Dinner at Bruff was over. It had been delayed as long as possible in the
belief that each moment would bring back the culprits, and it had
dragged painfully through its eight courses, in spite of Lady Dysart’s
efforts to hasten Gorman and his satellite in their inexorable orbit.
Everyone except Garry and Miss Hope-Drummond had been possessed by an
anxiety which Lady Dysart alone had courage to express. She indeed,
being a person who habitually said what other people were half afraid to
think, had dilated on all possible calamities till Cursiter, whose
temper was momently becoming worse, many times wished himself on the
lake, rowing dinnerless and vengeful on the track of the fugitives.
The whole party was now out of doors, and on its way down to the
landing-place, in the dark twilight; Lady Dysart coming last of all, and
driving before her the much incensed Gorman, whom she had armed with the
gong, in the idea that its warlike roar would be at once a guide and a
menace to the wanderers. So far it had only had the effect of drawing
together in horrified questioning all the cattle in the lower part of
the park, and causing them to rush, bellowing, along by the railings
that separated them from the siren who cried to them with a voice so
commanding and so mysterious. Gorman was fully alive to the indignity of
his position, and to the fact that Master Garry, his ancient enemy, was
mocking at his humiliation; but any attempt to moderate his attack upon
the gong was detected by his mistress.
“Go on, Gorman! Beat it louder! The more they bellow the better; it will
guide them into the landing-place.”
Christopher’s affected misapprehension of his mother’s pronouns created
a diversion for some time, as it was perhaps intended to do. He had set
himself to treat the whole affair with unsympathetic levity, but, in
spite of himself, an insistent thorn of anxiety made it difficult for
him to make little of his mother’s vigorous panic. It was absurd, but
her lamentations about the dangers of the lake and of steam-launches
found a hollow echo in his heart. He remembered, with a shudder that he
had not felt at the time, the white face rising and dipping in the
trough of the grey lake waves; and though his sense of humour, and of
the supreme inadequacy and staleness of swearing, usually deprived him
of that safety valve, he was conscious that in the background of his
mind the traditional adjective was monotonously coupling itself with
the name of Mr. Hawkins. He was walking behind the others down the path
to the pier. Here and there great trees that looked tired from their
weight of foliage stood patiently spreading their arms to the dew, and
in the intervals between Gorman’s fantasias on the gong, he could hear
how the diffident airs from the lake whispered confidentially to the
sleeping leaves. There was no moon; the sky was thickened with a light
cloudiness, and in the mystical twilight the pale broad blossoms of an
elder-bush looked like constellated stars in a nearer and darker
firmament. Christopher walked on, that cold memory of danger and
disquiet jarring the fragrance and peace of the rich summer night.
The searchers ranged themselves on the pier; the gong was stilled, and
except for the occasional stamping of a hoof, or low booming complaint
from the cattle, there was perfect silence. All were listening for some
sound from the lake before Christopher and Cursiter carried out their
intention of starting in a boat to look for the launch. Suddenly in the
misty darkness into which all were staring, a vivid spark of light
sprang out. It burned for a few seconds only, a sharp distinct star, and
then disappeared.
“There they are!” cried Lady Dysart. “The gong, Gorman! The gong!”
Gorman sounded with a will, and the harsh, brazen blare spread and
rolled over the lake, but there was no response.
“They _must_ hear that,” said Cursiter to Christopher; “why the devil
don’t he whistle?”
“How should I know?” answered Christopher, with a crossness which was in
some irrational way the outcome of extreme relief; “I suppose he fooled
with it till it broke.”
“Perhaps they are not there after all,” suggested Miss Hope-Drummond
cheerfully.
“How can you say such a thing, Evelyn!” exclaimed Lady Dysart
indignantly; “I know it was they, and the light was a signal of
distress!”
“More likely to have been Hawkins lighting a cigarette,” said
Christopher; “if everyone would stop talking at the same time we might
be able to hear something.”
A question ran like a ripple through Pamela’s mind, “What makes
Christopher cross to-night?” but the next instant she forgot it. A
distant shout, unmistakably uttered by Hawkins, came thinly to them
across the water, and in another second or two the noise of oars could
be distinctly heard. The sound advanced steadily.
“Show a light there on the pier!” called out a voice that was not
Hawkins’.
Cursiter struck a match, a feeble illuminant that made everything around
invisible except the faces of the group on the pier, and by the time it
had been tossed, like a falling star, into the tarry blackness of the
water, the boat was within conversational distance.
“Is Miss Fitzpatrick there?” demanded Lady Dysart.
“She is,” said Lambert’s voice.
“What have you done with the launch?” shouted Cursiter, in a tone that
made his subaltern quake.
“She’s all right,” he made haste to reply. “She’s on that mud-shallow
off Curragh Point, and Lambert’s man is on board her now. Lambert saw us
aground there from his window, and we were at her for an hour trying to
get her off, and then it got so dark, we thought we’d better leave her
and come on. She’s all right, you know.”
“Oh,” said Captain Cursiter, in, as Hawkins thought to himself, a deuced
disagreeable voice.
The boat came up alongside of the pier, and in the hubbub of inquiry
that arose, Francie was conscious of a great sense of protection in
Lambert’s presence, angry though she knew he was. As he helped her out
of the boat, she whispered tremulously:
“It was awfully good of you to come.”
He did not answer, and stepped at once into the boat again. In another
minute the necessary farewells had been made, and he, Cursiter, and
Hawkins, were rowing back to the launch, leaving Francie to face her
tribunal alone.