"Dear Comrade,--You have not answered my last three letters, and I
feel quite anxious to know of your welfare. You will be pleased to
hear that I have arranged to take my leave home during the coming
autumn--"
The Captain put the letter down with an exclamation which startled the
sparrows on the window-ledge, and set the breakfast cup shaking in its
saucer.
"Coming home!" he gasped. Then he read on.
"I look forward to inquiring personally after your health and
prospects, in which, as you know, my dear fellow, I am much
interested. It would be very nice of you, as the only friend I have
in England, to ask your old comrade on a visit to you in your
comfortable quarters. A particular advantage in such an arrangement
would be that it would prevent my coming without being asked. I am
due by the `Nile' about the first week in October. Come and meet me
in town. I have no doubt I shall get a line at Southampton to say at
which hotel I shall find you. I fear you will find me financially in
low water. But I shall have with me papers relating to the regimental
accounts previous to your regretted departure from India, which, no
doubt, some people would regard as valuable, _Au revoir_, my dear
fellow--
"Yours ever,--
"R.R.
"_P.S_.--Commend me to your charming family, I look forward with
particular pleasure to make the acquaintance of the young ladies, of
whom I have heard delightful reports over here."
Raffles, when he came in to remove the breakfast things, could not help
being struck with the narrow escape Captain Oliphant had had of throwing
away, for the sake of a paltry eightpence, a most interesting and
appetising letter.
The Captain sat holding it abstractedly in his hand, nor was it till the
door opened half an hour later and Rosalind sailed in that he hastily
pulled himself together, and crumpled the paper away in his pocket.
"Why, papa, what is the matter? Is there any bad news in that letter."
"On the contrary, it announces the arrival from India of a very dear old
comrade."
"Oh," said Rosalind. "You will like to hear all about the people over
there. Does he belong to our regiment?"
"No, dear. But I shall expect you to be very agreeable to him when he
comes here."
"But he's not coming _here_, is he?" she asked, in amazement.
"Where else do you suppose he would be likely to come to visit me?"
"Oh, but, papa, we cannot--we must not ask people here. As it is, think
of all four of us living here on Roger's money. It isn't fair."
"Rosalind, you use expressions which, to anyone but your father, would
be positively offensive. Rest assured that I do not require my own
child to correct me."
"Oh, of course, dear father, I don't mean that, but--"
"But it sounds extremely as if you did mean it."
"I do hope you won't ask any one here," said she doggedly.
"Rosalind, you offend me. You are incapable, as I have told you before,
of appreciating your duty either to me or yourself. Oblige me by
going."
"Papa, dear, I am only anxious--"
"Go!" said the Captain brusquely.
She obeyed. Mr Armstrong, as he met her in the hall and marked the
bright colour in her cheeks and the light in her eyes, thought to
himself how uncommonly well she was looking this morning. He might have
thought otherwise had he seen her in her studio half an hour later, with
the colour all faded, striving miserably to resume her painting at the
point where she had left it off.
Her good father, meanwhile, naturally put out, continued his
meditations.
"A most vexing child--no support to me at all. On the contrary, an
embarrassment. I might have guessed she would cut up rough. Yet I do
so long for a little sympathy. Wonder if I shall get any from my dear
cousin Eva some fine day? Hum. I more and more incline to that
venture. It would suit my book, to say nothing of my being really
almost in love with the dear creature. But I'm so abominably shy.
Let's see, Ratman is due first week in October--a month hence. I shall
have to keep him quiet some how. He won't be satisfied with things as
they are, I'm afraid. All very well to be heir-presumptive when there's
little prospect of presuming. Dear Roger is certainly not robust--not
at all, poor boy. Still he seems tenacious of what would be very much
more useful to me than to him. Yes, it would strengthen my hands vastly
if my dear cousin Eva were to give me the right to regard the lad as a
father. There would be something definite in that. It would solve the
Armstrong question, for one thing, I flatter myself; and as for
Rosalind--yes by the way--"
He took out the letter again and read the postscript carefully.
"Yes--tut, tut--how oddly things do work out sometimes. Evidently it is
my duty all round, for the sake of everybody, to cast aside my natural
bashfulness and use the opportunities Providence gives me."
With which reflection he lit a cigar, and had a pleasant ramble in the
park with little Miss Jill, who had rarely seen her papa more lively or
amusing.
