WEAVING THE NET.
Ariadne was happy again; happy once more for a short time. The
_Mignonne_ lay at her old anchorage on the Saturday night following
the events just detailed, and in her stateroom, or main cabin,
Geoffrey sat at the head of his table, and she was opposite to him.
The solitary lodgings were discarded for a time--if they were ever to
be occupied again, which was not likely, since, when the frigate went
to join Hawke's fleet, Ariadne would retire to Fanshawe Manor, there
to wait and wait and watch for his return, and pray to God that that
return might be allowed. The lodgings were therefore given up now, and
for ever, and she was with her husband. Oh! how happy she would be,
she said again and again, if only they had never more to part, or,
parting, that he had not to go forth upon so perilous an enterprise as
that of fighting the French.
But to-night, as they sat together, she would not allow even this sad
prospect to distract her. To-night she was resolved to be gay and
bright, and to make her husband's return to what she called "home" a
happy and cheerful one.
"For," she said to him, "who knows but that, after all, you may
not have to go to the fleet, that you may not have to fight the
French----"
"Hush, Ariadne, hush," he said. "No more of this, I beseech you, if
you are a true wife of mine. What! I a sailor, with war going on, and
not take part in it. Great heavens! what kind of a sailor then should
I be, and what likelihood of ever obtaining my flag? Nay, Ariadne, my
sweet, never speak like that."
"Forgive me, oh! forgive me, Geoff. But I love you so, so fond and
true. And it breaks my heart to part from you even for an hour. Yet,
alas! I know that it must be, will be, until you are a great man. Oh!
I wish you were an Admiral. Then you would have all you desire."
"Then," he replied, "I should be commanding fleets instead of single
ships. Ariadne, you must be brave."
He was very gentle to her as he spoke; gentle always, not only because
he loved her, but because he knew what a sad lot was that of a
sailor's wife in those days. The whole world was one more plunged in
war, although but two great Powers, England and France, were the
principal combatants; and between those two it was war to the knife.
One side or other had to triumph, and the triumph would be final for
many years to come. We were determined to possess ourselves of Canada,
the American fisheries, the sugar trade of Guadeloupe, and the whole
of the African trade at last if it could be done, and, already, we
were fast possessing ourselves of India; while, to draw off our
attention from those far-off places, Conflans was meditating an
invasion of England herself. The year, which was afterwards to be
termed and known as the "Great '59," was indeed likely to prove a
stormy one. And, amidst this storm, none would play a greater part
than the Navy of England. Hawke, Dennis, Boscawen, Speke, and
Keppel--the most illustrious names of the time--were all upon the
seas; men were being sought for everywhere and obtained by every means
possible, through crimps and impressment, by large bounty and offers
of increased pay. Even now, Geoffrey Barry had returned with the
_Mignonne_ empty of all the men he had taken away with him five days
before, and an Admiralty tender had brought him instructions to
procure more and more. And what he was doing was being done by scores
of naval captains in other parts of England.
He recognised, indeed, that the lot of the sailor's wife was a hard
one in those days--a mournful, heart-breaking one. For loving women
might be parted from their husbands for months and years, even
supposing that the latter lived through the storm and stress of their
careers; while even this was, after all, the brightest side of both
the sailor's and the sailor's wife's existence. The reverse side was a
violent death at any moment; or, which was perhaps almost as bad,
captivity of considerable duration in a French prison, and with no
knowledge of that captivity coming to those at home who were waiting
for the loved one's return.
Even now, as Geoffrey sat in his own cabin facing the wife whom he
worshipped so fondly and truly, he knew that ere long he would have to
leave her side for months--to return, it might be, a successful
conqueror; but, as was equally likely, a crippled, wounded man. Or,
which also was equally probable, never to return at all.
"I have to find a hundred more men somewhere," he said to her, "to
take away from here next week. And how to do it I do not know. I
wonder if that man Granger, or Lewis, as he now calls himself, can be
of any further assistance."
