Meade's cousin--a little boy when Geoff died, "Was he as beautiful as
that?" she said, gently, putting her hand over mine that held the velvet
case. And then, after another pause, she went on, hesitatingly; "Cousin
Mary, I wonder if you would mind if I told you whom he looks like to
me?"
"No, my dear," I answered easily, and like an echo to my thought her
words came.
"It is your sailor. Do you see it? He is only a common seaman, of
course, but I think he must have a wonderful face, for with all his
dare-devil ways I always think of 'Blessed are the pure in spirit' when
I see him. And the eyes in the picture have the same expression--do you
mind my saying it, Cousin Mary?"
"I saw it myself the first time I looked at him," I said. And then, as
people do when they are on the verge of crying, I laughed. "Anne Ford
would think me ridiculous, wouldn't she?" and I held Geoff's picture in
both my hands. "He is much better suited to her or to you. A splendid
young fellow of twenty-four to belong to an old woman like me--it is
absurd, isn't it?"
"He is suited to no one but you, dear, and you are just his age and
always will be," and as Sally's arms caught me tight I felt tears that
were not my own on my cheek.
It was ten days yet before Anne was due to arrive, and almost every day
of the ten we sailed. The picturesque coast of North Devon, its deep
bays, its stretches of high, tree-topped cliffs, grew to be home-like to
us. We said nothing of Cary and his boat at the Inn, for we soon saw
that both were far-and-away better than common, and we were selfish.
Nor did the man himself seem to care for more patronage. He was always
ready when we wished to go, and jumped from his spick-and-span deck to
meet us with a smile that started us off in sunshine, no matter what the
weather. And with my affection for the lovely, uneven coast and the seas
that held it in their flashing fingers, grew my interest in the winning
personality that seemed to combine something of the strength of the
hills and the charm of the seas of Devonshire.
One day after another he loosed the ropes with practised touch, and the
wind taught the sail with a gay rattle and the little Revenge flung off
the steep street and the old sea-wall and the green cliffs of Clovelly,
and first yards and then miles of rippling ocean lay between us and
land, and we sailed away, we did not need to know or care where, with
our fate for the afternoon in his reliable hands. Little by little we
forgot artificial distinctions in the out-of-doors, natural atmosphere,
or that the man was anything but himself--a self always simple, always
right. Looking back, I see how deeply I was to blame, to have been so
blind, at my age, but the figure by the rudder, swinging to the boat's
motion, grew to be so familiar and pleasant a sight, that I did not
think of being on guard against him. Little as he talked, his moods were
varied, grave or gay or with a gleam of daring in his eyes that made
him, I think, a little more attractive than any other way. Yet when a
wind of seriousness lifted the still or impetuous surface, I caught a
glimpse, sometimes, of a character of self-reliance, of decision as
solid as the depths under the shifting water of his ocean. There was
never a false note in his gentle manner, and I grew to trust serenely to
his tact and self-respect, and talked to him freely as I chose. Which of
course I should not have done. But there was a temptation to which I
yielded in watching for the likeness in his face, and in listening for a
tone or two of his voice that caught my heart with the echo of a voice
long silent.
One morning to our astonishment Cary sent up to break our engagement for
the afternoon. Something had happened so that he could not possibly get
away. But it was moonlight and warm--would we not go out in the evening?
The idea seemed to me a little improper, yet very attractive, and
Sally's eyes danced.
"Let's be bold and bad and go, Cousin Mary," she pleaded, and we went.
A shower of moonlight fell across the sea and on the dark masses of the
shore; it lay in sharp patches against the black shadows of the sail; it
turned Sally's bare, dark head golden, and tipped each splashing wave
with a quick-vanishing electric light. It was not earth or ocean, but
fairyland. We were sailing over the forgotten, sea-buried land of
Lyonesse; forests where Tristram and Iseult had ridden, lay under our
rushing keel; castles and towers and churches were there--hark! could I
not hear the faint bells in the steeples ringing up through the waves?
The old legend, half true, half fable, was all real to me as I sat in
the shadow of the sail and stared, only half seeing them, at Sally
standing with her hands on the rudder and Cary leaning over her,
teaching her to sail the Revenge. Their voices came to me clear and
musical, yet carrying no impression of what they were saying. Then I saw
Sally's little fingers slip suddenly, and Cary's firm hand close over
them, pushing the rudder strongly to one side. His face was toward me,
and I saw the look that went over it as his hand held hers. It startled
me to life again, and I sat up straight, but he spoke at once with quiet
self-possession.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Meade. She was heading off a bit dangerously."
