"Helloa, I've found you."
The Governor was in yachting costume.
"Well, the yacht is lying outside, and Fenella and I are doing a
little circumnavigating of the island, so come along."
Stowell tried to excuse himself, but the Governor would listen to no
excuses.
"Everybody says you are looking like a ghost these days, and so you
are. Therefore come, let's get a breath of sea-air into you."
"But your Excellency...."
"I've brought one of the ship's boys ashore for your bag, so pack it
quick...."
"But really...."
"Where's your bedroom and I'll pack it myself."
"No, no! But if I must...."
"That's better! I'll smoke a pipe and wait for you."
"After all, why not?" thought Stowell, as he packed his bag and put
on flannels and a blue jacket. This flying away from Fenella was
unworthy of a man. It was cowardly, contemptible. He must learn to
resist temptation.
Half an hour later he was riding with the Governor in a dinghy over
the fresh waters of the bay towards a large white yacht, "The
Fenella," with the red ensign fluttering over her. The gangway was
open and as Stowell stepped on to the spotless deck of the ship, her
namesake, also in yachting costume, was waiting to receive him.
The mainsail, mizzen and jib being set, the grey-bearded captain, in
blue with brass buttons, called on his boys to swing the dinghy up to
the davits and haul in the anchor. In a few minutes more, to the
hiss and simmer of the sea, the yacht was running free before the
wind, leaving the town to the south behind it.
The bell rang for luncheon, and with the Governor and Fenella,
Stowell crossed to the companion and went down to the saloon. Books
and field-glasses were lying about the sofas and the table was
glistening with silver and glass. Blue silk curtains, with the
sunlight shining through them, were fluttering over the skylight and
the port-holes. How fresh! How charming!
When they came up on deck an hour afterwards they were doubling the
Point of Ayre, and the lighthouse at the northernmost end of it was
looking like a marble column with a glittering eye. Towards six
o'clock they cast anchor for the night off Peel.
The sun was then setting, and the herring fleet (a hundred boats)
going out for the night were passing in front of the red sky like a
flight of black birds. By the time dinner was over the drowsy spirit
of the sunset had died over the waters behind them, the twilight had
deepened to a ghostly grey, and the moon had risen over the little
fishing town in front and the gaunt walls of the ruined Peel Castle
which stands on an island rock.
The Governor, who had sent ashore for the day's newspapers, remained
in the cabin to read them. But Stowell and Fenella sat on deck under
the moon and the stars. The air had become very quiet. There was no
sound anywhere except the tranquil wash of the waves against the
yacht and the whispering of the sea outside.
Fenella talked and laughed. Stowell laughed and talked. They found
it so easy to talk to each other.
The night wore on. The moon going westward made the broken walls of
the Castle stand up black above the shore, with its empty
window-sockets like eyes looking from the lighter sky.
Stowell talked of the old ruin and its legendary and historical
associations--St. Patrick, the spectre hound (_the Mauthe Doa_), the
ecclesiastical prison and the graves in the roofless Cathedral.
"But I'll tell you a story that beats all that," he said.
"About a woman of course?" said Fenella.
"Yes--a fallen woman."
"Ah!"
"Her name was Kate Kinrade. She gave birth to an illegitimate child,
and the Bishop--he was a saint--thinking that her conduct tended to
the dishonour of the Christian name, ordered that, for the saving of
her soul, she should be dragged after a boat across the bay of Peel
on the fair of St. Patrick at the height of the market."
"And was she?"
"The fishermen refused at first to carry out the censure, and then
excused themselves on the ground that St. Patrick's day was too
tempestuous. But being threatened with fines, they did it at
last--in the depth of winter."
Fenella's gaiety had gone. Stowell gazed at her face in the
moonlight. It was quivering and her bosom was heaving.
"And the Bishop was a saint, you say?"
"If ever there was one."
"He ordered the woman to be dragged through the sea at the tail of a
boat?"
"Yes."
"And what did he do to _the man_?"
Stowell gasped. There was silence for a moment, and then the
Governor's voice came from the skylight of the cabin:
"Are you people never going to turn in?"
"Presently."
"I am, anyway."
It was late. The lights of the little town had blinked out one by
one. Only the red light on the stone pier was burning.
Fenella recovered her gaiety after a while, shouted for echoes to the
Castle rock, and then took Stowell's arm to go down the companion.
On reaching the darkened saloon she stepped on tiptoe and dropped her
voice under pretence of not disturbing her father, who would be
asleep. At the door of her cabin she ceased laughing and said,
"Hush! I'm going to say something."
"What?"
"I don't know if you're aware of it, but ever since I came home
you've been calling me 'Miss Stanley,' and I've been calling
you--anything."
"Well?"
"We used to call each other by our Christian names before. Couldn't
we go back to that?"
"Would you like to?"
There was a pause, and then, in a whisper,
"Victor!"
"Fenella!"
"Good-night!"
It had been like a kiss.
Stowell went to his cabin in rapture, in pain, with a delicious
thrill and a sense of stifling hypocrisy. What a hypocrite he had
been! It was not to resist temptation but to dally with it that he
had come on this cruise.
He was there under false pretences. He had pledged himself to the
girl at Derby Haven, and yet....
Thank God, he had gone no farther! There was only one way of escape
from the perpetual fire of temptation--to hasten his marriage with
Bessie Collister. He must see her as soon as possible and suggest
that they should marry immediately. It was heart-breaking, but there
was no help for it, if he was to stand upright as an honourable man.
Dan Baldromma? Well, what of him? He could shut the door on Dan--of
course he could!
Next morning Stowell was the first on deck. The air was salt and
chill; the day had not yet opened its eyes; there was a whirring of
wings and a calling of sea-birds; and through a sleepy white mist,
that might have been the smoke of the moon, the herring fleet were
coming like pale ghosts back to harbour.
A fresh breeze sprang up with the sunrise and the Captain lifted
anchor and stood out towards the south. Sheep were bleating on the
head-land of Contrary, and as they opened the broad bay of the
Niarbyl the thatched cottages under the cliffs were smoking for
breakfast.
When they reached Port Erin the Governor came up and ordered anchor
to be cast again, saying they would lie there and go out with the
herring fleet in the evening.
Seeing his opportunity, Stowell said he would like to go ashore for a
few hours--a little business.
"Mind you're back by four o'clock then--we'll sail at high-water."
As Stowell was being sculled ashore in the dinghy he was saying to
himself:
"No Kate Kinrade for me--never, never!"