Читать книгу Splendid Joy - Marguerite Williams - Страница 5

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CLARE was sitting in Mrs. Hulbert’s most comfortable garden chair, on the green slopes that led down from the cottage to the yellow sands of the Bay. Her right arm was still imprisoned in splint and bandages, and supported by a sling; but each day she was reclaiming a little more of her old faculty for enjoyment; feeling a little more keenly the charm of the grand old sea—of the shimmer of sunlight—the glory of clouds, and all the thousand beauties blessing the cottage by the Bay.

Life was still bounded by pain; but Clare knew that pain was not its end. She faced the unseen in faith.

The book that she had intended to read lay unopened on a chair beside her. She was idly watching a sailing vessel out in the Bay. The boat was making for the shore below the cottage, its white sails gleaming in the sunlight, its prow cutting a clear course homeward through the blue waters.

Clare knew the owner. He always stopped for a word with Mrs. Hulbert or her husband when he came for his boat. When he went fishing, the cottage profited; when he went out only for the sake of defying a storm, Mrs. Hulbert moved restlessly between her work and the window until she saw that he had returned in safety.

She had known him for years, she told Clare. He was so straight to deal with. He would never be imposed upon, but he was so wonderfully kind to the people he trusted. That morning had come the comment that at last roused Clare to interest:—

“I always feel that he’s sad. Don’t you think that it’s in his face?”

Clare, who had never thought of studying it, decided that she would begin—blaming herself that she had so long submitted to pain’s self-centering bondage.

Once or twice the yachtsman had spoken to her—after Mrs. Hulbert’s motherly introduction. He had been no more than distantly courteous, and Clare’s thoughts had not followed him when he went.

Now she was feeling very sleepy. She watched the boat steering a straight course towards the shore; she saw the sails lowered. Her eyes closed. She needed sleep so badly; yet she dreaded it—for always, as a preliminary, she seemed once more to be on a rack, and then, still racked, to be falling down, down, endlessly, as she had done on the day that she had tried to take the Long Journey and had been turned back. Her sensations on waking were ever the same; it was as hard for her to leave sleep behind as it was to reach it.

So, tired as she was, she dreaded losing consciousness. The chair was so comfortable—the sea breezes fanned her cheek—everything was still; she could rest.... Had the boat come home? She would not trouble to look again.... Dreamland was very near.... But before sleep could carry her safely there, the old agony returned, thrusting her back.

She did not know that a strong man was watching her, with the keenness of an understanding sympathy. He knew the meaning of those nervous tremors, and he knew his own power to still them. Yet he hesitated.

As he watched, another tremor shook her—and Clare opened her eyes.... Yes, the boat had come home, for its master was beside her.... He hesitated no longer. The shudder was only momentary, for a steady cool hand closed over the trembling one, and the girl found herself growing still.

“You are quite safe,” the man said quietly. “You can rest now.”

For a moment Clare looked up into his face, and as she looked her fear fled. Without a word she closed her eyes once more, and trustfully, peacefully, she slept.

Until the danger of the terror was past, Martyn Royce sat beside her, his steady cool hand on hers.