His spirits were destined to be still further cheered by an occurrence
which took place on the following day.
Roger, despite his delicate health, had managed to get through a
creditable amount of work during the summer under Mr Armstrong's
guidance. He was shortly to go up for his first B.A. in London, and,
with that ordeal in view, had been tempted to tax his strength even more
than was good for him.
At last the tutor put down his foot.
"No, old fellow," said he; "if you work any move you will go backwards
instead of forward. You must take this week easy, and go up fresh for
the exam. Depend on it, you will do far better than if you tried to
keep it up till the last moment."
In vain Roger pleaded, threatened, mutinied. The tutor was inexorable,
and, fortified by the joint authority of Mrs Ingleton and Dr Brandram,
carried the day. He had also an unexpected ally in Miss Rosalind.
"Don't be obstinate, Roger," said she. "The three Fates are too many
for you; and don't sulk, whatever you do, there's a dear boy, but make
yourself nice and propose to take Tom and Jill and me across to Pulpit
Island to-morrow. If you are so wedded to lessons, you and Tom shall
have your art class for once in a way on the Pelican's Rock instead of
my room."
Roger could hardly hold out after this; and Mr Armstrong, a little
envious, set the seal of his approval to the programme.
"I wish you'd come too," said Tom; "can't you?"
"Oh, do," said Jill; "it would be twice as nice."
"Mr Armstrong has enough of all of us on working-days," said Rosalind
rather cruelly, "to forego a chance of being rid of us on a holiday."
"Quite so," said the tutor, trying to enjoy the situation; "when the
mice are away the cat will play--on the piano."
The next day promised well for the picnic; and Roger had sufficiently
warmed up to the proposed expedition to be able to enter eagerly into
the preparations.
The Pulpit Island, a desolate cavernous rock three miles from the coast,
dominated by a lighthouse, was a familiar hunting-ground of his in days
gone by, and he decidedly enjoyed the prospect of doing the honours of
the place to his cousins now--particularly one of them.
As not a breath of air was stirring, they decided not to encumber the
small boat with mast or sail, but to row leisurely across with just as
much energy as suited their holiday humour. The channel was on the
whole free from currents, and, as Roger knew the landing-places as well
as the oldest sailor in the place, any precaution in the way of a pilot
was needless.
Armstrong, as he watched the little craft slowly glide over the glassy
water, dwindling smaller and smaller, but sending back the sound of
voices and laughter long after it itself had become an indistinguishable
speck in the gleaming water, wished himself one of the crew. But as
fate had ordained otherwise he retreated to his piano, and succeeded in
irritating Captain Oliphant considerably by his brilliant execution,
vocal and instrumental, of some of his favourite pieces.
The day, however, was too hot even for music, and after an hour's
practice Mr Armstrong gave it up and took a book.
But that was dull, and he tried to write some letters. Worse and worse.
The place was stifling, and the pen almost melted in his hand.
What was the matter with him? Why did he feel so down, so lonely.
Surely he could exist a day without his pupil, whatever the temperature.
Perhaps he had his doubts about the boy's success in the coming
examination. No; he fancied that would be all right. He would try a
stroll in the park. It could not at least be hotter under the trees
than in the house.
Across the passage a door stood wide open--a familiar door, through
which he caught sight of a familiar easel on the floor, and over the
fireplace one or two familiar Indian knick-knacks. He couldn't help
stopping a moment to peep in. It seemed cooler in there. What was the
picture on the easel? Might he not just look? A view of the park, with
the sea beyond-pretty, but--no, not as good as it might be. Landscape
was not this artist's strong point. Ah, there was a portrait on the
mantelpiece. That promised better. Why, it was the identical boy's
portrait that had once hung in the old squire's library. No--it was a
copy, but an extraordinary copy, as if the original had suddenly lived
while it was being made. Mr Armstrong had rarely seen a portrait which
looked so like speaking and breathing. The original in Roger's room was
weak compared with this. And in front of it stood a glass with a rose,
whose petals leaned over and just touched the canvas--
Mr Armstrong, feeling very guilty, beat a hasty retreat into the hot
passage and made his way down-stairs. He was a little jealous of that
portrait, perched there in that cool room, with the sweet rose in front
of it.
