Chapter VIII
Sylvia's plans, so well laid and apparently so easy of execution didnot, to her chagrin, work out, for instead of awaking and demandingsupper Stanley Heath slept without a break until morning.
Had not Marcia insisted on leaving her door ajar lest the invalid call,the girl might have slipped down stairs in the darkness and returned thehandkerchief.
As it was, fate forced her to put it into her bureau drawer and awaitmore favorable opportunity.
This, alas, did not come.
Sun was tinting the lavender sands to rose and gilding the water withits first flecks of gold when she saw Marcia standing at the foot of herbed.
"Mr. Heath has a high fever and can scarcely speak aloud," explainedshe. "I'm afraid he is quite ill. I wish you'd call up Doctor Stetson."
"Mercy on us!"
The girl, drowsy and heavy-eyed, sprang out of bed.
"I'll be down in just a minute," she exclaimed. "How do you happen to beup so early?"
"I've been up off and on all night," answered Marcia. "Mr. Heath wasrestless and thirsty. About midnight I heard him tossing about, andthinking he might be hungry, I heated some broth and took it to him."
"I didn't hear you. I must have been dead to the world. Why didn't youspeak?"
"There was no need of it. You were tired."
"No more than you."
"I was wakeful, anyway. I don't know why. Perhaps I had him on my mind.If so, it is fortunate, for he did not call."
"I'm dreadfully sorry he feels so miserable."
"He won't admit it. He declares he is going back to New York today."
"But he can't--he mustn't."
"He is determined to. He says he has something very important to attendto. Of course I have no authority over him but perhaps Doctor Stetsoncan exert some. That is why I am anxious to reach him before he goesout," explained Marcia, moving toward the door.
"I will call him right away."
"I'll go down and start breakfast, then. Mr. Heath is dozing. He haspromised not to get up for at least an hour. We must have the doctorhere within that time."
"I'll tell him to hurry."
Marcia tiptoed down the stairs.
The freshness of early morning was upon the day. Through the kitchenwindow pale shafts of light shot across the floor, brightening thecolored rugs and making brass and copper glisten. Starting the fire, shethrew open the door to let in the salt breeze.
The dampness and chill of the night had disappeared and the air was mildwith the breath of coming spring. Mingling with the gulls' cries shecould hear the twitter of sparrows and the occasional chirp of a robin.The village, still hazy in mist, was taking on sharper outlines and fromthe bay the voices of fishermen and the chug of a motor-boat drifteddistinctly across the water.
Prince came bounding into the house from some distant pilgrimage of hisown, almost knocking her down in his eagerness for breakfast.
She glanced far up the shore and saw, serenely rocking with the tide,_My Unknown Lady_.
As she whispered the name, she was conscious of hot blood rushing to hercheeks.
How ridiculous! Stanley Heath was simply a stranger of a night, he wasnothing to her.
Well indeed was it, too, that he was not!
During her hours of sleeplessness the ardor of her faith in him had,to a degree, cooled. True, she still maintained her belief in hisinnocence; but that belief, she now realized, was only a blind unfoundedintuition. Both the circumstances and sober second thought failed toback it up. The man's impatience to be gone, his complete silencewith regard to the jewels, although perfectly justifiable, did notstrengthen it.
Marcia conceded he had every right to keep his affairs to himself. Shewas close-mouthed and therefore sympathetic with the quality in others.
But such an unusual happening! What more natural than that one shouldoffer some explanation?
Last night, transported by emotion to a mood superheroic, she had wishednone; nay, more, she had deliberately placed herself beyond the reach ofit. Today she toppled from her pedestal and became human, shifting fromgoddess to woman.
Had Stanley Heath started to confide his secret to her, she would evennow have held up her hand to stay him.
It was the fact that through the dim hours of the night, while she satat his elbow trying to make the discomforts he suffered more bearable,he talked of almost everything else but the thing uppermost in boththeir minds. That was what hurt. She did not want to know. She wanted tobe trusted; to help; to feel his dependence upon her. Instead he heldher at arm's length.
Oh, he voiced his gratitude for what she had done. He did that over andover again, apologizing at having caused her so much trouble. As if sheminded! Why, she was glad, glad to be troubled!
He spoke with almost an equal measure of appreciation of the crew whohad dragged his boat off the sand-bar, appearing to consider them alsotremendously kind--as undoubtedly they were! Still, they had not begunto come into the close contact with him that she had.
Marcia caught herself up with a round turn. Here she was beingsensitive, womanish. How detestable! Why should Stanley Heath pour outhis soul to her? She had never laid eyes on him until yesterday. In aday or two he would be gone never again to come into her life. She wasglad of it. It was better so.
She had just reached a state of complete tranquillity and happiness. Whyhave her serenity stirred into turmoil and she herself transformed oncemore from a free woman to a slave? Her mind should dwell no more on thisman or his affairs. If he decided to go back to New York today, ill ashe was, she would not attempt to deter him. His business was his own andhe must manage it as he thought best.
This decision reached, she drew in her chin, lifted her head a wee bitand began to get the breakfast.
Even Doctor Stetson's arrival and his subsequent verdict that thepatient had bronchitis and would take his life in his hands should heleave his bed, afforded her only scant satisfaction.
So she was to keep Stanley Heath under her roof after all--but againsthis will. It was not a very flattering situation.
She sent Sylvia up with his coffee and toast, and began her usual roundof morning duties.
And then just as they were finished and the clock was striking eleven,he called.
