HOW A LADY AND A YOUTH, BEING SEPARATED FROM THEIR COMPANY, VISITED A
SHIP THAT HELD NOTHING BUT WATER.
Mr. Fogo and Paul performed the journey back to Kit's House in
silence; for Paul was yet wondering at his sister's behaviour, and
Mr. Fogo busy with thoughts he could hardly have interpreted.
As they drew near the little quay, they discerned through the
darkness, now fast creeping over the river, a boat pushed off by a
solitary figure that jumped aboard and began to pull towards them.
"Ahoy, there!" It was Caleb's voice.
"Ahoy, Caleb!" shouted Paul in answer; "anything wrong?"
"Have 'ee seen maaster?"
"Iss, an' got un safe an' sound."
Caleb peered through the gloom and descried Mr. Fogo.
Whatever relief this may have been to his feelings, it called forth
no expression beyond a grunt. He turned his boat and pulled back in
time to help his master ashore. Paul was dismissed with some words
of thanks which he declared unnecessary. He would row back in Mr.
Fogo's boat, he said, if he might be allowed, and would bring her
down in the early morning. With this and a hearty "Good-night" he
left the pair to walk up to the house together.
Caleb was unusually silent during supper, and when his master grew
cheery and related the adventures of the day, offered no comment
beyond a series of mysterious sounds expressing mental discontent
rather than sympathy. Finally, when Mr. Fogo had finished he looked
up and began abruptly--
"Ef you plaise, sir, I wants to gie warnin'."
"Give warning?"
"Iss, sir; notiss to go." And Caleb stared fiercely at his master.
"But, my dear Caleb, you surely don't mean--?"
"I do, tho'."
"Are you dissatisfied with the place or the wages?"
"That's et, sir--the wages."
"If they are too low--"
"They bain't; they be a darned sight too high."
Mr. Fogo leant back in his chair.
"Too high!" he gasped.
"Look 'ee here, sir: here be I, so lazy as La'rence, an' eatin' my
head off 'pon a pund a week an' my small-clothes, on condishun I
looks arter 'ee. Very well; what happens? 'Tes Dearlove, Dearlove,
Dearlove all the time. Fust Tamsin brings 'ee back, and then Paul,
an' nex' time I reckon 'twill be Peter's turn. Where-_fore_, sir,
seein' I can't offer to share wages wi' the Twins, much less wi'
Tamsin, I wants to go."
Caleb knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and, rising, stared at his
master for some seconds and with much determination.
Mr. Fogo argued the case for some time without effect. But so
sincerely did he paint his helplessness, and nervous aversion to new
faces, that at length, after many pros and cons, Caleb consented to
give him one more chance. "But mind, sir," he added, "the nex' time
you'm brought home by a Dearlove, 'go' 's the word." On this
understanding they retired to rest, but it was long before Mr. Fogo
could shut his memory upon the panorama of the day's experiences.
Let us return to the picnickers. After what had passed between Mrs.
Goodwyn-Sandys and Mr. Moggridge on the river's bank, it may seem
strange that the lady should have chosen Sam Buzza to row her home,
for the two youths were now declared rivals for her goodwill.
But I think we may credit her with a purpose.
At any rate, when the lengthening shadows and retreating tide hinted
return, Sam, who had arrived late in a designedly small dingey, asked
Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys to accompany him, and she, with little demur,
complied. It did not matter greatly, as propriety would be saved by
their nearness to the larger boats; and so the party started
together.
But this arrangement, though excellent, did not last long; for,
curiously enough, the dingey soon began to take a formidable lead of
the next boat, in which the traitorous Moggridge was pulling stroke,
and gazing, with what courage he could summon, into Sophia's eyes.
Indeed, so quickly was the lead increased, that at the end of two
miles the larger boats had shrunk to mere spots in the distance.
The declining sun shone in Sam's eyes as he rowed, and his companion,
with her sunshade so disposed as to throw her face into shadow,
observed him in calm silence. The sunshade was of scarlet silk, and
in the softened light stealing through it her cheek gained all the
freshness of maidenhood. Her white gown, gathered about the waist
with a band of scarlet, not only fitted her figure to perfection, but
threw up the colour of her skin into glowing relief. To Sam she
appeared a miracle of coolness and warmth; and as yet no word was
spoken.
At length, and not until they had passed the Dearloves' cottage, she
asked--
"Why were you late?"
"Was I missed?"
"Of course. You younger men of Troy seem strangely blind to your
duties--and your chances."
The last three words came as if by after-thought; Sam looked up
quickly.
"Chances? You said 'chances,' I believe?"
"I did. Was there not Miss Saunders, for instance?"
Sam's lip curled.
"Miss Saunders is not a chance; she is a certainty. Did she, for
instance, announce that the beauty of the day made her sad--that even
amid the wealth of summer something inside her whispered 'Autumn'?"
"She did."
"She always does; I have never picnicked with Miss Saunders but
something inside her whispered 'Autumn'!"
"A small bore," suggested Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, "that never misses
fire."