"Going out?" said Captain Oliphant in the hall. The Captain, by the
way, had taken to being civil to his co-trustee, much to Mr Armstrong's
annoyance, "Warm, isn't it?"
"Yes," said he.
"Beautiful day for those young people."
"Beautiful," said the tutor.
As he spoke, he casually tapped the barometer at the hall-door, as was
his habit. To his surprise, the dial gave a great leap downward.
Something was wrong with it evidently, for the sky was as monotonously
blue as it had been all day, and not a leaf stirred in the trees.
However, Mr Armstrong took the precaution to return to his own room for
a moment to consult the barometer there. It, too, answered him with a
downward plunge.
The tutor screwed his glass rather excitedly into his eye, and looked at
the clock. Half-past three. He touched the bell.
"Tell the groom to saddle `Pomona' for me, Raffles. I will come to the
stables in a minute or two and mount there."
"You need a bit of exercise this weather, you do," remarked Raffles to
himself, as he retired, "to keep warm."
A few minutes later the tutor was riding smartly to Yeld. During the
half-hour occupied by that journey the signs of the approaching storm
became manifest. The blue of the sky took a leaden hue, and out at sea
an ominous cloud-bank lifted its head on the horizon, while the sultry
air seemed to breathe hot on the rider's cheek.
He pulled up short at Dr Brandram's door.
"What's the matter now?" asked the doctor. "I hate to see you on
horseback. It always means bad news. Is Mrs Ingleton poorly? I am
not at all comfortable about her."
"No; nobody's ill. But I want you for all that. There's a storm coming
on."
"So the glass says. All the more reason for staying indoors."
"The youngsters from the Hall are out in it."
"Well, can I lend you an umbrella?"
"Don't be an ass, Brandram. They are out in an open boat at sea."
The doctor jumped to his feet.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed.
"They went to the island this morning, and will have started back a
quarter of an hour ago."
"They've caught it already, then," said the doctor. "Look!"
The horizon was lurid with clouds. Pulpit Island out at sea seemed,
instead of three miles distant, to have come in to within a mile. The
channel between, still gleaming in the sun, was struck by a bar of
shadow which seemed like a scar on the surface. The two men, as they
stood in the street looking seaward, could hear already the solemn hum
through the breathless air, and feel the first cool whiff of the breeze
on their faces, while at their feet there fell with a sudden plash a
heavy drop of rain.
"Had they a sail?" asked the doctor.
"No."
"It's coming south-east. They will drive in this side of Sheep Head."
"That's what I thought. An awful coast, and not a boat there."
"Get the horse in the gig," said Dr Brandram, "while I put together
what we are likely to want. Look sharp."
Armstrong wanted no encouragement to be expeditious, and had the trap at
the door almost before the doctor had his pile of blankets, wraps, with
brandy and other restoratives, ready to put in it. In the village they
paused to buy a rope and to warn one or two stragglers of their errand.
Then in the gathering storm they drove hard towards Sheep Head.
There was no mistake about the gale now. The sky was black with clouds,
and the rain and wind struck them simultaneously as they urged on. The
warning hum had already risen to a roar, and the wave, as they raced,
crest over crest, to the shore, hissed and seethed with a fury which
could be heard a mile off.
Neither of the men spoke. Armstrong, with the reins in his hand, kept
his eyes stolidly between the horse's ears. The doctor, more agitated,
looked eagerly out across the sea.
At last, near the summit of the tall, angular headland, the gig came
abruptly to a standstill. The horse was tied up, and the two men,
scarcely able to keep their feet, staggered to the cliff edge. There
for half an hour they lay, straining their eyes seaward, with the full
fury of the blast on their faces. It was hopeless to expect to see
anything, for the rain drove blindingly in their eyes, and, though
scarcely five o'clock, the afternoon was almost as dark as evening.
"Could they possibly drive clear of the point?" asked the doctor.
"Not possibly, I think. Come down to the shore. We are no use here."
"Wait a bit; it seems to be getting lighter."
It was; but for a long time the glow served only to make the obscurity
more visible. Presently, however, the rain paused for a moment, and
enabled them to dear their eyes and look steadily ahead. Dr Brandram
felt his arm suddenly gripped as his companion exclaimed hoarsely--
"What's that?"
"Something red."
Sure enough there was a speck of red tossed about in the waves, now
visible, now lost, now returning. It was all that could be seen, but it
was enough for Mr Armstrong.