And he went on with directions, laughing at her a little, scolding her a
little, yet all with a manner that could not be criticised. I still
wonder how he could have poised so delicately and so long on that
slender line of possible behavior.
As the boat slipped over the shimmering ocean, back into the harbor
again, most of the houses up the sharp ascent of Clovelly street were
dark, but out on the water lay a mass of brilliant lights, rocking
slowly on the tide. Sally was first to notice it.
"There is a ship lying out there. Is it a ship or is it an enchantment?
She is lighted all over. What is it--do you know?"
Cary was working at the sail and he did not look at us or at it as he
answered.
"Yes, Miss--I know her. She is Sir Richard Leigh's yacht the Rose. She
was there as we went out, but she was dark and you did not notice her."
I exclaimed, full of interest, at this, but Sally, standing ghost-like
in her white dress against the sinking sail, said nothing, but stared at
the lights that outlined the yacht against the deep distance of the sky,
and that seemed, as the shadowy hull swung dark on the water, to start
out from nowhere in pin-pricks of diamonds set in opal moonlight.
Lundy Island lies away from Clovelly to the northwest seventeen miles
off on the edge of the world. Each morning as I opened my window at the
Inn, and looked out for the new day's version of the ocean, it lifted a
vague line of invitation and of challenge. Since we had been in
Devonshire the atmosphere of adventure that hung over Lundy had haunted
me with the wish to go there. It was the "Shutter," the tall pinnacle of
rock at its southern end, that Amyas Leigh saw for his last sight of
earth, when the lightning blinded him, in the historic storm that
strewed ships of the Armada along the shore. I am not a rash person, yet
I was so saturated with the story of "Westward Ho!" that I could not go
away satisfied unless I had set foot on Lundy. But it had the worst of
reputations, and landing was said to be hazardous.
"It isn't that I can't get you there," said Cary when I talked to him,
"but I might not be able to get you away."
Then he explained in a wise way that I did not entirely follow, how the
passage through the rocks was intricate, and could only be done with a
right wind, and how, if the wind changed suddenly, it was impossible to
work out until the right wind came again. And that might not be for
days, if one was unlucky. It had been known to happen so. Yet I lingered
over the thought, and the more I realized that it was unreasonable, the
more I wanted to go. The spirit of the Devonshire seas seemed, to my
fancy, to live on the guarded, dangerous rocks, and I must pay tribute
before I left his kingdom. Cary laughed a little at my one bit of
adventurous spirit so out of keeping with my gray hairs, but it was easy
to see that he too wanted to go, and that only fear for our safety and
comfort made him hesitate. The day before Anne Ford was due we went. It
was the day, too, after our sail in the moonlight that I half believed,
remembering its lovely unreality, had been a dream. But as we sailed
out, there lay Sir Richard Leigh's yacht to prove it, smart and
impressive, shining and solid in the sunlight as it had been ethereal
the night before. I gazed at her with some curiosity.
"Have you been on board?" I asked our sailor. "Is Sir Richard there?"
Cary glanced at Sally, who had turned a cold shoulder to the yacht and
was looking back at Clovelly village, crawling up its deep crack in the
cliff. "Yes," he said; "I've been on her twice. Sir Richard is living on
her."
"I suppose he's some queer little rat of a man," Sally brought out in
her soft voice, to nobody in particular.
I was surprised at the girl's incivility, but Cary answered promptly,
"Yes, Miss!" with such cheerful alacrity that I turned to look at him,
more astonished. I met eyes gleaming with a hardly suppressed amusement
which, if I had stopped to reason about it, was much out of place. But
yet, as I looked at him with calm dignity and seriousness, I felt myself
sorely tempted to laugh back. I am a bad old woman sometimes.
The Revenge careered along over the water as if mad to get to Lundy,
under a strong west wind. In about two hours the pile of fantastic rocks
lay stretched in plain view before us. We were a mile or more away--I am
a very uncertain judge of distance--but we could see distinctly the
clouds of birds, glittering white sea-gulls, blowing hither and thither
above the wild little continent where were their nests. There are
thousands and thousands of gulls on Lundy. We had sailed out from
Clovelly at two in bright afternoon sunshine, but now, at nearly four,
the blue was covering with gray, and I saw Cary look earnestly at the
quick-moving sky.