He had told Ariadne, before he went on the short cruise from which he
had this morning returned, of his discovery of Granger, the man who,
she would remember, had been Bufton's best man at the marriage into
which he had been entrapped by Anne Pottle; and he had also told her
of how this man had once been an officer in his own service, from
which he had been court-martialled and removed for scandalous
behaviour. And he had stated that the man had again asserted his
innocence, as he had asserted it on the day of his trial, and that, at
last, he was inclined to believe in his assertion.
"For," he said, "there was something in his manner, something in the
ring of his voice, that had the appearance of truth. My God! if he was
innocent he has been cruelly dealt with."
But, now, the very mention of Bufton's name caused Ariadne
considerable agitation--agitation of so extreme a nature as to remove
from her mind any feeling of interest or compassion which she might
otherwise have felt in Granger's fate.
"Oh! Geoffrey," she exclaimed. "That man! That man! Your mention of
him recalls to my mind what I meant to tell you. I saw him here, in
this neighbourhood, but the other day. The day on which you sailed.
What can he--that beau--that fop--be doing here?"
"You saw him here! In this locality!" her husband exclaimed in
astonishment. Yet only in astonishment for the first moment, since he
added instantly--
"Yet perhaps it is not so strange either. Those two, Lewis and he,
were fast friends."
"Friends! How could they be friends, Geoffrey? Have you not said that
this man, Lewis, or Granger, accused him of being the absolute
scoundrel in that affair for which he was ruined and disgraced?
And, also, Anne says that it was Granger who assisted her in the
self-sacrificing vengeance which she exacted from him. How can they
be friends?"
For a moment Geoffrey sat meditating deeply, then he replied--
"In truth, it does seem impossible they should be so. Unless--unless
this man Granger also considers that he too was avenged by Anne's
act--or--or--not being satisfied with that, still seeks for more."
"What further vengeance can he take on him?"
"Heaven alone knows. Yet one thing I can imagine, can guess from
Granger's manner. He is a strong, resolute man, as is easy to see. If,
as I do believe is the case, that other ruined him, he would never
forgive. He helped to lead him towards Anne's vengeance; he would not
falter in exacting his own."
"Yet what could he do against Bufton here? In such a place as this?"
"I cannot guess. Indeed, all I can hazard is but guess-work. Still, I
cannot understand that fellow being here."
"Suppose," said Ariadne, "that he himself, this man Bufton, were here
on a mission of revenge. Against----"
"Against whom, child?"
"Against Anne. Doubtless he has never forgiven her for what he must
regard as the ruin of his existence. Suppose that! And, perhaps, he
hates you for obtaining the wife he thought he was himself going to
possess."
But at this latter Geoffrey laughed loud and long. Was he not, he
asked his wife, the most powerful man in the neighbourhood at the
present moment? Did not the _Mignonne_ lie armed in the river, and was
she not manned by a stalwart crew?
"As well," he said, "might the rogue meditate harm against the old
Tower of London lying farther up the stream. While as for Anne," he
continued; "well! Anne is aboard my ship, and, when ashore, is able to
take her own part, especially as she never goes on land at night. And,
dear heart," he concluded, "this is not Naples nor any part of Italy,
where people can be hired for a handful of silver pieces to take the
lives of others."
Yet, all the same, his girl-wife was not convinced, and although she
would not say so, she dreaded the time when she and Anne should be
left behind, and Geoffrey gone to join the fleet. Meanwhile, not a
mile away from where the frigate lay, namely, at Granger's house, a
different conversation was taking place between that person and
Algernon Bufton, who (true to his word and his deep desire for
revenge, which he had been brooding over ever since he had had the
idea instilled into his mind) had now returned to the neighbourhood of
Blackwall. And here he meant to remain, or, at least, in the locality,
though farther down the river, until midnight next day (Sunday). By
which time he hoped to see the topsails of the _Nederland_ fill, and
the schooner depart with, on board of her, Anne Pottle, his wife, and
Lady Barry, her mistress, bound for the American plantations.