"It's the boat. She wore a red cloak. Come down, come down."
"No; stop till we see how they are driving. There's time enough."
As far as they could calculate, the boat (if boat it was) was being
driven straight for Sheephaven Cove, under the cliff on which they
stood--a furious, rugged shore--unless, indeed, a miracle should chance
to pitch them into the deep, natural harbour that lay in between the low
rocks and the headland.
"Come down," said Armstrong again.
From the sea-level nothing, not even the red speck, was discernible; and
for a terrible five minutes they wondered, as they scrambled out on
hands and knees to the outmost limit of the jutting rocks, whether,
among the wild breakers, the little boat and its precious crew had not
vanished for ever.
It was all they could do to struggle to their feet, and, clinging to the
rocks, turn their faces seaward. A new paroxysm of the gale well-nigh
dashed them backwards, and for a time prevented their seeing anything.
But in a minute or two it eased off enough to allow them to open their
eyes.
"See--there--look out, look out," cried the doctor, pointing.
He was right. About a quarter of a mile away, buffeted like a cork on
the water, was a boat, and in it something red.
"Stand up and wave; it's no use shouting," said Armstrong.
Taking advantage of a temporary lull, they stood and waved their coats
above their heads. Whether they were seen or not, they could not tell.
No signal came in return; only the boat--as it seemed, stern-foremost--
drove on towards them.
"Hold on and get your rope ready," said the doctor.
"Will she clear the rocks or no?"
"We shall see. They've no oars out. Stay there while I wave again."
This time it was not in vain. There was a stir in the boat. The red
cloak was seen to wave aloft, and a faint cry mingled with the storm.
"Hold on!" cried the doctor; "they see us, thank God. I'll go on
waving."
Presently they could see one oar put out, in an attempt to steer the
boat into the cove. But in a moment it was swept away, and she drove on
as helplessly as before.
It seemed years while she gradually approached, stern-foremost, now
seeming to lurch straight towards the fatal rocks, now to stand clear
for the narrow channel. They could distinguish the four passengers at
last. She in red sat in the stern looking ahead, holding her little
sister at her side. The two lads in the middle were baling out wildly,
pausing every now and then to turn white faces landward, but returning
at once to their task. And indeed the boat sat so low in the water that
it was a miracle how she floated at all.
Armstrong stood up, his friend holding him, and waved his coil of rope
above his head. The signal was read in a moment. The two girls
retreated to the middle of the boat to make room for Roger in the stern.
On and on they came. For an instant it seemed as if nothing could save
them, for an ugly cross wave hurled them straight towards the rocks.
But the next righted them as suddenly, lifting them high on its crest
and dashing them headlong towards the one spot where help awaited them.
Before they rose again a deft cast from Armstrong had sent the rope
across the bows within Roger's reach, while the doctor, with the other
end lashed round his body, was running at full speed towards the calmer
water of the cove.
For a moment the line hung slack, as a great back-wave lifted the boat
on its crest and carried it seawards. But suddenly the strain came,
carrying the two men on shore nearly off their feet, and grinding on the
gunwale of the boat with a creak which could be heard even above the
waves.
"Hold on now!" cried Armstrong, as a forward wave surged up behind the
boat.
All obeyed but Roger, who, seeking to ease the strain, began to haul in
on the rope. The wave tossed the boat up with a furious lurch, half
swamping it as it did so, and flinging it down again headlong into the
trough. When it rose once more the rope still held, and three of her
passengers were safe. But Roger was not to be seen.
With an exclamation which even the doctor, in the midst of his
excitement, could hear, Armstrong flung himself blindly into the chaos
of water. For a moment or two it seemed as if he had gone straight to
his fate, for amid the foam and lashing spray they strained their eyes
in vain for a glimpse either of him or his pupil.
Then he appeared high above their heads on the crest of a wave, striking
out to where, for one instant, an upstretched arm and nothing more rose
feebly from the water. The next moment, hurled thither as it seemed by
the wave, he had reached it, and was battling for dear life with the
surf that swept him back seaward.
By this time a few bystanders had ventured out on to the rocks, one of
them with a rope, which, after three vain attempts, fell within reach of
the exhausted pair. By its aid Armstrong piloted his senseless charge
into the calmer water of the cove, and the whole party, a few moments
later, were safe on _terra firma_.