Читать книгу The Guarded Halo - Margaret Pedler - Страница 10

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“Well, thank heaven the journey’s over!” exclaimed Kit in heartfelt tones as, arrived at Port St. Luc, she and Shirley stepped out of the motor-omnibus which had brought them from the station to the Hôtel Splendide. And Shirley, who retained a vivid recollection of the panic which had attacked her during the night, inwardly echoed her remark with fervour.

Like almost any Continental hotel at eight o’clock in the morning, when most people are comfortably partaking of café complet in the seclusion of their rooms, the Splendide presented a desolate and depressing appearance. The big lounge, overlooking the sea—gray and gloomy beneath what was at present a sunless sky—was entirely empty. So was the restaurant which opened off it—and few things are calculated to convey a more forsaken and more melancholy impression than a collection of vacant chairs and tables. Shirley regarded them rather blankly, trying to conceal a faint sense of misgiving. Blue sea and skies, the cheerful bustle of holiday-makers bent on enjoyment, a dominant sense of quick, vibrating life were inextricably associated in her thoughts with any mental picture of a French watering place, and she found Port St. Luc, in its early morning state of half-awake négligé, a trifle dampening to the spirits.

“It doesn’t look particularly inspiring, does it?” commented Kit, with a short laugh, as she perceived the other’s dismay. “But you needn’t be afraid you’ll be disappointed here. I’ve been to St. Luc twice before, and it’s one of the gayest and jolliest places imaginable. That’s why I’m banking on it to—to make me forget things”—hastily—“as soon as I’ve recovered from the journey. Let’s order some breakfast; there’s nothing makes one take a more gloomy view of life than an empty tummy.”

Hot coffee and crisp little rolls and butter certainly went a long way toward modifying Shirley’s first feeling of depression, and presently she was busying herself, as cheerfully as usual, with the unpacking of her own and Kit’s belongings in the pleasant suite of rooms allotted them, whilst Kit, whom a night journey reduced, as she herself described it, to the condition of a limp rag, lay on a sofa and directed operations. She was looking very white and tired, and Shirley, upon whose buoyant vitality neither sea nor train journey produced any ill-effects, regarded her with friendly commiseration.

“You poor dear!” she said. “You do look used up. I’m afraid your brother wouldn’t think I was looking after you at all well if he could see you now.”

Kit smiled.

“Oh, Simon would discount my present appearance—he knows I’m a wretched traveller. I think I shall go straight to bed after lunch and stay there until to-morrow morning—every separate bone of me aches after a night in a wagon-lit. Should you mind very much if I did? You could go out and explore Port St. Luc, couldn’t you?”

“I could—but I shouldn’t. I shall stay around in case you want anything.”

Kit sat up suddenly on the couch.

“If you do that, I shan’t go to bed,” she declared firmly. “I won’t have anybody making a martyr of themselves on my account.”

“I shouldn’t feel in the least a martyr.”

“But I should feel that you were. So promise you’ll go out—and let me retire to bed with a clear conscience.”

“Very well,” agreed Shirley, smiling. “Have it your own way. I’ll go for a stroll by the sea.”

So it came about that after lunch, when she had tucked a very weary Kit comfortably into bed, she set out for the shore. At some future time, she promised herself, she would explore the picturesque old town, with its anachronism of modern luxury shops that had sprung up like mushrooms in its ancient streets since Port St. Luc had become a fashionable resort. But to-day she would follow her instincts and seek the companionable solitude of a tramp along the coast. Companionable because she never felt entirely lonely by the sea. The stillness of the country-side sometimes oppressed her, the immutability of hill and valley, but the sea, never still, never silent—although sometimes its voice was muted to the merest whisper of baby waves feathering the shore—appealed to something within her which she could not quite explain, even to herself.

As she passed through the hall the concierge handed her a letter, and, seeing that it was a fat one from Bob, she slipped it into her pocket to read at her leisure when she should have found some comfortable corner amongst the rocks where she could bestow herself.

