riot do to assume the usual at Captain’s Island. It was far from ordinary that the girl should be there at all, clothed in this fashion. He was by no means sure that he would offer her a welcome encounter. She might try to elude him. Yet he had made a boast of the affair to Tony. He wanted to convince Tony and himself that the normal was not altogether foreign to the place. He planned, therefore, to step from the dunes to the beach almost at her elbow, but at the last dune he paused too long, fascinated by what he saw thus at close range.

She was a young girl, not more than twenty, he thought, although at first he couldn’t see her face. She was not tall, and she was very slender. As she stood, clothed in a long, clinging robe of soft, white stuff, bending forward to the breeze, gazing across the waves, she might have been a figure, animated and released from a Grecian marble. Her hair, unloosed, was yellow and reached below her waist. The breeze lifted vagrant strands which the sun caught and turned to gold. And when she turned, as though his presence had been communicated to her in some exceptional manner, he saw that she was beautiful with an elfin face.

So they stared at each other for a moment across the sand. His eyes wavered. With a strong effort he forced them back to hers. He was bewildered by her beauty, by her unexpected grace, by her steady regard. The phrases he had formed, his questions, were forgotten. It was as though in that first glance the girl had closed his mind to everything except her physical presence which, after all, seemed scarcely physical. A wild thought sprang against his reason. Tony’s whisper! His talk of the woman in white! He would prove that if only to convince Tony. So, sea and sky laughing at him, he stepped forward.

She relaxed her curving pose, moving back until the water was foaming at her feet. Then he saw that her feet were bare.

It had been only a moment, yet he knew he must speak. He succeeded haltingly.

“You’ll forgive the curiosity of a Crusoe. My man said you must be a ghost. I’d like—”

He broke off, because his voice mocked him as though he were addressing emptiness.

Her face had shown no change. He was suddenly aware of a barrier between them. The feeling angered him. He held out his hand. He forced himself to move toward her. Like a flash she turned and ran up the beach.

Afterwards, when he reviewed the encounter, he was amazed, worried. He only knew that the voice of custom had been silent, and that he had answered to a new voice which he had not dreamed of questioning. From where had this voice come, and how had it reached him I He tried to tell himself that it was the desire to go back to Tony with his boast fulfilled beyond argument, for otherwise Tony would not have understood, would not have believed. But that was not satisfying. It might have been their isolation on a deserted beach and the challenge of her flight. Or, since it puzzled him most, that feeling of a barrier could have been responsible. At any rate the world narrowed for a few moments to the strip of beach and dunes. It contained only himself and this girl who ran from him as though he had violated a perpetual and prized solitude. He determined to come up with her and dispel her selfish fancy.

“Wait!” he called. “I only want to ask—”

Again that sense of emptiness mocked him. He ran. Although he knew he should be able to catch up with her almost immediately, she gained at first. And against this feeling of a barrier his determination strengthened. He ran stumblingly, his hands held in front of him, a growing stubbornness whipping him on. He went faster. He forgot to call out reassuringly. With a startled glance over her shoulder she turned in and darted among the dunes. He followed, breathing hard, his mind closed.

He saw her across the slope of a dune, not ten feet away. And now the serene expression of her elfin face altered. There was fear in her eyes. He wondered afterwards that he had not spoken to her then. But the barrier was down. Nothing remained but the end which her inexcusable flight had made necessary.

The end came sooner than he had expected. Cat-like, he walked around the dune. She started back. He turned as though he would go the other way to head her off. She stopped, at a loss. Suddenly he swung, and, tinglingly aware of the soft flesh beneath the robe, grasped her arms above the elbows. He laughed nervously. He stared at her wide eyes and at her face from which the colour had fled.

She strained away from him, yet there was no confidence and little strength in her effort. He let her go. Covering her face, she sank back against the slope of the dune, while the sand, whispering, slipped past her. She drew her bare feet beneath her robe. Her hair fell forward, veiling her face and hands.

“How could you do that?” she asked.

Her voice was so low and soft he scarcely heard it. Oddly, the question held no reproach.

He sat down beside her.

“Why did you run?” he asked.

“I—I was frightened.”

“That is not the reason,” he said conclusively. “You were not frightened at first when you ran up the beach. I saw your face.”

She shivered.

“No,” she said. “I cannot lie to you.”

Then the world rushed back to him. He remembered Tony and the boat a quarter of a mile away, the island, the plantation, Anderson and Molly. How had he ever accomplished this aberrant thing? He dug his fingers in the sand, and watched the grains form minute, beautiful patterns. He scarcely dared look at her. He was appalled, ashamed.

“Really, you shouldn’t have run like that,” he said apologetically. “You know I’m not an ogre.”

She turned. Her fear had gone. As she looked at him, surprised, he realised more than ever that she was very lovely.

“But you—why did you follow me?” she asked.

He considered. He had no convincing answer.

“Perhaps it was because I wanted to alter the bad opinion your flight suggested. Frankly, it was an impulse. I can’t say where it came from.”

“You should not have followed me,” she said gravely.

She arose.

“Now you will let me go.”

“Wait!”

He laughed lightly.

“Since you recall my ability to catch you, please don’t make me exercise it immediately.”

“What do you wish of me?” she asked with a show of anger.

“Please sit down and tell me of yourself. Can you blame me for being curious?”

Her anger died. She laughed back at him. She sat down.

“Since you want so little,” she said.

“Then what were you doing on this deserted strip of sand?”

She flushed.

“I often come—to swim. The ocean is better than the inlet for that.”

“Better, perhaps, but not as safe. The undertow—”

“It is safe,” she cried. “The sea and I are friends.”

“There is something elusive about you. It is hard to ask ordinary questions. But where have you come from?” Where do you live!”

Yet he knew, or he thought he knew, when he asked her.

“Must I tell you that, too?”

“It is very important.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Can’t you guess? I want to see you again.”

“No.” she said.

“Yes. It is the only possible sequel. And if you make me run after you, you ought to tell me where to run.”

She was troubled. She spoke almost inaudibly.

“You must not run after me again.”

“Where, then?” he urged.

She hesitated. She pointed across the dunes.

“On Captain’s Island?”

“Yes.”

“In the plantation house?”

She nodded.

“Then you rowed across the inlet. You didn’t see my boat?”

“I rowed across the upper end. If I had seen your boat I would have turned back.”

“For once,” he laughed, “the Dart’s insignificance is triumphant. And your father—he encourages these dangerous excursions?”

“They are not dangerous. I tell you the sea and I are friends. Besides—”

She smiled.

“I think you haven’t looked at your watch.”

He drew out his watch. It was scarcely half past six.

“But if I don’t go quickly I might not be able to come back again.”

Miller arose. He helped her up.

“Then of course,” he agreed, “the secret must be kept. Only I wish you might stay a little longer. Since you seem inclined to forgive my incomprehensible impulse—my schoolboy pursuit—”

He broke off, a little bewildered.

“There is a good deal I’d like to ask you,” he went on. “It has been very unusual.”

“Very—unusual,” she repeated uncertainly.

He took her hand in farewell.

“At any rate,” he said, “I shall see you again.”

“Don’t see me again,” she begged.

“I shall call at the plantation. You will be there! You will see me?”

She would not meet his eyes.

“Don’t see me again.”

“But why! I wish it very much. Will you see me when I call?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” she whispered.

“You will see me,” he said, and released her hand.

She ran lightly away from him. Once she glanced back, then she was lost to sight among the dunes.