She went up, cheerful but with her head still held high, and paused onthe threshold.
Glancing at her he smiled.
"You look like a bird about to take flight. Won't you sit down?"
She went nearer. Nevertheless she did not take the chair he indicated.
"I see you are busy," he said. "I thought perhaps your housework mightbe done by this time and you might have a moment to spare. Well, Imustn't interrupt. Forgive me for calling."
"I'm not busy."
"You seem hurried."
"I'm not. I haven't a thing in the world to do," Marcia burst out.
"Good! Then you can stay a little while," he coaxed. "Now answer thisquestion truthfully, please. You heard what Doctor Stetson said about myreturning to New York today. I don't want to be pig-headed and take arisk if it is imprudent; that is neither fair to others nor to myself.Still, it is important that I go and I am anxious to. What is youradvice?"
"I think you are too ill."
A frown of annoyance wrinkled his forehead.
"If you will consent to stay where you are a few days, you will then beall right to go," she added.
Obviously the suggestion did not please him. However, he answered moremildly:
"Perhaps you're right. Yet for all that I am disappointed. I want verymuch to go. It is necessary."
"Can't anything be done from here?" queried she.
"Such as--?"
"Letters, telegrams--whatever you wish. I can telephone or telegraphanywhere. Or I can write."
Surprise stole over his face, then deepened to admiration.
"You would do that for me--blindfolded?"
"Why not?"
"You know why."
"I simply want t
o help. I always like to help when I can," she explainedhurriedly.
"Even when you do not understand?"
Piercingly his eyes rested on her face.
"I--I--do not need to understand," was her proud retort.
For the fraction of a second, their glances met. Then she turned awayand a pause, broken only by the crash of the surf on the outer beach,fell between them.
When at last he spoke his voice was low--imperative.
"Marcia--come here!"
She went--she knew not why.
"Give me your hand."
Again, half-trembling, half reluctant, she obeyed.
He took it in his and bending, kissed it.
"I will stay and you shall telegraph," was all he said.
She sprang to fetch paper and pencil, as if welcoming this break in thetension.
"I'm afraid I cannot write plainly enough with my left hand," he said."Will you take down the message?"
"Certainly."
"_Mrs. S. C. Heath_"
Her pencil, so firm only an instant before, quivered.
"Have you that?"
"Yes."
"_The Biltmore, New York City._"
"Yes."
"_Everything safe with me. Do not worry. Marooned on Cape Cod with cold.Nothing serious. Home soon. Love. Stanley._"
"Got that?"
"Yes."
Had something gone out of her voice? The monosyllable was flat,colorless. Heath looked at her. Even her expression was different--ordid he merely imagine it?
"Perhaps I would better just glance over the message before you sendit--simply to make sure it's right."
"Let me copy it first," she objected.
"Copy it? Nonsense! What for? Nobody's going to see it."
He reached for the paper.
Still she withheld it.
"What's the trouble?"
"It isn't written well enough. I'd rather copy it."
"Why?"
"It's wobbly. I--I--perhaps my hands were cold."
"You're not chilly?"
"No--oh, no."
"If the room is cool you mustn't stay here."
"It isn't. I'm not cold at all."
"Will you let me take the telegram?"
She placed it in his hand.
"It is shaky. However, that's of no consequence, since you are to 'phoneWestern Union. Now, if you truly are not cold, I'd like to dictate asecond wire."
"All right."
"This one is for Currier. _Mr. James Currier, The Biltmore, New YorkCity. Safe on Cape with My Lady. Shall return with her later. Motor hereat once, bringing whatever I need for indefinite stay._
_Stanley C. Heath_
"Got that?"
"O.K.," nodded Marcia.
This time, without hesitation, she passed him the paper.
"This, I see, is your normal hand-writing," he commented as he placedthe messages side by side. "I must admit it is an improvement on theother."
Taking up the sheets, he studied them with interest.
"Hadn't I better go and get off the messages?" suggested Marcia, risingnervously.
"What's your hurry?"
"You said they were important."
"So I did. Nevertheless they can wait a few minutes."
"The station might be closed. Often it is at noontime."
"It doesn't matter if they don't go until afternoon."
"But there might be some slip."
He glanced at her with his keen eyes.
"What's the matter?"
"Matter?"
"Yes, with you? All of a sudden you've turned easterly."
"Have I?" Lightly, she laughed. "I probably have caught the habit fromthe sea. Environment does influence character, psychologists say."
"Nevertheless, you are not fickle."
"How do you know? Even if I were, to change one's mind is no crime," shewent on in the same jesting tone. "The wind bloweth whither it listeth,and the good God does not condemn it for doing so."
"But you are not the wind."
"Perhaps I am," she flashed teasingly. "Or I may have inheritedqualities from the sands that gave me birth. They are forever shifting."
"You haven't."
"You know an amazing amount about me, seems to me, considering thelength of our acquaintance," she observed with a tantalizing smile.
"I do," was the grim retort. "I know more than you think--more, perhapsthan you know yourself. Shall I hold the betraying mirror up beforeyou?"
"The mirror of truth? God forbid! Who of us would dare face it?" sheprotested, still smiling but with genuine alarm. "Now do let me runalong and send off the messages. I must not loiter here talking. You areforgetting that you're ill. The next you know your temperature will goup and Doctor Stetson will blame me."
"My temperature has gone up," growled Stanley Heath, turning his back onher and burying his face in the pillow with the touchiness of a smallboy.