The grayness of the morning had given place to a blue sky, swept by big white clouds. The sun shone brilliantly, turning the yellow sands to gold, and Shirley, taking her way as near the edge of the water as she could, drew in long breaths of the fresh, salt-laden air. All along the coast great cliffs, strewn with boulders at their feet, curved in and out in a succession of bays, and curiosity to see what was round the next corner drew her on much farther than she had intended, until at last, suddenly aware that she was beginning to feel rather tired, she halted. Whatever lay round the next corner, she decided, would have to wait for discovery until another time, and, flinging herself down on a sun-warmed patch of sand, she proceeded to open Bob’s letter.

Dear old thing (it ran):

From your last epistle I imagine that at this date you’ll be fixed up at Port St. Luc, so I’m sending this there—although, judging from the variableness of Mrs. Harford’s arrangements, you may have set off for the North Pole or the Equator by this time, for all I know. Anyway, I hope the trip’s doing you good and that you’re enjoying life. The latter is rather more than I’m doing at the moment. I’m still wearing out good shoe-leather, wandering round to see people about jobs, and Mugs is still complaining about the absence of meatiness of his bones. (I don’t leave much on them, I must admit.)

Here followed a few brief sketches of fruitless interviews Bob had had with possible employers, and although they were recounted humorous side up, as it were, Shirley could read his growing weariness and dejection between the lines, and her heart sank. Her own engagement with Kit would probably terminate in four or five weeks’ time, and then, if Bob had still found nothing to do, they would both be, as he expressed it, up against it once more.

Nevertheless, went on the letter, there is just one blessed gleam of hope on the horizon at last. I answered an advertisement the other day merely on the barest off-chance of its proving any good, as the advertiser appeared to want a sort of private secretary plus estate agent plus son-of-his-old-age all rolled into one, and I didn’t think I possessed the full variety of qualifications necessary! However, he seems to think I may have them. His only son died some time ago, and apparently he is finding managing all his own affairs himself too much at his time of life. At least, that’s what he says. The only snag in it is that he and his wife—he has a wife, by the way—are abroad just now, so, as of course nothing can be fixed up without an interview, the thing’s hanging fire at present. Still, we’ve exchanged several letters, and it seems the nearest I’ve got to a job yet. So here’s hoping.

Love from Bob.

Shirley folded up the letter and slipped it back into her pocket. She felt unaccountably cheered. In spite of Bob’s expressed doubts she had an inward conviction that this was going to be a job that would suit him exactly—it so much resembled the relation which had existed betwixt him and Uncle Nick—and that he was going to get it. After all, it is a very long lane that has no turning, and he had waited fairly pluckily and patiently for that elusive turning to materialize, and now she felt sure that at last he was going to have his reward. Soothed by this reflection, a sense of unwonted tranquillity descended upon her, and her eyes closed drowsily. Unconsciously she yielded to the bodily fatigue which first the necessity of unpacking, and afterwards the freshness of the sea air and the interest of Bob’s letter had kept at bay, and presently, lulled by the rhythmic beat of the waves on the shore, she fell fast asleep.

An hour later she was roused to sudden wakefulness. Something cold and wet had splashed down on her face, and as she unwillingly opened her eyes that first chilly splash was followed by another and yet another. A cold wind, too, had arisen, blustering about her, and whipping the crests of the waves to foam. Instinctively she glanced upwards, to discover that the blue sky had completely disappeared behind a thickening bank of cloud, and that those first few drops of rain which had disturbed her were the prelude of a coming storm. She sprang up, wide awake in an instant, and prepared to make a dash for home. And then, with a sudden start, she realized that the waves, which had been breaking over the sands a long way out when she first fell asleep, had encroached almost to her very feet.

She looked hastily in the direction from which she had come, where the sheer cliff thrust forward, forming one arm of the bay in which she had been sleeping. The scatter of rocks at its foot, together with the broad strip of sand beyond, which she had crossed as she came along, had entirely disappeared from view, hidden by a tumble of angry gray water which beat up against the face of the cliff itself.