"Is it going to rain?" I asked.
He stood at the rudder, feet apart and shoulders full of muscle and full
of grace, the handkerchief around his neck a line of flame between blue
clothes and olive face. A lock of bronze hair blew boyishly across his
forehead.
"Worse than that," he said, and his eyes were keen as he stared at the
uneven water in front of us. A basin of smoother water and the yellow
tongue of a sand-beach lay beyond it at the foot of a line of high
rocks. "The passage is there"--he nodded. "If I can make it before the
squall catches us"--he glanced up again and then turned to Sally. "Could
you sail her a moment while I see to the sheet? Keep her just so." His
hand placed Sally's with a sort of roughness on the rudder. "Are you
afraid?" He paused a second to ask it.
"Not a bit," said the girl, smiling up at him cheerfully, and then he
was working away, and the little Revenge was flying, ripping the waves,
every breath nearer by yards to that tumbling patch of wolf-gray water.
As I said, I know less about a boat than a boy of five. I can never
remember what the parts of it are called and it is a wonder to me how
they can make it go more than one way. So I cannot tell in any
intelligent manner what happened. But, as it seemed, suddenly, while I
watched Sally standing steadily with both her little hands holding the
rudder, there was a crack as if the earth had split, then, with a
confused rushing and tearing, a mass of something fell with a long-drawn
crash, and as I stared, paralyzed, I saw the mast strike against the
girl as she stood, her hands still firmly on the rudder, and saw her go
down without a sound. There were two or three minutes of which I
remember nothing but the roaring of water. I think I must have been
caught under the sail, for the next I knew I was struggling from beneath
its stiff whiteness, and as I looked about, dazed, behold! we had passed
the reefs and lay rocking quietly. I saw that first, and then I saw
Cary's head as it bent over something he held in his arms--and it was
Sally! I tried to call, I tried to reach them, but the breath must have
been battered out of me, for I could not, and Cary did not notice me. I
think he forgot I was on earth. As I gazed at them speechless,
breathless, Sally's eyes opened and smiled up at him, and she turned her
face against his shoulder like a child. Cary's dark cheek went down
against hers, and through the sudden quiet I heard him whisper.
"Sweetheart! sweetheart!" he said.
Both heads, close against each other, were still for a long moment, and
then my gasping, rasping voice came back to me.
"Cary!" I cried, "for mercy's sake, come and take me out of this jib!"
I have the most confused recollection of the rest of that afternoon.
Cary hammered and sawed and worked like a beaver with the help of two
men who lived on Lundy, fishermen by the curious name of Heaven. Sally
and I helped, too, whenever we could, but all in a heavy silence. Sally
was wrapped in dignity as in a mantle, and her words were few and
practical. Cary, quite as practical, had no thought apparently for
anything but his boat. As for me, I was like a naughty old cat. I fussed
and complained till I must have been unendurable, for the emotions
within me were all at cross-purposes. I was frightened to death when I
thought of General Meade; I was horrified at the picture stamped on my
memory of his daughter, trusted to my care, smiling up with that
unmistakable expression into the eyes of a common sailor. Horrified! My
blood froze at the thought. Yet--it was unpardonable of me--yet I felt a
thrill as I saw again those two young heads together, and heard the
whispered words that were not meant for me to hear.
Somehow or other, after much difficulty, and under much mental strain,
we got home. Sally hardly spoke as we toiled up the stony hill in the
dark beneath a pouring rain, and I, too, felt my tongue tied in an
embarrassed silence. At some time, soon, we must talk, but we both felt
strongly that it was well to wait till we could change our clothes.
At last we reached the friendly brightness of the New Inn windows; we
trudged past them to the steps, we mounted them, and as the front door
opened, the radiant vision burst upon us of Anne Ford, come a day before
her time, fresh and charming and voluble--voluble! It seemed the last
straw to our tired and over-taxed nerves, yet no one could have been
more concerned and sympathetic, and that we were inclined not to be
explicit as to details suited her exactly. All the sooner could she get
to her own affairs. Sir Richard Leigh's yacht was the burden of her lay,
and that it was here and we had seen it added lustre to our adventures.