Sam tittered and resumed--
"If it comes to duties, your husband sets the example; he hasn't
moved from the club window to-day."
"Oh!" she exclaimed shortly, "I never asked you to imitate my
husband."
Sam ceased rowing and looked up; he was familiar with the tone, but
had never heard it so emphasised before.
"Look here," he said; "something's wrong, that's plain. It's a rude
question, but--does he neglect you?"
She laughed with some bitterness, and perhaps with a touch of
self-contempt.
"You are right; it is a rude question: but--he does not."
There was a moment's silence, and then she added--
"So it's useless, is it not, to wish that he would?"
The blood about Sam's heart stood still. Were the words a confession
or a sneer. Did they refer to her or to him? He would have given
worlds to know, but her tone disclosed nothing.
"You mean--?"
She gave him no answer, but turned her head to look back. In the
distant boats they had fallen to singing glees. In this they obeyed
tradition: for there is one accomplishment which all Trojans
possess--of fitting impromptu harmonies to the most difficult air.
And still in the pauses of the music Miss Limpenny would exclaim--
"Did you ever see anything more lovely?"
And the Admiral would reply--
"Really, I never did."
Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys could not, of course, hear this. But the voices
of the singers stole down the river and touched her, it may be, with
some sense of remorse for the part she was playing in this Arcadia.
"We are leaving the others a long way behind," she said irresolutely.
"Do you wish to wait for them?"
For a moment she seemed about to answer, but did not. Sam pulled a
dozen vigorous strokes, and the boat shot into the reach opposite
Kit's House.
"That," she said, resting her eyes on the weather-stained front of
Mr. Fogo's dwelling, "is where the hermit lives, is it not? I should
like to meet this man that hates all women."
Sam essayed a gallant speech, but she paid no heed to it.
"What a charming creek that is, beyond the house! Let us row up
there and wait for the others."
The creek was wrapped in the first quiet of evening. There was still
enough tide to mirror the tall trees that bent towards it, and
reflect with a grey gleam one gable of the house behind. Two or
three boats lay quietly here by their moorings; beside them rested a
huge red buoy, and an anchor protruding one rusty tooth above the
water. Where the sad-looking shingle ended, a few long timbers
rotted in the ooze. Nothing in this haunted corner spoke of life,
unless it were the midges that danced and wheeled over the waveless
tide.
"Yonder lies the lepers' burial-ground," said Sam, and pointed.
"I have heard of them" (she shivered); "and that?"
She nodded towards the saddest ruin in this sad spot, the hull of
what was once a queenly schooner, now slowly rotting to annihilation
beside the further shore. She lay helplessly canted to starboard,
her head pointing up the creek. Her timbers had started, her sides
were coated with green weed; her rudder, wrenched from its pintle,
lay hopelessly askew. On her stern could still be read, in blistered
paint, her name, "_The Seven Sisters_ of Troy." There she lay
dismantled, with a tangle of useless rigging, not fit for saving,
left to dangle from her bulwarks; and a quick fancy might liken her,
as the tide left her, and the water in her hold gushed out through a
dozen gaping seams, to some noble animal that had crept to this
corner to bleed to death.
Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys looked towards the wreck with curious interest.
"I should like to examine it more closely," she said.
For answer Sam pulled round the schooner, and let the boat drift
under her overhanging side.
"You can climb aboard if you like," he said, as he shipped the sculls
and, standing up, grasped the schooner's bulwarks. "Stop, let me
make the painter fast."
He took up the rope, swung himself aboard, and looped it round the
stump of a broken davit; then bent down and gave a hand to his
companion. She was agile, and the step was of no great height; but
Sam had to take both her hands before she stood beside him, and ah!
but his heart beat cruelly quick.
Once on board Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys displayed the most eager
inquisitiveness, almost endangering her beautiful neck as she peered
down into the hole where the water lay, black and gloomy. She turned
and walked aft with her feet in the scuppers, and her right hand
pressed against the deck, so great was the cant on the vessel.
It was uphill walking too, for the schooner was sagged in the waist,
and the stern tilted up to a considerable height. Nevertheless she
reached the poop at last. Sam followed.
"I want to see the captain's cabin," she explained.
Sam wondered, but led the way. It was no easy matter to descend the
crazy ladder, and in the cabin itself the light was so dim that he
struck a match. Its flare revealed a broken table, a horsehair
couch, and a row of cupboards along the walls. On the port side
these had mostly fallen open, and the doors in some cases hung
by a single hinge. There was a terrible smell in the place.
Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys looked around.
"Does the water ever come up here?" she asked.
Sam lit another match.
"No," he said, stooping and examining the floor.
"You are quite sure?"
Her tone was so eager that he looked up.
"Yes, I am quite sure; but why do you ask?"
She did not answer: nor, in the faint light, could he see her face.
After a moment's silence she said, as if to herself--
"This is just the place."
"For what?"
"For--for an Irish jig," she laughed with sudden merriment.
"Come, try a step upon these old timbers."
"For heaven's sake take care!" cried Sam. "There may be a trap-hatch
where you stand, and these boards are rotten through and through.
