* * * *
Meanwhile, the lovers had forgotten everything but the beauty of the day, and that the world was for themselves alone. The sun shone for them, for them the blue sea thundered in white battalions against the cliffs; for them the lark poured out its song at the gate of heaven, and the heather bloomed on moor and headland.
They strolled along until they came to a favored spot where the gorse flowered in yellow fires, and the crushed wild thyme was pungent under their feet. Here Geoffrey threw himself on the turf, and Vera reclined by his side.
He could touch her hands, and toy with the little ripples of her hair. To watch the play of those pretty features and look back the love he saw in those great starry eyes was a thing without alloy.
“Ah, me! If we could always be like this!” Vera said.
“You and I would be happy in any circumstances,” said Geoffrey thoughtfully. “Only I should like to see something of the world.”
“What, go away and leave me all alone, dearest?”
Geoffrey smiled at the innocent coquetry. He touched the smooth, satin cheek caressingly. Vera only wanted him to disclaim any such intention and he knew it, too. There was no deception about the matter, but they were none the less happy for that.
“Of course not,” Geoffrey declared. “I should take you with me wherever I went. If we could only get the bar removed I should like to travel. I should like to see men and cities, and measure my strength with my fellows. I should like to go into Parliament. Ah! If we could only get the bar removed!”
“If we only could,” Vera sighed. “But I can’t imagine that they will touch us. We are so young and so innocent of wrong-doing. And yet this morning—”
Vera paused, half-afraid of betraying Ralph Ravenspur’s confidence.
“Only this morning you were a bit afraid. Confess it.”
“I was, Geoff. I felt strange when I awoke in the night. I felt cold and like death when I awoke to-day; and then I fainted.”
“But you are all right now, darling,” Geoff said anxiously.
“Yes, dear; I never felt better. Still, it was a strange thing altogether. I was well when I went to bed, but in the night I had a curious dream. It seemed to me that I was lying half asleep with a singular pricking sensation of my lips and face. An then an angel came down and laid some white powder that looked like a mixture of salt and powdered glass. Almost immediately the pain ceased, and I slept again. Then I awoke finally and had that fainting fit. Don’t you think it was a queer thing?”
“Yes; but what had the dream and the powder to do with it, little girl?”
“I was coming to that, Geoff. After I got better I remembered my dream and looked at the pillow. You smile, thinking that only a woman would do that. Sure enough there was some trace of gritty powder there, and I collected it in a tissue paper. Directly I got it to the light half of it melted; it seemed to dissolve in light like water. And here it is.”
Vera produced a tiny packet from her pocket and opened it. There were several grains of some sharp powder there which, as Geoffrey held them in his hand dissolved to nothingness. His face was very pale.
“Darling, this is a dreadful thing,” he murmured. “I fancy—”
He paused, fearful of alarming Vera. He saw the hand of fate in this; he saw the sword that was hanging over that beloved young life.
A passion of anger and despair filled him, but for Vera’s sake he checked the feeling. And it seemed to him as if he had passed in a minute down a decade of years; as if in that brief space he had left his boyhood behind and become a man.
“This must be looked into,” he said sternly. “Every precaution—”
“Has been taken,” Vera said quietly. “We have a protector among us, dearest. One who is worth all the precautions put together. Do not fear for me, and do not ask me any questions, because I must not answer them. But I am safe.”
Geoffrey nodded. The cloud slowly lifted from his forehead. Vera was speaking of her uncle Ralph, and there was no reason to ask any questions. Was it possible, Geoffrey wondered, that Ralph Ravenspur had gone to the heart of the mystery, that it was wrapped up in his life, and that he had come home to solve it?
But of this he said nothing. He resolved to render every assistance. This vile thing was the work of earthly hands, and earthly ingenuity could solve it. Never was there cipher invented that was incapable of solution.
Geoffrey drew Vera to his side and kissed her passionately. For a little time she lay in his arms in absolute content. Her smiling eyes were clear, her features placid. In any case she feared no unseen danger. There must be some great sheltering power behind her, or she had never looked so sweet and placid as that.
“I could not do without you, darling,” Geoffry said.
“And you are not going to do without me,” Vera smiled. “There is much yet to be done, but it is going to be accomplished, dearest. Something tells me that the hour of our freedom is at hand. And something also tells me, Geoff, that you are going to have a great deal to do with it.”
They came at length up the slope leading to the castle. And there Ralph came upon them in his own noiseless mysterious fashion. He clung to them until Vera had entered the house, and then led Geoffrey to the terrace.
“There is nobody within earshot of us?” he demanded.
Geoffrey assured him there was not. He was impressed with the earnestness of his uncle’s manner. He had never seen him so moved before.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked.
“Much,” was the whispered reply. “If you are bold and resolute.”
“I am; I am. I would lay down my life as the martyrs of old did to solve the mystery.”
“Ah!” Ralph said in a dry, croaking whisper. “I felt sure I could trust you. There is a great danger and it is near. In that danger I want a pair of eyes. Lend me yours.”
“Dear uncle, I will do anything you please.”
“Good. I like the ring in your voice. At half-past eleven to-night I will come to your room. There I will confide in you. Till then, absolute silence.”
XI - ANOTHER STROKE IN THE DARKNESS
Contrary to the usual custom, there was almost a marked cheerfulness at Ravenspur the same evening. The dread seemed to have lifted slightly, though nobody could say why, even if they cared to analyse, which they certainly did not. And all this because it had seemed to the doomed race that Vera was marked down for destruction, and that the tragedy, the pitiful, tragedy, had been averted.
It is hardly possible to imagine a state of mind like this. And Vera half-divined the reason for this gentle gaiety. She might have told them differently had she chosen to do so, but for many reasons she refrained.
