The Shadow of the Past.

by F.E. Mills Young.

CHAPTER ONE.

On the strip of yellow sand in the curve of the wall which separates the beach at Three Anchor Bay from the roadway above it two men sat playing cards in the blaze of the morning sunshine, which beat with untempered violence upon their uncovered heads, upon the hot sand that sloped gently to the rocky sh.o.r.e, and upon the long blue waves rolling slowly in from the Atlantic with the semblance of a succession of hooded serpents, rearing themselves with languid grace and folding over reluctantly, throwing off a stream of spray from their crests like the tail of some gigantic comet. Far out the sea was aglitter, save where it touched the horizon and lay mirror clear in the sensuous warmth, reflecting the light and colour from the sky.

With the exception of the two card players the beach was deserted; they were alone with the riot of colour and sunlight and the beauty of the sea. Neither looked at the sea. The older man, sitting cross-legged on the sand, had his back towards it; the younger, leaning, save when he dealt the cards, on his elbow, only lifted his eyes from the cards to fix them on his companion's face, which he did at infrequent intervals with an odd half admiring resentment in their expression.

He was a well made, good-looking man of about twenty-seven. His fair skin, caught by the strong salt air and daily exposure, was burnt to a brilliant brick, the pink stain travelling down his long throat and broad chest which, moist with perspiration, showed to the waist where the grey flannel shirt was unb.u.t.toned; the sleeves also were rolled up above his elbows revealing a pair of muscular arms covered with fine golden hairs. Strength, indolence and amazing recklessness showed in this man's look and bearing. While giving the idea that physically he was capable of any effort of endurance, his manner conveyed also the impression that usually he would be discovered playing the pa.s.sive part while others strove, that only some powerful inducement would rouse him to exert his strength: physical and mental qualities seemed here to be at variance.

His companion was altogether less noticeable; a shrewd, light-eyed, slightly built man in the thirties; a man marked early in life for moderate success in most things. One of his successes was card playing, as his adversary was discovering; perhaps he was more successful in that than in anything. For days he had been steadily winning away from its owner the recently acquired wealth which a stroke of luck had brought him; and the loser, in the grip of the gambler's superst.i.tion, played on in the hope of winning back.

Their solitude was invaded by the sudden appearance of a girl with a collie dog. She approached unexpectedly from behind the wall within a foot or two of the players, who, flushed and intent, disregarded her in their silent concentration on the game. The girl surveyed their grouping in surprise; and the younger man, looking up involuntarily from the cards he held, paused in the act of taking one from his hand to return her curious look. She averted her eyes and walked on; and the man returned to the game, and forgot almost immediately in this greater interest that just for a moment he had been quite curiously impressed by the steady inquiring eyes which had looked into and held his with the odd intimacy and interest of their gaze.

The owner of the inquiring eyes walked leisurely down to the sh.o.r.e, where she paused to respond to the dog's excited invitation by throwing a stick she carried for the purpose into the sea for him to retrieve.

Again and again, when the collie brought back the stick and laid it before her and barked for a repet.i.tion of the game, the girl stooped with swift grace, picked up the stick, and with a free side swing of the arm flung it far into the waves.

"d.a.m.n that dog!" snapped the older man. "Why doesn't the fool of a girl move farther on instead of making herself a nuisance?"

The younger man allowed his attention to stray from the cards and turn his gaze seaward. He watched the collie swimming through the surf, and the white figure of the girl poised against the blue, with the cool waves running up the wet sand almost to her feet, and the shimmering steamy heat vapour rising from the sands behind her, an atmospheric veil quivering between herself and him. The joyous barking of the dog as, emerging from the waves, it beshowered the girl plentifully in an attempt to shake the salt drops from its coat, was the only sound to disturb the harmony of the sea's lazy response to the whisper of the breeze.

"I expect," he said, leisurely shuffling the cards, "she considers her occupation more legitimate than ours. After all, I don't see what cause you have to be nervy because a dog barks."

As though the complaint had travelled across the dividing s.p.a.ce and reached her ears, the girl started to walk, still throwing the stick when it was brought to her, but no longer remaining stationary to pursue this seemingly unending game. She disappeared with the dog round the curve; and fitfully, and growing fainter, the barking of the collie was borne back to their ears, till finally the sound died away in the distance, and only the thud of breaking waves, the swish of their advance, with the backward suck of their waters in retreat, broke the surrounding quiet. A great silence and a great stillness reigned.

At last the younger man threw down the cards, and lay back on his elbow, staring at the sea.

"That's the finish," he said presently, in controlled quiet tones.

"You've cleaned me out."

"There's always the chance," the other returned, rolling a cigarette and lighting it, "of a change in the luck. Why not make use of paper and pencil, and have another run on it?"

The loser shook his head.

"No; I'm done. You have the devil's luck."

There was a dazed look in his eyes, an unhappy lode. His companion, while feigning not to observe him was aware of it, aware too of the grim tightening of the lips, and the repressed pa.s.sion underlying the unnatural calm of his manner. Guy Matheson did not often betray emotion. He had played and lost steadily for days, and had parted with his money with an indifference that had misled the other as to the resources at his command. The information that he was "cleaned out,"

with the corroborative evidence of his stunned expression, came with a shock of surprise to his hearer. That which he had set himself to effect had been accomplished sooner than he had hoped. Luck and superior skill had both been in his favour. The run of luck had been consistent; each day he had been apprehensive of its changing, but it had held steadily; if it held only a little longer, all would be well.