Ten minutes ago you were mournful," he added, in wonder at her change
of mood.
"Was I?" She broke out suddenly into elfish song--
"'Och! Pathrick O'Hea, but I'm sad, Bedad!
Och! darlint, 'tis bad to be sad.'
'Hwat's this?' says he.
'Why, a kiss,' says she.
''Tis a cure,' says he.
'An' that's sure,' says she.
'Och! Pat, you're a sinsible lad, Bedad!
Troth, Pat, you're a joole uv a lad!'"
She broke off suddenly and shivered.
"Come, let us go; this place suffocates me."
She turned and ran up the crazy ladder. At the top she turned and
peered down upon the dumbfounded Sam.
"Nobody comes here, I suppose?"
"I should think not."
"I mean, the owner never comes to--"
"To visit his cargo?" laughed Sam. "No, the owner is dead. He was a
wicked old miser, and I guess in the place where he is now he'd give
a deal for the water in this ship; but I never heard he was allowed
to come back for it."
She leant her hands on the taffrail, and looked over the stern.
"Hark! There are the other boats. Don't you hear the voices?
They have passed us by, and we must make haste after them."
She turned upon him with a smile. Without well knowing what he did
he laid his hand softly on her arm.
"Stop, I want a word before you go."
"Well?"
Her large eyes, gleaming on him through the dusk, compelled and yet
frightened him. He trembled and stammered vaguely--
"You said just now--you hinted, I mean--that you were unhappy with
Mr.--with your husband. Is that so?"
It was the second time she had been asked the question to-day.
A faint smile crossed her face.
"Well?" she said again.
"I mean," he answered with a nervous laugh, "I don't like to see it--
and--I meant, if I could help you--"
"To run away? Will you help me to run away?" Her eyes suddenly
blazed upon him, and as she bent forward, and almost hissed the
words, he involuntarily drew back a step.
"Well," he stammered, "he's a good fellow, really, is your husband--
he's been very good to me and all that--"
"Ah!" she exclaimed, turning away, "I thought so. Come, we are
wasting time."
"Stop!" cried Sam.
But she had passed swiftly down the sloping deck and dropped into the
boat without his assistance. He followed unsteadily, untied the
painter, and jumped down after her. They rowed for some time in
silence after the retreating picnickers. Before they came abreast of
the hindmost boat, however, Sam spoke--
"Look here. I can't help myself, and that's the truth. If you want
to run away I'll help you." He groaned inwardly as he said it.
She made no reply, but kept her eyes fixed on his face, as if
weighing his words. Nor, beyond a cool "Good-night" at parting on
the quay, did another word pass between them.
"What luck?" asked the Honourable Frederic as his wife entered the
drawing-room of "The Bower." He was stretched in an arm-chair before
the fire, and turned with a glance of some anxiety at her entrance.
She looked about her wearily, took off her hat, tossed it across to
a table, and, sinking into the armchair opposite, began to draw off
her gloves.
"I'm sick to death of all this, me dear--of 'the Cause,' of Brady, of
these people, of meself."
Her face wore a grey look that made her seem a full ten years older.
"Won't you include me in the list, my love?" asked her husband
amiably.
"I would," she replied, "only I've already said as much twice this
very afternoon."
She laughed a fatigued little laugh, and looked around her again.
The drawing-room had greatly changed since first we visited it with
Admiral Buzza, and the local tradesmen regarded Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys'
account with some complacency as they thought of payment after
Midsummer. For the strangers were not of the class that goes to the
Metropolis or to the Co-operative Stores; from the outset they had
announced a warm desire to benefit the town of Troy. This pretty
drawing-room was one of the results, and it only wanted a certain
number of cheques from the Honourable Frederic to make the excellence
of the arrangement complete.
Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys took a leisurely survey of the room while her
husband awaited information.
"The pote is hooked," she said at last, "an' so's Master Sam."
"The poet is our first card," replied her husband, searching his
pocket and producing a letter. "The _Maryland_ should be here
to-morrow or next day. Upon my word, Nellie, I don't want to ask
questions, but you've done exceedingly well."
"Better than well, me dear. I've found a _place_--an illigant hidin'
in an owld schooner up the river."
"Safe?"
"As a church. I'll take yez to't to-morra. Master Sam tells me
sorra a sowl goes nigh ut. He tuk me to see ut. I say, me darlint,
I'd be lettin' that young fool down aisier than the pote. He's a
poor little snob, but he's more like a man than Moggridge."
"He's a bad ass, is Moggridge," assented the Honourable Frederic.
"Come, Nellie, we've a day's work before us, remember."
A friend of mine, the son of steady-going Nihilist parents, and
therefore an authority, assures me that the Honourable Frederic
cannot have been a conspirator for the simple reason that he shaved
his chin regularly. Be this as it may, to-night he smiled
mysteriously as he rose, and winked at his wife in a most plebeian
way. I regret to say that both smile and wink were returned.
[Illustration: Winked . . . in a most plebeian way.]