That we had not been on board and did not know him, was satisfactory
too, and neither of us had the heart to speak of Cary. We listened
wearily, feeling colorless and invertebrate beside this brilliant
creature, while Anne planned to send her card to him to-morrow, and
conjectured gayeties for all of us, beyond. Sir Richard Leigh and his
yacht did not fill a very large arc on our horizon to-night. Sally came
into my room to tell me good-night, when we went up-stairs, and she
looked so wistful and tired that I gave her two kisses instead of one.
"Thank you," she said, smiling mistily. "We won't talk to-night, will
we, Cousin Mary?" So without words, we separated.
Next morning as I opened my tired eyes on a world well started for the
day, there came a tap at the door and in floated Anne Ford, a fine bird
in fine feathers, wide-awake and brisk.
"Never saw such lazy people!" she exclaimed. "I've just been in to see
Sally and she refuses to notice me. I suppose it's exhaustion from
shipwreck. But I wasn't shipwrecked, and I've had my breakfast, and it's
too glorious a morning to stay indoors, so I'm going to walk down to the
water and look at Sir Richard's boat, and send off my card to him by a
sailor or something. Then, if he's a good boy, he will turn up to-day,
and then--!" The end of Anne's sentence was wordless ecstasy.
But the mention of the sailor had opened the flood-gates for me, and in
rushed all my responsibilities. What should I do with this situation
into which I had so easily slipped, and let Sally slip? Should I
instantly drag her off to France like a proper chaperone? Then how could
I explain to Anne--Anne would be heavy dragging with that lodestone of a
yacht in the harbor. Or could we stay here as we had planned and not see
Cary again? The unformed shapes of different questions and answers came
dancing at me like a legion of imps as I lay with my head on the pillow
and looked at Anne's confident, handsome face, and admired the freshness
and cut of her pale blue linen gown.
"Well, Cousin Mary," she said at last, "you and Sally seem both to be
struck dumb from your troubles. I'm going off to leave you till you can
be a little nicer to me. I may come back with Sir Richard--who knows!
Wish me good luck, please!" and she swept off on a wave of good-humor
and good looks.
I lay and thought. Then, with a pleasant leisure that soothed my nerves
a little, I dressed, and went down to breakfast in the quaint
dining-room hung from floor to ceiling with china brought years ago from
the far East by a Clovelly sailor. As I sat over my egg and toast Sally
came in, pale, but sweet and crisp in the white that Southern girls wear
most. There was a constraint over us for the reckoning that we knew was
coming. Each felt guilty toward the other and the result was a formal
politeness. So it was a relief when, just at the last bit of toast, Anne
burst in, all staccato notes of suppressed excitement.
"Cousin Mary! Sally! Sir Richard Leigh is here! He's there!" nodding
over her shoulder. "He walked up with me--he wants to see you both.
But"--her voice dropped to an intense whisper--"he has asked to see Miss
Walton first--wants to speak to her alone! What does he mean?" Anne was
in a tremendous flutter, and it was plain that wild ideas were coursing
through her. "You are my chaperone, of course, but what can he want to
see you for alone--Cousin Mary?"
I could not imagine, either, yet it seemed quite possible that this
beautiful creature had taken a susceptible man by storm, even so
suddenly. I laid my napkin on the table and stood up.
"The chaperone is ready to meet the fairy prince," I said, and we went
across together to the little drawing-room.
It was a bit dark as Anne opened the door and I saw first only a man's
figure against the window opposite, but as he turned quickly and came
toward us, I caught my breath, and stared, and gasped and stared again.
Then the words came tumbling over each other before Anne could speak.
"Cary!" I cried. "What are you doing here--in those clothes?"
Poor Anne! She thought I had made some horrid mistake, and had disgraced
her. But I forgot Anne entirely for the familiar brown eyes that were
smiling, pleading into mine, and in a second he had taken my hand and
bending over, with a pretty touch of stateliness, had kissed it, and the
charm that no one could resist had me fast in its net.
"Miss Walton! You will forgive me? You were always good to me--you won't
lay it up against me that I'm Richard Leigh and not a picturesque
Devonshire sailor! You won't be angry because I deceived you! The devil
tempted me suddenly and I yielded, and I'm glad. Dear devil! I never
should have known either of you if I had not."