The silence between them grew until it became difficult to break. To venture a trivial remark in the teeth of that grim pause was impossible.

The man with the luck smoked reflectively, his eyes on the sand; the man without the luck stared seaward, indifferent in the preoccupation of his thoughts as to what construction his companion was likely to put upon his taciturnity. He was angry with himself, not alone because he had lost everything, but because he could not take his losses philosophically. He had no feeling of splendid adventure, no desire to flick his fingers in the face of fate and laugh. He felt much as he had felt when, a small boy, he had dropped a penny in the slot of an automatic sweet machine that was out of order, and had followed that failure to get a return for his money by dropping another, and this his last, penny in the same unresponsive receptacle. He had on that occasion kicked the offending machine viciously; to have been able to kick something now would have been a relief.

And then abruptly the noise of a bark snapped the silence. The collie was returning along the sands. He turned over on his elbow and swept the beach with his eyes, eyes in which a quickening interest vied with the hard bitterness of resentful anger. He wanted to see the girl again, the girl who had looked at him in wondering amaze that he could find no better pastime than card playing in the sunlight. She had disapproved of his occupation; he had read that in her look; he had also seen the interest that flashed to the surface and drenched the wonder and the disapproval in the dark eyes.

"Here's that brute of a dog again!" Holman said.

The complaint was allowed to pa.s.s without comment; the indolent figure reclining on the sand remained motionless, waiting for the reappearance of the girl. She came into sight presently, still stooping for, and throwing, the stick at intervals; though her response to the dog's insistence was not so ready as it had been, and her movements were listless, conveying an impression of fatigue. As the girl showed greater indifference for the game, the collie grew more eager. When by its barking it failed to rouse her to greater activity, it pulled at her dress, rushing in and snapping at her skirt excitedly. The man sprawling on the sands looked on. The dog, he decided, was a nuisance.

It was boisterous in common with its breed. It scarcely surprised him when from the water's edge he heard a girl's scream. In one of its wild rushes the dog had caught her leg in its teeth. With amazing swiftness he was on his feet.

"The brute's bitten her!" he exclaimed.

"Serve her right," the other responded, "for letting it make itself a nuisance."

If he heard the callous remark, Guy Matheson paid no heed to it. In a few rapid strides he reached the girl's side. Holman looked after him; looked from him to the cards lying where they had been thrown down on the sands; looked from the cards to the two figures by the sea sh.o.r.e; and, reflecting on the unlikelihood of his friend's return, he slipped the cards into his pocket and left the beach.

CHAPTER TWO.

The girl faced about at the sound of Matheson's approach. She was vainly attempting to ward off the dog's exuberant attacks, which Matheson quelled promptly with the effective argument of force. She looked from him to the collie as it ran howling behind her, and her eyes rebuked the man's roughness.

"He did not intend to hurt," she said. "He is always like that when he grows excited; one has to keep him off with a stick; but I forgot."

"I am afraid he bit you," he said. "Yes. But it isn't much, I think.

I'll go back and bathe it. I am staying quite close."

"A dog's bite can be a nasty thing, particularly in this country," he said. "I wish you would let me have a look at it." She flushed brightly, and asked: "Are you a doctor?"

"Doctor enough for that sort of operation," he replied, smiling. "There is a natural and effective way of treating all bites when one has no artificial remedy handy."

"Oh! I don't think it is necessary to trouble you," she said quickly.

"The dog is perfectly healthy."

"That may be; but it is a wise precaution," he urged. He was quietly insistent; but the girl was determined in her objection, which he had a persuasion arose from prudish reasons rather than indifference to the wound. A feeling of irritation gripped him. He wondered why he should concern himself about her. If she chose to run risks, that was her affair.

"I am afraid you consider my interference impertinent," he said. "It was not meant so."

Quickly she lifted her eyes, brown, earnest eyes, to his face, and scrutinised him closely.

"I am sorry if you really think that," she said. "And it isn't true. I feel only grat.i.tude for your kindness. If I thought there was the least danger I would gladly follow your suggestion. But it's such a trifling matter. I cried out because I was startled. I didn't think you would hear up there by the wall."

"I happened to be watching," he said, "and saw what happened. I am glad the injury is only slight. All the same, I wouldn't stand about; a bandage and rest would be advisable."

"Yes," she said.

She hesitated for a moment, manifestly undecided whether to part without thanking him formally for his kindly interest would not appear rather ungracious. She had been prepared at first to resent his interference.

It had annoyed her when he kicked the dog; the action had struck her as brutal, and consistent in a man who gambled away the best of the hours.

A mental picture of a sunburnt face, flushed and absorbed in the game, of strong indolent hands fingering the cards, recurred persistently and prejudiced her against him. She wished that she had not discovered him thus engaged. As though he divined the reason of her hesitation, and sought to relieve her of further embarra.s.sment, he glanced rapidly over his shoulder, made some remark about the necessity for following his friend, and turned away. Abruptly the girl held out her hand.

"Thank you very much for troubling about me," she said.

"There is nothing to thank me for," he answered, facing her again with a lazy smile. "You wouldn't let me render any service."

"Because there wasn't any need," she said quickly, as though thinking her refusal needed explaining. "But I am obliged to you for your concern for me."

She started to walk up the beach; and the dog, barking remonstrance that she should forsake the sea, remained with its feet planted protestingly in the wet sand in the hope that she would think better of it and return. Matheson walked beside her.

"Since we are both bound for the road," he said, "may I go so far with you?"