"All is arranged, all settled now," said Granger. "I protest,"
and he laughed a little as he spoke, "that you in your most brilliant
days--and you were good at schemes in those days--never could have
arranged anything more cleverly."
"Tell me the scheme," Bufton almost growled now, wishing at the same
time that his old dupe would not for ever be harping upon his whilom
aptitude for tricking other people. "Tell it to me," he said.
"Though," he continued, "I must aver that, if I was once good at
schemes, I found an apt pupil in you. You have profited by my
instructions."
"The scheme is this," Granger said. "The letter will be delivered to
Lady Barry by a sure hand when she comes out of church to-morrow. And
you may be very confident she will lose no time. Be sure that she,
with her companion--your beloved wife!--will hasten towards the point
named, where the creek runs into the river. And the boat will be there
to take them off, no matter how they resist."
"One thing alone I fear," said Bufton. "Supposing that she, the
mistress, proclaims her rank and position; declares that she is known
to be his wife--is Lady Barry. Will the master not be afraid?"
"Never. Not he! His sails will be bent, he will be ready to drop down
the river at once. For," he added, "I have taken good care to warn him
that, whatever protest may be made by the victim or victims--no heed
shall be paid to it. No heed paid to any statement as to position or
rank. The master is warned that they will be lies."
"Good," chuckled Bufton. "Good. All lies. No heed will be paid to
them."
"None at all," Granger said, with emphasis. "They will be absolutely
useless. Likewise it is a common thing for persons brought on board to
make such protestations. Women often enough declare themselves to be
people of position, ladies of rank, in the hopes of being released;
and men call themselves gentlemen, noblemen. But never are such things
of avail."
"Good. Good," cried Bufton again, snapping his fingers in ecstasy.
"Oh! good. So that there is no chance! No hope!"
"None. Once on board that schooner there is no hope until America is
reached. Instead, such despair that----"
"That people sometimes throw themselves overboard," Bufton
interrupted, rubbing his chin, and with a baleful look in his eyes.
"Ay--'tis so. But," and now Granger's eyes seemed to pierce those of
the other, "the master expects those fifty guineas we spoke of."
"He shall have them," said Bufton. "Oh! he shall. Alas! poor Anne. I
fear she will be driven to the despair you spoke of. Later, I shall
assume mourning for her--when I have heard the news. 'Twill be but
decorous perhaps."
"I _know_ she will be so driven. Now, listen to what you have to do.
It would be best that you keep here until to-morrow afternoon. Then,
when dusk is coming, we will proceed towards the creek (pray Heaven
the _Mignonne_ returns not first!), having taken care to have the
letter delivered, and there we will await their coming. Once they
arrive at the spot, 'tis done in a moment."
"You are a marvellous man!" cried Bufton. "Oh! a marvellous one. We
shall succeed. We shall. I know we shall."
"We cannot fail. Now let us to bed. Tomorrow we have much to do."
Bufton would not, however, go to bed at once, declaring that on this
night they must drink success to their great scheme; to his revenge
and freedom, as he termed it. But at last Granger induced him to do
so, and led him to a room at the back of the house, from the windows
of which a fair view down the river could be obtained. He had also
another spare room that looked up the river, and from which all the
shipping lying in it was to be observed; but to put Bufton there would
not have done. For amongst other masts and yards might have been seen
towering the tall top-gallant yards of the _Mignonne_, with, flying
above them, her streaming pennon. That would not, indeed, have done,
since, thus, the deluded man might have understood that Sir Geoffrey
Barry was back, and that, consequently, the letter he supposed was
about to be sent to Ariadne on the morrow would be useless.
"Sleep well," said Granger, "sleep well; and wake up brisk and hearty
in good time. And when you gaze out on to the Marshes in the morning,
pray Heaven that you do not see the _Mignonne_ coming up stream." With
which benediction, and turning his face away from the candle's gleam
so that Bufton should not observe it, he quitted the room.