A Vanished Hand Part 18

"Yes, I've been very good indeed," remarked that gentleman in a tone of self-congratulation. "And I didn't eat too much, did I?"

"Well, there was the cherry tart; I had to take away your second plateful."

Arnold laughed, and the laugh seemed to set them at ease again.

They walked on quickly over the starry yellow flowers in the gra.s.s. The bright day would have a golden ending; already there were amber lights s.h.i.+ning calmly on the river.

Giles, half asleep at the landing-stage, looked up as they approached, and drew the back of his hand across his tired old eyes. Arnold seemed to be moved by a sudden impulse.

"There's a white shawl left in the boat," he said. "Take it back to Mrs.

Verdon, Giles, at once. You'll find her somewhere under the beeches.

Now, Jamie, I'll pull across to the island myself. Step in, Miss Kilner."

It did not occur to Elsie to disobey him. A minute after, when they were floating out upon the water, she thought that she had been too submissive. But he was pulling away with long, steady strokes, right away into the middle of the golden light.

There was very little said just then. They glided on in a delicious stillness; and presently the boat ran close to some old worn steps that were half hidden by tall, coa.r.s.e gra.s.s, and was made fast. Arnold had determined to land on the island.

"Come," he said, almost imperiously.

"I didn't think of this," Elsie answered, her colour coming and going, "and we shall be missed. It is time for Jamie to go home."

"No, it isn't," said Jamie gaily, as Arnold lifted him out upon the decayed little pier.

A path led from the pier through a thicket of wild foliage, and then they came to a clear s.p.a.ce and a little thatched hut shaped like a bee-hive. There was nothing in it save an old pair of oars and a broken basket, but the place had been kept in pretty good repair.

Right in front of the hut the underwood had been cleared away, and the ground sloped gently down to the water. The slow, full, golden river was flowing on, and they stood silently watching the tide.

"We are out of the world here," Arnold said at last. "One could fancy that Father Time sometimes comes to this forgotten island and sits down to rest. Nothing has changed here since I was a boy; the trees have grown thicker and taller, that is all."

"Somebody said that you were going to improve the island," Elsie remarked. "I hardly see how that can be done."

"I merely thought of making it more habitable," he replied. "It would be possible to establish Giles and his wife very comfortably here. They are living now in a disreputable old cottage which ought to have been pulled down years ago."

"Then you think of building a nice little house instead of that bee-hive hut?"

"Yes; the house can be made as picturesque as the hut, you know. One can look forward to pleasant parties here--children's picnics, and that kind of thing."

Elsie thought she knew what he was thinking of at that moment. He was going to settle down at the Court with Katherine, and she would play the part of Lady Bountiful to perfection; children's picnics were quite in her line, and perhaps she had already suggested that the island was the very spot for such gatherings. It was all right, of course; every one would say that he had chosen wisely. But, as he had chosen, why was he standing here with another woman by his side?

"Let us go now," she said suddenly, conscious of an unnatural tone in her voice. "The light is fading; it is time to join the others."

He looked at her, but she was still watching the flow of the river, and did not meet his eyes.

"Is there any need for such haste?" he asked. "I haven't said many words to you to-day. Old friends have been crowding round me, and----"

"Naturally," she broke in coldly; "but you can talk as well anywhere else. And Jamie must be sent to bed."

She turned sharply away towards the path by which they had come to the clearing. Then all at once she spoke in another tone--

"What has become of the child?"

"He was standing close to you a moment ago," Arnold answered quickly.

"Jamie, where are you? Jamie!" he called, in a loud, ringing voice.

Elsie went flying along the path with the speed of some hunted wild creature. All else was forgotten in her intense anxiety. She had been absorbed in her own foolish feelings, she thought bitterly, and had left the boy to his own devices. How wrong it was to have lost sight of him for an instant in such a perilous spot! Oh that she had never brought him here!

She seemed to have suffered hours of misery in those few seconds of suspense. The path turned abruptly, opening out upon the little pier, and just at the turn she was confronted by Jamie himself. He met her with a very red face.

"I done it," he began confusedly. "No, I never done it exactly, but it's gone. It come untied. I gived it one tug, and I nearly tumbled in."

"Oh, you naughty boy, to go close to the edge of the water!" sobbed Elsie, catching him in her arms and kissing him. "I won't let you leave me for an instant till I put you into nurse's hands. My own dear, troublesome darling! If anything had happened to you I should have died!" She was not conscious of Arnold's presence just then. Words poured fast from her lips as she held the boy to her heart in an ecstasy of relief. She was still on her knees upon the path, still trembling like a leaf, when Mr. Wayne's voice fell upon her ear.

"Well, of all the young rascals I ever met, he's the biggest! Why, you scamp, what made you do such a thing?"

"I never done it exactly. I--I--just gived it one tug. I--I----" Jamie's quivering lips failed to complete the sentence. His face worked like a queer gutta-percha visage for a moment, and then he burst into a hearty roar which must have startled every living thing on the island.

Arnold muttered something which was luckily drowned by Jamie's noise.

The boat was gone; the burning glory of sunset was slowly dying out, and across the river came the first faint breath of the night. He was here on a desolate island, with a woman who did not care for him, and he had cared for her so much that his love was the very crown of his life. Her indifference would not make any outward change in him. He was not the kind of man to believe that his heart was broken, but he knew that he should feel the want of her as long as he lived; he felt that he might have risen to a higher level if she had put her hand in his and walked by his side. At first he had not for a moment doubted that she could be won. He had believed that she was meant for him; he had triumphed in antic.i.p.ation, but some nameless barrier had risen between them and baffled him, and now it was all over. If the boat had not got loose and drifted away, he would have rowed her back in a sullen silence which would never have been broken again.

But there was no boat, and Elsie, still crooning over Jamie, did not yet understand what had happened. When the boy had ceased bellowing for very weariness, she suggested that they should all go home as quickly as they could. The child had been over-excited and over-tired with his long day.

"It is not wise to kneel on the damp earth," said Arnold, with cold tranquillity. "Let me advise you to get up and take Jamie into the hut.

The dew is beginning to fall."

"Into the hut?" repeated Elsie, rising from her knees and turning her pale face towards him.

"Yes. The boat is gone."

"Gone! Then how shall we go back? What can we do?"

"I must think." His voice was still very quiet. "You had better take him into the hut."

She obeyed in silence, half stupefied and bewildered after the agitation she had undergone. The boy had sobbed himself into a drowsy state, and staggered along the path supported by her arm. When they entered the hut she laid him on the seat, and made a pillow of the old basket, covered with her handkerchief. In a moment he was fast asleep.

When she came out of the little building Arnold was standing in the clearing, looking out across the water. The last of the sunset had vanished, and the river and its banks looked like a picture in delicate grey tints. A light suddenly twinkled on the opposite sh.o.r.e, where one could just discern the outlines of a farm-house, fading fast into the mist of twilight.

"Can we not make a signal?" Elsie asked.

"We can gather sticks and light a fire," he answered gravely. "There's nothing else to be done."

"There's plenty of wood," she said, "and you have some matches, I suppose? I'll help you to collect the boughs and twigs." She made a movement towards the underwood, but he stopped her, and their hands touched.

"You are cold," he said, "and you had a great fright. I wish I could have prevented all this."

"I think," she replied, "that it is quite as unpleasant for you as for me."

"Not half as unpleasant," he returned abruptly. "You must hate me for bringing you here. You do hate me, don't you?"