At about this very time it so happened that Mr. Hawkins was also
beginning to be sorry for himself. The run to Lismoyle had been capital
fun, and though the steering and the management of the machinery took up
more of his attention than he could have wished, he had found Francie’s
society more delightful than ever. The posting of a letter, which he had
fortunately found in his pocket, had been the pretext for the
expedition, and both he and Francie confidently believed that they would
get back to Bruff at about six o’clock. It is true that Mr. Hawkins
received rather a shock when, on arriving at Lismoyle, he found that it
was already six o’clock, but he kept this to himself, and lost no time
in starting again for Bruff.
The excitement and hurry of the escapade had conspired, with the
practical business of steering and attending to the various brass taps,
to throw sentiment for a space into the background, and that question as
to whether forgiveness should or should not be extended to him, hung
enchantingly on the horizon, as delightful and as seductive as the blue
islands that floated far away in the yellow haze of the lowered sun.
There was not a breath of wind, and the launch slit her way through
tranquil, oily spaces of sky that lay reflected deep in the water, and
shaved the long rocky points so close that they could see the stones at
the bottom looking like enormous cairngorms in the golden shallows.
“That was a near thing,” remarked Mr. Hawkins complacently, as a slight
grating sound told that they had grazed one of these smooth-backed
monsters. “Good business old Snipey wasn’t on board!”
“Well, I’ll tell old Snipey on you the very minute I get back!”
“Oh, you little horror!” said Mr. Hawkins.
Both laughed at this brilliant retort, and Hawkins looked down at her,
where she sat near him, with an expression of fondness that he did not
take the least pains to conceal.
“Hang it! you know,” he said presently, “I’m sick of holding this
blooming wheel dead amidships; I’ll just make it fast, and let her rip
for a bit by herself.” He suited the action to the word, and came and
sat down beside her.
“Now you’re going to drown me again, I suppose, the way Mr. Lambert
did,” Francie said. She felt a sudden trembling that was in no way
caused by the danger of which she had spoken; she knew quite well why he
had left the wheel, and her heart stood still with the expectation of
that explanation that she knew was to come.
“So you think I want to drown you, do you?” said Hawkins, getting very
close to her, and trying to look under the wide brim of her hat. “Turn
round and look me in the face and say you’re ashamed of yourself for
thinking of such a thing.”
“Go on to your steering,” responded Francie, still looking down and
wondering if he saw how her hands were trembling.
“But I’m not wanted to steer, and you do want me here, don’t you?”
replied Hawkins, his face flushing through the sunburn as he leaned
nearer to her, “and you know you never told me last night if you were
angry with me or not.”
“Well, I was.”
“Ah, not very--” A rather hot and nervous hand, burned to an unromantic
scarlet, turned her face upwards against her will. “Not very?” he said
again, looking into her eyes, in which love lay helpless like a
prisoner.
“Don’t,” said Francie, yielding the position, powerless, indeed, to do
otherwise.
Her delicate defeated face was drawn to his; her young soul rushed with
it, and with passionate, innocent sincerity, thought it had found heaven
itself. Hawkins could not tell how long it was before he heard again, as
if in a dream, the click-clicking of the machinery, and wondered, in the
dazed way of a person who is “coming to” after an anæsthetic, how the
boat was getting on.
“I must go back to the wheel, darling,” he whispered in the small ear
that lay so close to his lips; “I’m afraid we’re a little bit off the
course.”
As he spoke, his conscience reminded him that he himself had got a good
deal off his course, but he put the thought aside. The launch was duly
making for the headland that separated them from Bruff, but Hawkins had
not reflected that in rounding the last point he had gone rather nearer
to it than was usual, and that he was consequently inside the proper
course. This, however, was an easy matter to rectify, and he turned the
_Serpolette’s_ head out towards the ordinary channel. A band of rushes
lay between him and it, and he steered wide of them to avoid their
parent shallow. Suddenly there was a dull shock, a quiver ran through
the launch, and Hawkins found himself sitting abruptly on the
india-rubber matting at Francie’s feet. The launch had run at full speed
upon the soft, muddy shallow that extended unconscionably far beyond the
bed of rushes, and her sharp nose was now digging itself deeper and
deeper into the mud. Hawkins lost no time in reversing the engine, but
by the time they had gone full speed astern for five minutes, and had
succeeded only in lashing the water into a thick, pea-soupy foam all
round them, he began to feel exceedingly anxious as to their prospects
of getting off again.
“Well, we’ve been and gone and done it this time,” he said, with a laugh
that had considerably more discomfiture than mirth in it; “I expect
we’ve got to stay here till we’re taken off.”
Francie looked all round the lake; not a boat was in sight, not even a
cottage on the shore from which they might hope for help. She was
standing up, pale, now that the tide of excitement had ebbed a little,
and shaken by a giddy remembrance of that moment when the yacht heeled
over and flung her into blackness.
“I told you you were going to drown me,” she said, shivering and
laughing together; “and oh--! what in the name of goodness will I say to
Lady Dysart?”
“Oh, we’ll tell her it was an accident, and she won’t say a word,” said
Hawkins with more confidence than he felt. “If the worst comes to the
worst I’ll swim ashore and get a boat.”
“Oh don’t, don’t! you mustn’t do that!” she cried, catching at his arm
as if she already saw him jumping overboard; “I’d be frightened--I
couldn’t bear to see you--don’t go away from me!”
Her voice failed pathetically, and, bared of all their wiles, her eyes
besought him through the tears of a woman’s terror and tenderness.
Hawkins looked at her with a kind of ecstacy.
“Do you care so much as all that,” he said, “you silly little thing!”
After this there was nothing to be done except sit down again, and with
her head on his shoulder, allow that fatal anæsthetic to rob him of all
considerations beyond Francie’s kisses.