CHAPTER NINETEEN
THROUGH THE MISTS
It was now the end of September.
All my fears had proved groundless, and I had, at last, learned tolaugh at them. For me, a new vista of life had been opened out, forSylvia had now been my wife for a whole week--seven long dreamy daysof perfect love and bliss.
Scarce could we realize the truth that we were actually man and wife.
Pennington had, after all, proved quite kind and affable, his solethought being of his daughter's future happiness. I had invited themboth down to Carrington, and he had expressed delight at the provisionI had made for Sylvia. Old Browning, in his brand-new suit, was at thehead of a new staff of servants. There were new horses and carriagesand a landaulette motor, while I had also done all I could torefurnish and renovate some of the rooms for Sylvia's use.
The old place had been very dark and dreary, but it now wore an air ofbrightness and freshness, thanks to the London upholsterers anddecorators into whose hands I had given the work.
Pennington appeared highly pleased with all he saw, while Sylvia, herarms entwined about my neck, kissed me in silent thanks for my effortson her behalf.
Then came the wedding--a very quiet one at St. Mary Abbot's,Kensington. Besides Jack Marlowe and a couple of other men who wereintimate friends, not more than a dozen persons were present.Shuttleworth assisted the vicar, but Pennington was unfortunately illin bed at the Hotel Metropole, suffering from a bad cold. Still, weheld the wedding luncheon at the Savoy, and afterwards went up toScarborough, where we were now living in a pretty suite at the GrandHotel overlooking the harbour, the blue bay, and the castle-crownedcliffs.
It was disappointing to Sylvia that her father had not been present atthe wedding, but Elsie Durnford and her mother were there, as well astwo or three other of her girl friends. The ceremony was very plain.At her own request, she had been married in her travelling-dress,while I, man-like, had secretly been glad that there was no fuss.
Just a visit to the church, the brief ceremony, the signature in theregister, and a four-line announcement in the _Times_ and _MorningPost_, and Sylvia and I had become man and wife.
I had resolved, on the morning of my marriage, to put behind me allthought of the mysteries and gruesomeness of the past. Now that I wasSylvia's husband, I felt that she would have my protection, as well asthat of her father. I had said nothing to her of her strangeapprehensions, for we had mutually allowed them to drop.
We had come to Scarborough in preference to going abroad, for mywell-beloved declared that she had had already too much of Continentallife, and preferred a quiet time in England. So we had chosen the EastCoast, and now each day we either drove out over the Yorkshire moors,or wandered by the rolling seas.
She was now my own--my very own! Ah! the sweet significance of thosewords when I uttered them and she clung to me, raising her full redlips to mine to kiss.
I loved her--aye, loved her with an all-consuming love. I told myselfa thousand times that no man on earth had ever loved a woman more thanI loved Sylvia. She was my idol, and more, we were wedded, firmlyunited to one another, insunderably joined with each other so that wetwo were one.
You satirists, cynics, misogamists and misogynists may sneer at love,and jeer at marriage. So melancholy is this our age that even by somewomen marriage seems to be doubted. Yet we may believe that there isnot a woman in all Christendom who does not dote upon the name of"wife." It carries a spell which even the most rebellious suffragettemust acknowledge. They may speak of the subjection, the trammel, the"slavery," and the inferiority to which marriage reduces them, but,after all, "wife" is a word against which they cannot harden theirhearts.
Ah! how fervently we loved each other. As Sylvia and I wanderedtogether by the sea on those calm September evenings, avoiding theholiday crowd, preferring the less-frequented walks to the fashionablepromenades of the South Cliff or the Spa, we linked arm in arm, and Ioften, when not observed, kissed her upon the brow.
One evening, with the golden sunset in our faces, we were walking overthe cliffs to Cayton Bay, a favourite walk of ours, when we halted ata stile, and sat together upon it to rest.
The wide waters deep below, bathed in the green and gold of thesinking sun, were calm, almost unruffled, unusual indeed for the NorthSea, while about us the birds were singing their evening song, and thecattle in the fields were lying down in peace. There was not a breathof wind. The calmness was the same as the perfect calmness of our ownhearts.
"How still it is, Owen," remarked my love, after sitting in silencefor a few minutes. From where we sat we could see that it was hightide, and the waves were lazily lapping the base of the cliffs deepbelow. Now and then a gull would circle about us with its shrill,plaintive cry, while far on the distant horizon lay the trail of smokefrom a passing steamer. "How delightful it is to be here--alone withyou!"
My arm stole round her slim waist, and my lips met hers in a fond,passionate caress. She looked very dainty in a plain walking costumeof cream serge, with a boa of ostrich feathers about her throat, and alarge straw hat trimmed with autumn flowers. It was exceptionallywarm for the time of year; yet at night, on the breezy East Coast,there is a cold nip in the air even in the height of summer.
That afternoon we had, by favour of its owner, Mr. George Beeforth,one of the pioneers of Scarborough, wandered through the beautifulprivate gardens of the Belvedere, which, with their rose-walks, lawnsand plantations, stretched from the promenade down to the sea, and hadspent some charming hours in what its genial owner called "thesun-trap." In all the north of England there are surely no morebeautiful gardens beside the sea than those, and happily theirgood-natured owner is never averse to granting a stranger permissionto visit them.
As we now sat upon that stile our hearts were too full for words,devoted as we were to each other.
"Owen," my wife exclaimed at last, her soft little hand upon myshoulder as she looked up into my face, "are you certain you willnever regret marrying me?"
"Why, of course not, dearest," I said quickly, looking into her greatwide-open eyes.