One look behind her convinced her that at high tide the sea must cover the whole curve of the inlet to a depth of at least six or eight feet, for she could discern seaweed, oozy and green, clinging considerably above her own height to the rock foot of the cliff. She caught her breath sharply—what a fool she had been not to make sure of this before! Then she set off running as fast as she could. Perhaps the water at the point of the bay was not yet too deep for her to wade through it to the other side. But, even so, she was not sure if she could reach St. Luc. A succession of bays, some large, some hardly more than tiny coves, lay between her and the town, and she could not recollect how far the arms of each one stretched out into the sea.

Still, it was useless to stand hesitating, envisioning future difficulties. If she stayed where she was, with an incoming tide, she must inevitably drown, so the first necessity was to make good her escape from the trap in which she already found herself before she considered whether there were still others ahead. She raced on, stumbling now and then in the yielding sand, slipping sometimes on a flat boulder half concealed by slimy weed, and at last, breathless, she reached the point of the bay. Then she stood back aghast. Useless to plunge into that seething swirl of deep waters! Each wave, as it surged up, would fling her headlong, dashing her helplessly against the jagged rocks.

For the first time actual terror gripped her. She hadn’t really believed that the promontory would prove impassable, but now, as she stood staring dumbly at the angry tumult of gray water, she knew that on this side of the bay at least her retreat was cut off. She glanced wildly in the opposite direction, and a faint hope sprang up in her heart. The farther arm of the bay did not seem to project nearly so far toward the sea, and, if she could only reach it in time, she felt sure that she could get round it with nothing worse than a wetting. What lay beyond it she could only guess. But, whatever it was, she must chance it.

Once more she set off, her feet winged with fear. The rain, which was coming down now in good earnest, beat in her face. The roar of the waves breaking on the shore sounded menacingly in her ears, like the triumphant cries of some pursuer who knew that he was gaining on her and must infallibly win in the end. Even the gusty wind fought against her, buffeting her this way and that as she fled on. Once she thought she caught the sound of a human voice, of someone shouting, but the sound—if sound there were—was swept away on the wind, and a swift, desperate glance over the empty sea convinced her that she had been mistaken. There was no boat afloat whence someone, seeing her danger, might have hailed her.

Her heart was pounding in her side by the time she reached the farther end of the bay, but with a gasp of relief she saw that it was still possible to skirt the point. Knee-deep in the swirling water, she plunged through, slipping and sliding on the weed-grown rocks, and at last she scrambled out on to dry land, only to find that she had emerged into yet another cave.

She was no nearer safety. Even from where she stood she could see that the sea had already reached the foot of the next promontory, although she could not tell whether the water were too deep for her to wade through or not. She felt utterly tired and exhausted, almost too weary to make another effort.

But the determination not to die—die like a rat in a trap, hemmed in by the sea against those towering cliffs—spurred her on. She started once again, physically unable now to cover the ground at any speed, but pushing doggedly forward, half running, half walking. She had no longer any very great hope of escape. Her limbs felt leaden; her senses seemed to be gradually becoming stupefied and dull. The lash of the rain and the pounding of the breakers on the shore dazed and bewildered her. She was only conscious that she must still struggle blindly on... on...

And then, through a brief lull in the wind, she heard again the sound as of someone shouting. This time there was no mistaking it. The voice sounded quite near... imperative, urgent.... Words knocked suddenly against her numbed consciousness.

“Stop! Stop! Come back!”

She halted, turning slowly, almost incredulously, in the direction of the sound. A man was running toward her, racing across the bay, each eager step flinging back a spatter of wet sand. A queer, confused sense of familiarity gripped her as she watched his approaching figure. Then, with a curious inward jerk, she recognized him. It was the man who had spoken to her on the Dover-Calais boat—the man who had restored her missing notecase.