When Arthur got out of the gates of the Quinta Carr, he hurried to the
hotel, with the intention of reading the letters Mildred had given him,
and, passing through the dining-room, seated himself upon the “stoep”
which overlooked the garden in order to do so. At this time of year it
was, generally speaking, a quiet place enough; but on this particular
day scarcely had Arthur taken the letter from his pocket, and—having
placed the ring that it contained upon his trembling finger, and
repudiating the statement, marked “to be read first,” on account of its
business-like appearance—glanced at the two first lines of Angela’s own
letter, when the sound of hurrying feet and many chattering voices
reminded him that he could expect no peace anywhere in the
neighbourhood of the hotel. The second English mail was in, and all the
crowd of passengers, who were at this time pouring out to the Cape to
escape the English winter, had come, rejoicing, ashore, to eat, drink,
be merry, and buy parrots and wicker chairs while the vessel coaled.
He groaned and fled, in his hurry leaving the statement on the bench on
which he was seated.
Some half-mile or so away, to the left of the town, where the sea had
encroached a little upon the shore of the island, there was a nook of
peculiar loveliness. Here the giant hand of Nature had cleft a ravine
in the mountains that make Madeira, down which a crystal streamlet
trickled to the patch of yellow sand that edged the sea. Its banks
sloped like a natural terrace, and were clothed with masses of
maidenhair ferns interwoven with feathery grasses, whilst up above
among the rocks grew aloes and every sort of flowering shrub.
Behind, clothed in forest, lay the mass of mountains, varied by the
rich green of the vine-clad valleys, and in front heaved the endless
ocean, broken only by one lonely rock that stood grimly out against the
purpling glories of the evening sky. This spot Arthur had discovered in
the course of his rambles with Mildred, and it was here that he bent
his steps to be alone to read his letters. Scarcely had he reached the
place, however, when he discovered, to his intense vexation, that he
had left the enclosure in Angela’s letter upon the verandah at the
hotel. But, luckily, it chanced that, within a few yards of the spot
where he had seated himself, there was a native boy cutting
walking-sticks from the scrub. He called to him in Portuguese, of which
he had learnt a little, and, writing something on a card, told him to
take it to the manager of the hotel, and to bring back what he would
give him. Delighted at the chance of earning sixpence, the boy started
at a run, and at last he was able to begin to read his letter.
Had Arthur not been in quite such a hurry to leave the hotel, he might
have seen something which would have interested him, namely, a very
lovely woman—so lovely, indeed, that everybody turned their heads to
look at her as she passed, accompanied by another woman clad in a stiff
black gown, not at all lovely, and rather ancient, but, for all that,
well-favoured and pleasant to look on, being duly convoyed to their
room in the hotel by his friend the manager.
“Well, thank my stars, here we be at last,” said the elderly stout
person, with a gasp, as the door of the room closed upon the pair; “and
it’s my opinion that here I shall stop till my dying day, for, as for
getting on board one of those beastly ships again, I couldn’t do it,
and that’s flat. Now look here, dearie, don’t you sit there and look
frightened, but just set to and clean yourself up a bit. I’m off
downstairs to see if I can find out about things; everybody’s sure to
know everybody else’s business in a place like this, because, you see,
the gossip can’t get out of a bit of an island, it must travel round
and round till it ewaporates. I shall soon know if he is married or
not, and if he is, why, what’s done can’t be undone, and it’s no use
crying over spilt milk, and we’ll be off home, though I doubt I sha’n’t
live to get there, and if he isn’t why so much the better.”
“Oh! nurse, do stop talking, and go quickly; can’t you see that I am in
an agony of suspense? I must get it over one way or the other.”
“Hurry no man’s cattle, my dear, or I shall make a mess of it. Now,
Miss Angela, just you keep cool, it ain’t no manner of use flying into
a state. I’ll be back presently.”
But, as soon as she was gone, poor Angela flew into a considerable
state; for, flinging herself upon her knees by the bed, she broke into
hysterical prayers to her Maker that Arthur might not be taken from
her. Poor girl! alternately racked by sick fears and wild hopes, hers
was not a very enviable position during the apparently endless ten
minutes that followed.
Meanwhile, Pigott had descended to the cool hall, round which were
arranged rows of hammocks, and was looking out for some one with whom
to enter into conversation. A Portuguese waiter approached her, but she
majestically waved him away, under the impression that he could not
speak English, though as a matter of fact his English was purer than
her own.
Presently a pretty little woman, leading a baby by the hand, came up to
her.
“Pray, do you want anything? I am the wife of the manager.”
“Yes, ma’am. I want a little information—at least, there’s another that
does. Did you ever happen to hear of a Mr. Heigham?”
“Mr. Heigham? Indeed, yes; I know him well. He was here a few minutes
since.”
“Then perhaps, ma’am, you can tell me if he is married to a Mrs. Carr
that lives on this island?”
“Not that I know of,” she answered, with a little smile; “but there is
a good deal of talk about them—people say that, though they are not
married, they ought to be, you know.”
“That’s the best bit of news I have heard for many a day. As for the
talk, I don’t pay no manner of heed to that. If he ain’t married to
her, he won’t marry her now, I’ll go bail. Thank you kindly, ma’am.”
At that moment they were interrupted by the entrance of a little ragged
boy into the hall, who timidly held out a card to the lady to whom
Pigott was talking.
“Do you want to find Mr. Heigham?” she said. “Because if so, this boy
will show you where he is. He has sent here for a paper that he left. I
found it on the verandah just now, and wondered what it was. Perhaps
you would take it to him if you go. I don’t like trusting this boy—as
likely as not he will lose it.”
“That will just suit. Just you tell the boy to wait while I fetch my
young lady, and we will go with him. Is this the paper? And in her
writing, too! Well, I never! There, I’ll be back in no time.”
Pigott went upstairs far too rapidly for a person of her size and
years, with the result that when she reached their room, where Angela
was waiting half dead with suspense, she could only gasp.
“Well,” said Angela, “be quick and tell me.”
“Oh, Lord! them stairs!” gasped Pigott.
“For pity’s sake, tell me the worst!”
“Now, miss, _do_ give a body time, and don’t be a fool—begging pardon
for——”
“Oh, Pigott, you are torturing me!”
“Well, miss, you muddle me so—but I am coming to it. I went down them
dratted stairs, and there I see a wonderful nice-looking party with a
baby.”
“For God’s sake tell me—_is Arthur married?_”
“Why, no, dearie—of course not. I was just a-going to say——”
But whatever valuable remark Pigott was going to make was lost to the
world for ever, for Angela flung her arms round her neck and began
kissing her.
“Oh, oh! thank God—thank God! Oh, oh, oh!”
Whereupon Pigott, being a very sensible person, took her by the
shoulders and tried to shake her, but it was no joke shaking a person
of her height. Angela stood firm, and Pigott oscillated—that was the
only visible result.
“Now, then, miss,” she said, giving up the shaking as a bad job, “no
highstrikes, _if_ you please. Just you put on your hat and come for a
bit of a walk in this queer place with me. I haven’t brought you up by
hand this two-and-twenty year or thereabouts, to see you go off in
highstrikes, like a housemaid as has seen a ghost.”
Angela stopped, and did as she was bid.