"But--but, somehow----"
"Somehow, what?" I asked slowly.
"Well," she sighed, gazing away towards the far-off horizon, herwonderful eyes bluer than the sea itself, "I have a strange,indescribable feeling of impending evil--a presage of disaster."
"My darling," I exclaimed, "why trouble yourself over what are merelymelancholy fancies? We are happy in each other's love; therefore whyshould we anticipate evil? If it comes, then we will unite to resistit."
"Ah, yes, Owen," she replied quickly, "but this strange feeling cameover me yesterday when we were together at Whitby. I cannot describeit--only it is a weird, uncanny feeling, a fixed idea that somethingmust happen to mar this perfect happiness of ours."
"What can mar our happiness when we both trust each other--when weboth love each other, and our two hearts beat as one?"
"Has not the French poet written a very serious truth in those lines:'_Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un moment; chagrin d'amour dure toute lavie_'?"
"Yes, but we shall experience no chagrin, sweetheart," I assured her."After another week here we will travel where you will. If you wish,we will go to Carrington. There we shall be perfectly happy together,away in beautiful Devonshire."
"I know you want to go there for the shooting, Owen," she saidquietly, yet regarding me somewhat strangely, I thought. "You haveasked Mr. Marlowe?"
"With your permission, dearest."
But her face changed, and she sighed slightly.
In an instant I recollected the admission that they had either metbefore, or at least they knew something concerning each other.
"Perhaps you do not desire to entertain company yet?" I said quickly."Very well; I'll ask your father; he and I can have some sporttogether."
"Owen," she said at last, turning her fair face again to mine, "wouldyou think it very, very strange of me, after all that you have done atbeautiful old Carrington, i
f I told you that I--well, that I do notexactly like the place?"
This rather surprised me, for she had hitherto been full of admirationof the fine, well-preserved relic of the Elizabethan age.
"Dearest, if you do not care for Carrington we will not go there. Wecan either live at Wilton Street, or travel."
"I'm tired of travelling, dear," she declared. "Ah, so tired! So, ifyou are content, let us live in Wilton Street. Carrington is so huge.When we were there I always felt lost in those big old rooms and long,echoing corridors."
"But your own rooms that I've had redecorated and furnished aresmaller," I said. "I admit that the old part of the house is very darkand weird--full of ghosts of other times. There are a dozen or morelegends concerning it, as you know."
"Yes, I read them in the guide-book to Devon. Some are distinctlyquaint, are they not?"
"Some are tragic also--especially the story of little Lady Holbrook,who was so brutally killed by the Roundheads because she refused toreveal the whereabouts of her husband," I said.
"Poor little lady!" sighed Sylvia. "But that is not mere legend: it ishistorical fact."
"Well," I said, "if you do not care for Carrington--if it is too dullfor you--we'll live in London. Personally, I, too, should soon growtired of a country life; and yet how could I grow tired of life withyou, my own darling, at my side?"
"And how could I either, Owen?" she asked, kissing me fondly. "Withyou, no place can ever be dull. It is not the dulness I dread, butother things."
"What things?"
"Catastrophe--of what kind, I know not. But I have been seized with akind of instinctive dread."
For a few moments I was silent, my arm still about her neat waist.This sudden depression of hers was not reassuring.
"Try and rid yourself of the idea, dearest," I urged presently. "Youhave nothing to fear. We may both have enemies, but they will not nowdare to attack us. Remember, I am now your husband."
"And I your wife, Owen," she said, with a sweet love-look. Then, witha heavy sigh, she gazed thoughtfully away with her eyes fixed upon thedarkening sea, and added: "I only fear, dearest--for your sake."
I was silent again.
"Sylvia," I said slowly at last, "have you learnt anything--anythingfresh which has awakened these strange apprehensions of yours?"
"No," she faltered, "nothing exactly fresh. It is only a strange andunaccountable dread which has seized me--a dread of impendingdisaster."
"Forget it," I urged, endeavouring to laugh. "All your fears are nowwithout foundation, dearest. Now we are wedded, we will fearlesslyface the world together."
"I have no fear when I am at your side, Owen," she replied, looking atme pale and troubled. "But when we are parted I--I always fear. Theday before yesterday I was full of apprehension all the time you hadgone to York. I felt that something was to happen to you."
"Really, dear," I said, smiling, "you make me feel quite creepy. Don'tallow your mind to run on the subject. Try and think of somethingelse."
"But I can't," she declared. "That's just it. I only wish I could ridmyself of this horrible feeling of insecurity."
"We are perfectly secure," I assured her. "My enemies are now awarethat I'm quite wide awake." And in a few brief sentences I explainedmy curious meeting with the Frenchman Delanne.
The instant I described him--his stout body, his grey pointed beard,his gold pince-nez, his amethyst ring--she sat staring at me, white tothe lips.
"Why," she gasped, "I know! The description is exact. And--and you sayhe saw my father in Manchester! He actually rode away in the same cabas Reckitt! Impossible! You must have dreamt it all, Owen."
"No, dearest," I said quite calmly. "It all occurred just as I haverepeated it to you."
"And he really entered the taxi with Reckitt? He said, too, that heknew my father--eh?"
"He did."
She held her breath. Her eyes were staring straight before her, herbreath came and went quickly, and she gripped the wooden post tosteady herself, for she swayed forward suddenly, and I stretched outmy hand, fearing lest she should fall.
What I had told her seemed to stagger her. It revealed something ofintense importance to her--something which, to me, remained hidden.
It was still a complete enigma.