There were more of the impetuous sentences that I cannot remember, and
somewhere among them Anne gathered that she was not the point of them,
and left the room like a slighted but still reigning princess. It was
too bad that any one should feel slighted, but if it had to be, it was
best that it should be Anne.
Then my sailor told me his side of the story; how Sally's tip for the
rescue of her hat had showed him what we took him to be; how her
question about a boat had suggested playing the part; how he had begun
it half for the fun of it and half, even then, for the interest the girl
had roused in him--and he put in a pretty speech for the chaperone just
there, the clever young man! He told me how his yacht had come sooner
than he had expected, and that he had to give up one afternoon with her
was so severe a trial that he knew then how much Sally meant to him.
"That moonlight sail was very close sailing indeed," he said, his face
full of a feeling that he did not try to hide. "There was nearly a
shipwreck, when--when she steered wrong." And I remembered.
Then, with no great confidence in her mood, I went in search of my girl.
She is always unexpected, and a dead silence, when I had anxiously told
my tale, was what I had not planned for. After a minute,
"Well?" I asked.
And "Well?" answered Sally, with scarlet cheeks, but calmly.
"He is waiting for you down-stairs," I said.
Then she acted in the foolish way that seemed natural. She dropped on
her knees and put her face against my shoulder.
"Cousin Mary! I can't! It's a strange man--it isn't our sailor any more.
I hate it. I don't like Englishmen."
"He's very much the same as yesterday," I said. "You needn't like him if
you don't want to, but you must go and tell him so yourself." I think
that was rather clever of me.
So, holding my hand and trembling, she went down. When I saw Richard
Leigh's look as he stood waiting, I tried to loosen that clutching hand
and leave them, but Sally, always different from any one else, held me
tight.
"Cousin Mary, I won't stay unless you stay," she said, firmly.
I looked at the young man and he laughed.
"I don't care. I don't care if all the world hears me," he said, and he
took a step forward and caught her hands.
Sally looked up at him. "You're a horrid lord or something," she said.
He laughed softly. "Do you mind? I can't help it. It's hard, but I want
you to help me try to forget it. I'd gladly he a sailor again if you'd
like me better."
"I did like you--before you deceived me. You pretended you were that."
"But I have grievances too--you said I was a queer little rat of a man."
Sally's laugh was gay but trembling. "I did say that, didn't I?"
"Yes, and you tried to underpay me, too."
"Oh, I didn't! You charged a lot more than the others."
Sir Richard shook his head firmly. "Not nearly as much as the Revenge
was worth. I kept gangs of men scrubbing that boat till I nearly went
into bankruptcy. And, what's more, you ought to keep your word, you
know. You said you were going to marry Richard Leigh--Richard Grenville
Cary Leigh is his whole name, you know. Will you keep your word?"
"But I--but you--but I didn't know," stammered Sally, feebly.
He went on eagerly. "You told me how he should wear his name--high
and--and all that." He had no time for abstractions. "He can never do it
alone--will you come and help him?"
Sally was palpably starching about for weapons to aid her losing fight.
"Why do you like me? I'm not beautiful like Anne Ford." He laughed. "I'm
not rich, you know, like lots of American girls. We're very poor"--she
looked at him earnestly.
[Illustration: I felt myself pulled by two pairs of hands.]
"I don't care if you're rich or poor," he said. "I don't know if
you're beautiful--I only know you're you. It's all I want."
She shook a little at his vehemence, but she was a long fighter. "You
don't know me very much," she went on, her soft voice breaking. "Maybe
it's only a fancy--the moonlight and the sailing and all--maybe you only
imagine you like me."
"Imagine I like you!"
And then, at the sight of his quick movement and of Sally's face I
managed to get behind a curtain and put my fingers in my ears. No woman
has a right to more than one woman's love-making. And as I stood there,
a few minutes later, I felt myself pulled by two pairs of hands, and
Sally and her lover were laughing at me.
"May I have her? I want her very much," he said, and I wondered if ever
any one could say no to anything he asked. So, with a word about Sally's
far-away mother and father, I told him, as an old woman might, that I
had loved him from the first, and then I said a little of what Sally was
to me.
"I like her very much," I said, in a shaky voice that tried to be
casual. "Are you sure that you like her enough?" For all of his answer,
he turned, not even touching her hands, and looked at her.